August 9, 2006
Why is it that when someone shares a horrifically awkward experience or story with you, you then find it necessary to share that same awkward story or situation in turn with whomever will listen to you? If you’re not familiar with this situation, I'm about to give you an excellent opportunity right now.
I have a coworker, let's just call her Rita. Rita mopes about the office complaining about anything and everything that's gone wrong in her life. Rita is allergic to the ventilation in the building so she is the weird lady walking around with the SARS mask on in an outfit that is at best 20 years too young for her to be wearing. When you ask her "how're you doing" she will tell you EVERYTHING that she in fact is and has been doing. For those of us who observe proper office "how're you doing" protocol, the response is similar but not limited to the following: "great", "fine", "good", "awesome", etc. and any other one-word-"I know you’re only asking because I'm in the hallway at the same time as you" type answers. She is in violation of proper office "how're are you doing" etiquette as well as other subsections pertaining to "what's up", "how was your weekend", and "how's life" forthwith.
I will now share with you an almost verbatim answer she gave to the Program Manager for approximately 15 of the most awkward minutes I've ever experienced. First, I'd like to repeat for those of you who weren't paying attention, this was the Program Manager. It doesn't go up any higher than him in this office. He can fire you, he tells you what to do and you do it, nuff said? You’re right. He is a very nice man and will come up to you with a big smile on his face and ask you "how're you doing" and actually mean it and stop and listen to your response. He made the mistake of asking this to Rita one Monday morning and this was her reply:
"...Oh, this weekend was my son's graduation. His father didn't come but at least he sent him $50. His grandparents gave him $100 and my brother gave him $25. My niece just gave birth this weekend too. She originally was just going to join the military but ended up getting pregnant right before she would have left so she couldn't go, she just finished high school. When she was in labor the doctors discovered that the baby's head was going to be too big for her pelvis but they had her push anyway. When the baby's head started to crown her pelvis started to snap so the doctors started to shove the baby back in..."
It was at this time I decided I could stomach no more and literally walked away from her in mid-sentence. My poor boss however just stayed there in sheer horror and continued his sympathetic "for-the-love-of-all-that’s-pure-and-holy why did I ask this crazy woman how her weekend was" look and nods until finally I think Jesus himself intervened out of pity and Rita was somehow distracted by a shiny object so my boss could make his escape. Ever since then, no one on the top floor has ever asked her how her day or weekend was and I'm almost positive no one ever will.
Another example? I thought you’d never ask!
So I'm walking through the mall minding my own business replenishing what had been a diminishing supply of eyeliner. I had completed my purchase and started walking out of the store and back to work. A relatively familiar voice bellowed out an unmistakably questioning "Haley?" I turned around and there before me was a person I'd once worked with but hadn't seen in probably three or four years. This girl was for all intents and purposes very normal. She always had a bright smile and a sweet disposition so I didn't see this one coming at all. She was taking some time off teaching and was working behind a make up counter at a prestigious retailer here in Oregon. When we began to converse I immediately asked "how have you been" (a slight variation to the "how're you doing" protocol listed above), to which she answered:
"...Oh I've been doing okay. I just miscarried and my husband and I are getting through it one day at a time..."
I couldn't help but feel sorry for her and come up with the scripted and rehearsed "Oh, I'm so sorry" with the sympathetic head tilt to the left. She graciously accepted my condolences and we continued to stand there in awkward silence for approximately five seconds further which in "awkward silence time" is approximately a day and a half.
Does anyone even know what to say to that? Where do you go after the miscarriage bomb is dropped? I would have LIKED to go right under a table somewhere and hide in the fetal position until it was all over.
This breach of protocol must end! I'm not good at awkward silence, heck, ask my boyfriend - I'm not good at ANY silence. So next time you think I or anyone else want to hear about your niece's baby who needed to be pushed back in to the birthing canal, your son who graduated's dead-beat dad, or any form of car accident, blunt force trauma to the head, "Oh he'll be able to walk again but only in circles" stories I want you to remember that you’re in breach of proper one-word-answer protocol and will need to immediately go home and hit yourself repeatedly in the face with a kitchen utensil until you realize what a horrible idea that was... but don't tell anyone about it, that'd probably make them a little uncomfortable.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sole Caliber
September 11, 2009
For those of you who have been reading my blog for some time, this is going to be total déjà vu for you. I assure you I don’t regularly get massages, in fact – the last time I had one was when I wrote my “Massage Masochism” blog about a year ago. That being said, here we go again.
So there’s a new trend (or at least it’s new to me) on the eastside – super cheap foot massages. $25 will get you one full hour of a foot massage. They only spend about 20 minutes total on your feet and the rest of the time they massage the rest of you. The reason it’s so cheap is mostly because of the style of massage and of course the fact that you’re fully clothed and are sitting in a big comfy recliner along with 20 other people in their big comfy recliners in the same room. Not exactly a private setting, but for a full hour of massage for only $25, you’re prepared to make some sacrifices.
Best place I’ve been to for this service so far – Beijing Herbal Foot Massage in Kirkland, WA. I’ve consistently had the warm fuzzies after leaving this place. They play traditional Chinese music softly in the background (and some classical), the chairs are comfortable, the staff is quiet and polite and each person I’ve had a treatment from has had a great touch and seems to know roughly the right pressure to give. I’ve been there several times and will continue to come back.
I did not go to Beijing Herbal Foot Massage last night. I went to some place in Bellevue. Here’s what happened.
Chairs were great, even better than the other place. The music started off okay being Bryan Adams “Everything I do, I do it for you”, until I heard it twice within 20 minutes and then a third time by some chick who re-did it and should thereby be shot.
The staff is very nice and polite… before they get their hands on you. Once Whitney and I sat down there was no “hello, do you need a soft or firm touch, do you have any missing or broken appendages…” none of that. I sat down, they brought a tub of warm water to soak my feet in (great) and then grabbed my arm with one hand and drove his elbow so far into my shoulder I thought I was getting a transplant and he was my donor (not so great).
For those who have yet to experience a typical Chinese style massage – this is not atypical. It is a more aggressive style but often times the massage therapists choose not to use their entire body weight to dig into one appendage. My massage therapist chose to waive that option.
Once my shoulders had been sufficiently pummeled, he moved on to my feet. A lot of massage and particularly this style of massage are about pressure points. This guy dug his knuckle so far into the soft middle of my foot, I think I temporarily went deaf. I tasted purple. On the second foot he was kind enough to notice my eyelids squeezing together and the grimace on the rest of my face and politely asked “too hard?” “Umm yes, a little” I managed to whimper. To complete my foot “massage” he punched my heels and slapped the balls of my feet so hard I felt like I owed him child support.
After he was done with my feet, I was told to flip over and he started on my back.
I think this guy’s picture is on the wall at the nearest battered women’s shelter. There was a mixture of elbows, knuckles, and open hand slapping that occurred on various portions of my back. Every time he’d come down with an elbow he’d put his entire body weight onto that specific point. There were times I thought he brought over a friend to help put even more weight on this pressure point. On the bright side, various parts of my body touched each other that’d never previously made contact. My spine was like “well hello left nipple, at last we meet!” Each time he put his whole body into it, he’d mutter something in Chinese which I can only imagine was something to the effect of “take it, take it, take it white devil!” But my Chinese is a little rough, so you’ll have to excuse if that’s not the literal translation.
For the last 5 minutes of the massage I just couldn’t stop giggling. I laugh when I have to endure long periods of pain. I grimace for about the first 10 minutes and then I just start chuckling. This ordeal was my sister’s treat so when we got back to the car I told her I couldn’t believe she paid $25 to have me beaten up.
Next time I want to get the snot beat out of me, I’ll save my sister the money and just go to prison.
For those of you who have been reading my blog for some time, this is going to be total déjà vu for you. I assure you I don’t regularly get massages, in fact – the last time I had one was when I wrote my “Massage Masochism” blog about a year ago. That being said, here we go again.
So there’s a new trend (or at least it’s new to me) on the eastside – super cheap foot massages. $25 will get you one full hour of a foot massage. They only spend about 20 minutes total on your feet and the rest of the time they massage the rest of you. The reason it’s so cheap is mostly because of the style of massage and of course the fact that you’re fully clothed and are sitting in a big comfy recliner along with 20 other people in their big comfy recliners in the same room. Not exactly a private setting, but for a full hour of massage for only $25, you’re prepared to make some sacrifices.
Best place I’ve been to for this service so far – Beijing Herbal Foot Massage in Kirkland, WA. I’ve consistently had the warm fuzzies after leaving this place. They play traditional Chinese music softly in the background (and some classical), the chairs are comfortable, the staff is quiet and polite and each person I’ve had a treatment from has had a great touch and seems to know roughly the right pressure to give. I’ve been there several times and will continue to come back.
I did not go to Beijing Herbal Foot Massage last night. I went to some place in Bellevue. Here’s what happened.
Chairs were great, even better than the other place. The music started off okay being Bryan Adams “Everything I do, I do it for you”, until I heard it twice within 20 minutes and then a third time by some chick who re-did it and should thereby be shot.
The staff is very nice and polite… before they get their hands on you. Once Whitney and I sat down there was no “hello, do you need a soft or firm touch, do you have any missing or broken appendages…” none of that. I sat down, they brought a tub of warm water to soak my feet in (great) and then grabbed my arm with one hand and drove his elbow so far into my shoulder I thought I was getting a transplant and he was my donor (not so great).
For those who have yet to experience a typical Chinese style massage – this is not atypical. It is a more aggressive style but often times the massage therapists choose not to use their entire body weight to dig into one appendage. My massage therapist chose to waive that option.
Once my shoulders had been sufficiently pummeled, he moved on to my feet. A lot of massage and particularly this style of massage are about pressure points. This guy dug his knuckle so far into the soft middle of my foot, I think I temporarily went deaf. I tasted purple. On the second foot he was kind enough to notice my eyelids squeezing together and the grimace on the rest of my face and politely asked “too hard?” “Umm yes, a little” I managed to whimper. To complete my foot “massage” he punched my heels and slapped the balls of my feet so hard I felt like I owed him child support.
After he was done with my feet, I was told to flip over and he started on my back.
I think this guy’s picture is on the wall at the nearest battered women’s shelter. There was a mixture of elbows, knuckles, and open hand slapping that occurred on various portions of my back. Every time he’d come down with an elbow he’d put his entire body weight onto that specific point. There were times I thought he brought over a friend to help put even more weight on this pressure point. On the bright side, various parts of my body touched each other that’d never previously made contact. My spine was like “well hello left nipple, at last we meet!” Each time he put his whole body into it, he’d mutter something in Chinese which I can only imagine was something to the effect of “take it, take it, take it white devil!” But my Chinese is a little rough, so you’ll have to excuse if that’s not the literal translation.
For the last 5 minutes of the massage I just couldn’t stop giggling. I laugh when I have to endure long periods of pain. I grimace for about the first 10 minutes and then I just start chuckling. This ordeal was my sister’s treat so when we got back to the car I told her I couldn’t believe she paid $25 to have me beaten up.
Next time I want to get the snot beat out of me, I’ll save my sister the money and just go to prison.
Monday, August 31, 2009
No Swears Superbowls SUCE!!!
February 4, 2008
I think this is the first weekend since I moved to Portland where I was booked solid the whole time. I also discovered this is both a good and a bad thing, let me explain.
We all have these friends, these creative friends who do things like play in an Indy-punk-Sitar bands, or write Haikus for slam poetry, or in my case – Indy film makers and actors who direct or act in weird crap. This Friday night Jay and I went down to Salem to see a friend's movie. Or at least I thought it was his movie, he was actually just an actor in it as it turns out. Thank God! I refuse to tell you the name of the movie as I don't want to deal with too many repercussions from this, but lets just call this movie "Arm-Tearing Hillbilly Zombies from Outer Space" and go with the fact that the name should have tipped me off (no this was not the name, but it was close).
I went into the movie knowing full well it was supposed to be stupid, as my friend who acted in the movie warned me several times. I'm not going to spend too much time ripping into the movie, I will however say this – it was easily twice as long as it should have been. The movie was 2 hours long but it felt as though I was going to come out of the theater and my clothes would no longer be in style. Jay encompassed everything I was thinking in one sentence: "You know, the movie felt like it was so long that during the middle, I started to miss my family." God I wish I would have thought of that line!
It didn't help matters when at the end of the movie, instead of "sucking" in the title, they misspelled it as "sucing". It was somehow fitting, the movie suced.
Saturday was the Oregon Seafood and Wine festival. Good wine, virtually no food. It was pathetic what kind of meals and portions the vendors were serving up. No wonder I was sauced half the time.
Sunday of course was the Superbowl. Matt, Matt, Matt, my dear friend Matt. He has Superbowl at his house every year because he has a nice entertaining space, a big TV, and is relatively centrally located to all of his friends. Matt has a diverse array of friends, some with spouses, some single, recent divorcee's, some with kids, etc. Most all of his friends have one thing in common – we know that Matt's house on Superbowl Sunday is no place for children. Notice I said "most". There was one poor 6-year old kid there. I assure you this kid did nothing wrong (although with nothing to do, I'm sure he was wondering what it was he had done wrong) and was actually relatively quiet and well behaved the whole time. That being said, there were NO other kids there, there was A LOT of alcohol, and there would have been A LOT of swearing had his mother not yelled at us each time we swore. Lady, it's the Superbowl at someone else's house. Needless to say, I was not the only person there who was appalled.
We did a pretty good job of toning down the swears, but it just doesn't feel the same yelling at the flocculating referee who is as blind as a fudging cumquat. That's right eggplant I'm talking to you, you doorknob! Tomato chugging fig lover. See what I mean? It was slightly less than fulfilling.
Anyhoo, I had a great weekend despite losing half of my life to a mind-numbing Indy film and attending my first No-Swear-Superbowl. I'm just happy I have the friends to spend a lot of my flocking time with.
I think this is the first weekend since I moved to Portland where I was booked solid the whole time. I also discovered this is both a good and a bad thing, let me explain.
We all have these friends, these creative friends who do things like play in an Indy-punk-Sitar bands, or write Haikus for slam poetry, or in my case – Indy film makers and actors who direct or act in weird crap. This Friday night Jay and I went down to Salem to see a friend's movie. Or at least I thought it was his movie, he was actually just an actor in it as it turns out. Thank God! I refuse to tell you the name of the movie as I don't want to deal with too many repercussions from this, but lets just call this movie "Arm-Tearing Hillbilly Zombies from Outer Space" and go with the fact that the name should have tipped me off (no this was not the name, but it was close).
I went into the movie knowing full well it was supposed to be stupid, as my friend who acted in the movie warned me several times. I'm not going to spend too much time ripping into the movie, I will however say this – it was easily twice as long as it should have been. The movie was 2 hours long but it felt as though I was going to come out of the theater and my clothes would no longer be in style. Jay encompassed everything I was thinking in one sentence: "You know, the movie felt like it was so long that during the middle, I started to miss my family." God I wish I would have thought of that line!
It didn't help matters when at the end of the movie, instead of "sucking" in the title, they misspelled it as "sucing". It was somehow fitting, the movie suced.
Saturday was the Oregon Seafood and Wine festival. Good wine, virtually no food. It was pathetic what kind of meals and portions the vendors were serving up. No wonder I was sauced half the time.
Sunday of course was the Superbowl. Matt, Matt, Matt, my dear friend Matt. He has Superbowl at his house every year because he has a nice entertaining space, a big TV, and is relatively centrally located to all of his friends. Matt has a diverse array of friends, some with spouses, some single, recent divorcee's, some with kids, etc. Most all of his friends have one thing in common – we know that Matt's house on Superbowl Sunday is no place for children. Notice I said "most". There was one poor 6-year old kid there. I assure you this kid did nothing wrong (although with nothing to do, I'm sure he was wondering what it was he had done wrong) and was actually relatively quiet and well behaved the whole time. That being said, there were NO other kids there, there was A LOT of alcohol, and there would have been A LOT of swearing had his mother not yelled at us each time we swore. Lady, it's the Superbowl at someone else's house. Needless to say, I was not the only person there who was appalled.
We did a pretty good job of toning down the swears, but it just doesn't feel the same yelling at the flocculating referee who is as blind as a fudging cumquat. That's right eggplant I'm talking to you, you doorknob! Tomato chugging fig lover. See what I mean? It was slightly less than fulfilling.
Anyhoo, I had a great weekend despite losing half of my life to a mind-numbing Indy film and attending my first No-Swear-Superbowl. I'm just happy I have the friends to spend a lot of my flocking time with.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Why Thirty and Dirty Rhyme
August 6, 2009
I thought it’d be easy finding a book to take with me to Cancun. Josh and I went to Barnes & Noble to pick one out for ourselves and low-and-behold, Blank Page Haley strikes again! I tend to stick with the classics as I really enjoyed reading many of the works of William Shakespeare, the book “Madame Bovary”, and what I thought was the entire series of “Sherlock Holmes” stories which I found out after visiting the bookstore – I’d read only half. I then purchased the 2nd volume and am sitting here on the beach in Cancun… writing.
Please don’t get me wrong – I *love* Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and everything of his I’ve ever read, but as I find myself half-naked in 85+ degree weather, I also find myself immensely uninterested in a know-it-all Englishman and his closet gay accomplice running about London solving murder mysteries. P.S. don’t act like you didn’t know Watson was gay for Holmes.
No, I find myself yet again wanting what someone else has. Josh got the complete 5-book series of “Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy” and I’m bitterly jealous. He’s aware and has offered to give me that book as he reads another book he brought, but I’m pretty sure if I accepted I’d be in candidacy for the worst girlfriend of the year award as his birthday is in two days from now. Okay well technically my birthday is today but when a good book is concerned – all bets are off.
How am I handling my birthday this year you ask? Miserably. This is my 30th birthday and I’ve already had two meltdowns today which is absurd since I’m in Cancun, in a gorgeous 5-star resort that’s all inclusive which covers all the alcohol I can drink… what the Hell? What’s wrong with me?
As you can tell, so far 30 is treating me well. I have all of the above going for me, plus I’m here with the man of my dreams and we’re both drinking these fantastic drinks called “caiperinas” (with an accent mark over the n). On top of that, we went to Mercado 28 today and I was able to haggle 2 Mexican wrestlers’ masks down from $70 to $25! I love haggling. I should be as Leonardo said “on top of the world”, instead I just feel more like the movie that quote came from.
I understand that your 30’s are supposed to be your best decade (depending upon who you ask of course) but honestly – are they? I comprehend the logic behind it; you’re established in your career, you’re married, you’re thinking about starting or have started a family, you own your home, you have a nest egg saved up… oh wait, I have none of those things and I’m now 30. Thirty… 30.
It kind of sounded fake when I would say I was 29 before because that’s what people who are lying about their age say they are. But of course, I was 29… still in my twenties… nine. Just – 30, I can’t believe it. Obviously being 30 is better than the alternative of not making it to 30, but damn. I’ve got to stop being a baby about this. On to a couple of morsels of my time here at the resort.
I love the vocal entertainment here. I was just at the bar ordering dos caiperinas con vodka sin rum and explaining that hoy es me cumpleanos y tengo treinta anos (obviously there are a lot of punctuation marks missing here). THE single most generous pour I’ve ever had by the way. Anyhoo, the female vocalist on the stage in the courtyard was singing “Misty” and instructed the audience by way of music to “look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten on a tree”. Last night we heard “Don’t stop believing” by a band favorite and I quote “Yourney”… awesome.
I’m now going to say something I don’t believe I ever thought I’d say: I think there’s an iguana following me. I’ve named him Fred. I just saw him on one walk way and not 5 minutes has passed and I now see him waltzing up near where we’re sitting at the pool. I know it‘s the same iguana because his tail is in the process of growing back which makes him look quite distinctive. But have you ever had that “hey, I think I have an iguana following me” feeling? Yeah, me too.
There are actually quite a few iguanas here and tons of black spindly looking birds. Out of shear ignorance and laziness, I’m calling them Mexican crows. They fly throughout the outdoor restaurants here and if the food is not covered up – it’s theirs for the taking. I kind of want to see a Mexican crow and an iguana duke it out, is that weird and wrong? I have the 2 masks and everything!
Tomorrow Josh and I are going on our one and only excursion; swimming with whale sharks. Josh has always been interested in stuff like that and says this kind of opportunity is something you can’t put a price on. I will not argue this. What I will say is how incredibly petrified I am to be swimming with the largest fish in the world, over a mile off the mainland out at sea after having seen “Jaws”. I understand they’re large docile creatures who just lumber about the ocean eating plankton. Josh said to just think of them as the “cows of the sea” which made me feel slightly better until I remembered that thing about mad cow disease! Now all I can think about is the headlines when a harmless vegetarian/plankton eating whale shark gums an unsuspecting enormous American woman to death… they won’t know I suspected it.
If this ends up being my last entry – it’s been swell.
I think I’ll miss Fred the most.
I thought it’d be easy finding a book to take with me to Cancun. Josh and I went to Barnes & Noble to pick one out for ourselves and low-and-behold, Blank Page Haley strikes again! I tend to stick with the classics as I really enjoyed reading many of the works of William Shakespeare, the book “Madame Bovary”, and what I thought was the entire series of “Sherlock Holmes” stories which I found out after visiting the bookstore – I’d read only half. I then purchased the 2nd volume and am sitting here on the beach in Cancun… writing.
Please don’t get me wrong – I *love* Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and everything of his I’ve ever read, but as I find myself half-naked in 85+ degree weather, I also find myself immensely uninterested in a know-it-all Englishman and his closet gay accomplice running about London solving murder mysteries. P.S. don’t act like you didn’t know Watson was gay for Holmes.
No, I find myself yet again wanting what someone else has. Josh got the complete 5-book series of “Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy” and I’m bitterly jealous. He’s aware and has offered to give me that book as he reads another book he brought, but I’m pretty sure if I accepted I’d be in candidacy for the worst girlfriend of the year award as his birthday is in two days from now. Okay well technically my birthday is today but when a good book is concerned – all bets are off.
How am I handling my birthday this year you ask? Miserably. This is my 30th birthday and I’ve already had two meltdowns today which is absurd since I’m in Cancun, in a gorgeous 5-star resort that’s all inclusive which covers all the alcohol I can drink… what the Hell? What’s wrong with me?
As you can tell, so far 30 is treating me well. I have all of the above going for me, plus I’m here with the man of my dreams and we’re both drinking these fantastic drinks called “caiperinas” (with an accent mark over the n). On top of that, we went to Mercado 28 today and I was able to haggle 2 Mexican wrestlers’ masks down from $70 to $25! I love haggling. I should be as Leonardo said “on top of the world”, instead I just feel more like the movie that quote came from.
I understand that your 30’s are supposed to be your best decade (depending upon who you ask of course) but honestly – are they? I comprehend the logic behind it; you’re established in your career, you’re married, you’re thinking about starting or have started a family, you own your home, you have a nest egg saved up… oh wait, I have none of those things and I’m now 30. Thirty… 30.
It kind of sounded fake when I would say I was 29 before because that’s what people who are lying about their age say they are. But of course, I was 29… still in my twenties… nine. Just – 30, I can’t believe it. Obviously being 30 is better than the alternative of not making it to 30, but damn. I’ve got to stop being a baby about this. On to a couple of morsels of my time here at the resort.
I love the vocal entertainment here. I was just at the bar ordering dos caiperinas con vodka sin rum and explaining that hoy es me cumpleanos y tengo treinta anos (obviously there are a lot of punctuation marks missing here). THE single most generous pour I’ve ever had by the way. Anyhoo, the female vocalist on the stage in the courtyard was singing “Misty” and instructed the audience by way of music to “look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten on a tree”. Last night we heard “Don’t stop believing” by a band favorite and I quote “Yourney”… awesome.
I’m now going to say something I don’t believe I ever thought I’d say: I think there’s an iguana following me. I’ve named him Fred. I just saw him on one walk way and not 5 minutes has passed and I now see him waltzing up near where we’re sitting at the pool. I know it‘s the same iguana because his tail is in the process of growing back which makes him look quite distinctive. But have you ever had that “hey, I think I have an iguana following me” feeling? Yeah, me too.
There are actually quite a few iguanas here and tons of black spindly looking birds. Out of shear ignorance and laziness, I’m calling them Mexican crows. They fly throughout the outdoor restaurants here and if the food is not covered up – it’s theirs for the taking. I kind of want to see a Mexican crow and an iguana duke it out, is that weird and wrong? I have the 2 masks and everything!
Tomorrow Josh and I are going on our one and only excursion; swimming with whale sharks. Josh has always been interested in stuff like that and says this kind of opportunity is something you can’t put a price on. I will not argue this. What I will say is how incredibly petrified I am to be swimming with the largest fish in the world, over a mile off the mainland out at sea after having seen “Jaws”. I understand they’re large docile creatures who just lumber about the ocean eating plankton. Josh said to just think of them as the “cows of the sea” which made me feel slightly better until I remembered that thing about mad cow disease! Now all I can think about is the headlines when a harmless vegetarian/plankton eating whale shark gums an unsuspecting enormous American woman to death… they won’t know I suspected it.
If this ends up being my last entry – it’s been swell.
I think I’ll miss Fred the most.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Banking with Corky
March 1, 2006
You know that song “If I had a hammer”? Well if I had a hammer, I’d go back to the Bank of America and wait outside for that teller I met with today and beat his ass “… all over this land…”!!!
This was by far the most frustrating transaction I’ve ever endured.
I received my last check from the gym I used to work at and it was a piddly $17. The check was issued in December and it is now March. It’s just been sitting around and now has been taking up space in my purse for a couple of weeks, so I wanted it out. I regularly bank at a credit union based in Portland and don’t really know where any other credit unions are in Salem, so I thought I’d save myself the trouble and just go to the bank listed on their check.
First I waited in line to get up to Shlo-mo the “special” teller. I handed him the check and he proceeded to count on his FINGERS (I’m not making this up) and tell me that he didn’t think they could cash the check. I then stated that I thought the check itself said I had 120 days. He looked at the check and said “actually it says 180 days”. Well that would be more then wouldn’t it?
He proceeded to ask me for two pieces of ID so I handed him my driver’s license and debit card. He then informed me that he couldn’t accept a debit card as a form of ID. Umm okay then… “Do you have a credit card?” he asked. This is the only time I was mildly upset that I no longer have credit cards as I can’t be trusted with them so have since cut them up and just pay on the bills every month in attempts to get rid of any and all debt. So I asked him if my social security card would work (as I view this as one of the ultimate forms of ID). He of course said “no”, so I was forced to dig through my wallet attempting to find another form of acceptable ID to cash a friggin $17 check! I finally came up with a gas card my parents had happened to give me umpteen years ago and that apparently pleased the little mouth-breather.
Upon entering all of my information on to his computer, I then had to put my fingerprint on the check, give a blood sample, turn my head and cough, sign over my first born and put my right foot in and take my right foot out (I refused to shake it all about though). Once he finally collected all of the proper specimens he informed me that there would be a $5 fee. “FOR WHAT?!!” I bellowed. “Because this is a ‘company’ check and there is a $5 fee for company checks”. Trying to pull myself together in a non Manson-esque way I said “you mean to tell me that you are charging me $5 for a $17 check because it was issued by a company? But they used THIS bank! Your bank is the one on the check!” He looked at me with his one good eye and said “yes”.
It was at this point that my left eye started to twitch and I opened my mouth and took a deep breath to start in on what would most certainly be a verbal form of castration, thereby saving the world from more little Shlo-mo’s and thus being appointed world leader or at the very least President of the United States (although I hear that anyone can be that these days). However, what came out was: “Fine just cash it. I don’t want it in my wallet anymore”. I know! I couldn’t believe it either but there it was, clear as crystal and straight from the horse’s mouth. He looked down, counted out the money, handed it to me, and I left… snarling all the way.
I drove straight to Safeway to purchase a bottle of champagne as I felt that alcohol would be in order that night. As I got out of my car and approached the entrance, there by the door sat a little girl scout hocking those addictive little cookies. She seemed to not notice me as I entered the store, but sat up straight when I went in the door as if to say “oh I’ll get you when you come back out. It’s only a matter of time”. I went directly to the champagne and wine isle and found no acceptable bottle to purchase. I then left out the far door of the grocery store in order to avoid the little cookie dealer. Not because I’m afraid of saying “no”, but because I didn’t want her to experience her first string of foul language by a neurotic Amazon in pseudo-fishnet leggings.
I got in my car with no champagne, no cookies, and less $5. As I sped back to work I realized that this was all part of growing up, or in my case - continuing to get older and increasingly more bitter while wearing uncomfortable shoes. I’d like to say I learned something from all of this… so if I gave you a “moral of the story” synopsis, I guess it would be: If at first you don’t succeed, go get a bat and try again.
You know that song “If I had a hammer”? Well if I had a hammer, I’d go back to the Bank of America and wait outside for that teller I met with today and beat his ass “… all over this land…”!!!
This was by far the most frustrating transaction I’ve ever endured.
I received my last check from the gym I used to work at and it was a piddly $17. The check was issued in December and it is now March. It’s just been sitting around and now has been taking up space in my purse for a couple of weeks, so I wanted it out. I regularly bank at a credit union based in Portland and don’t really know where any other credit unions are in Salem, so I thought I’d save myself the trouble and just go to the bank listed on their check.
First I waited in line to get up to Shlo-mo the “special” teller. I handed him the check and he proceeded to count on his FINGERS (I’m not making this up) and tell me that he didn’t think they could cash the check. I then stated that I thought the check itself said I had 120 days. He looked at the check and said “actually it says 180 days”. Well that would be more then wouldn’t it?
He proceeded to ask me for two pieces of ID so I handed him my driver’s license and debit card. He then informed me that he couldn’t accept a debit card as a form of ID. Umm okay then… “Do you have a credit card?” he asked. This is the only time I was mildly upset that I no longer have credit cards as I can’t be trusted with them so have since cut them up and just pay on the bills every month in attempts to get rid of any and all debt. So I asked him if my social security card would work (as I view this as one of the ultimate forms of ID). He of course said “no”, so I was forced to dig through my wallet attempting to find another form of acceptable ID to cash a friggin $17 check! I finally came up with a gas card my parents had happened to give me umpteen years ago and that apparently pleased the little mouth-breather.
Upon entering all of my information on to his computer, I then had to put my fingerprint on the check, give a blood sample, turn my head and cough, sign over my first born and put my right foot in and take my right foot out (I refused to shake it all about though). Once he finally collected all of the proper specimens he informed me that there would be a $5 fee. “FOR WHAT?!!” I bellowed. “Because this is a ‘company’ check and there is a $5 fee for company checks”. Trying to pull myself together in a non Manson-esque way I said “you mean to tell me that you are charging me $5 for a $17 check because it was issued by a company? But they used THIS bank! Your bank is the one on the check!” He looked at me with his one good eye and said “yes”.
It was at this point that my left eye started to twitch and I opened my mouth and took a deep breath to start in on what would most certainly be a verbal form of castration, thereby saving the world from more little Shlo-mo’s and thus being appointed world leader or at the very least President of the United States (although I hear that anyone can be that these days). However, what came out was: “Fine just cash it. I don’t want it in my wallet anymore”. I know! I couldn’t believe it either but there it was, clear as crystal and straight from the horse’s mouth. He looked down, counted out the money, handed it to me, and I left… snarling all the way.
I drove straight to Safeway to purchase a bottle of champagne as I felt that alcohol would be in order that night. As I got out of my car and approached the entrance, there by the door sat a little girl scout hocking those addictive little cookies. She seemed to not notice me as I entered the store, but sat up straight when I went in the door as if to say “oh I’ll get you when you come back out. It’s only a matter of time”. I went directly to the champagne and wine isle and found no acceptable bottle to purchase. I then left out the far door of the grocery store in order to avoid the little cookie dealer. Not because I’m afraid of saying “no”, but because I didn’t want her to experience her first string of foul language by a neurotic Amazon in pseudo-fishnet leggings.
I got in my car with no champagne, no cookies, and less $5. As I sped back to work I realized that this was all part of growing up, or in my case - continuing to get older and increasingly more bitter while wearing uncomfortable shoes. I’d like to say I learned something from all of this… so if I gave you a “moral of the story” synopsis, I guess it would be: If at first you don’t succeed, go get a bat and try again.
Massage Masochism
Right between my shoulder blades and about 2” up has been killing me since last weekend. I know this because Whit asked me to pinpoint the when and what I was doing to make it uncomfortable for this long. I was visiting Josh and no, I wasn’t doing “that”… at least I don’t think that’s what it was from.
Whit visited her friend all day and night yesterday for her friend’s birthday so I had the whole day and house to myself. What’s the best thing to do when you’re by yourself? No, not “that”. I booked myself a spa appointment. The massage was lacking in every aspect and my neck, back and shoulders still hurt. God I LOVE blowing $100 on nothing, don’t you?
So Whit got back today and was unable to sleep at her friend’s house. She’s a light sleeper and apparently had to sleep on her friend’s couch. Her friend’s dog is about the sweetest German shepherd you’ll ever meet and didn’t want my poor sister to be alone in the room so he plopped down on the floor below the couch and slept there. He’s a sleep talker which apparently kept her up most of the night.
Long story epic, we both felt like we needed a massage today and we sort of got one.
We’d never been to this place before. No, scratch that – Whit had been there before when it was under its former management. She got a massage from a 3” stiletto wielding tranny whose long finger nails kept stabbing her in the back. This should be the part of the story where I say “… and that’s why we laughed and drove somewhere else and had a fabulous experience and lived happily ever after.”
I scoff in logic’s general direction; scoff, scoff, scoff!
The appointment was for 4 o’clock. The receptionist didn’t speak English very well so when the reservation was made for 2 people for 1 hour each at 4 o’clock, we were surprised to arrive and be escorted to a joint room for the lovers’ package. Somehow this did not put my sister or me in the mood. But no problem, we’ve known each other our entire lives, it’s cool we can deal with this.
We got undressed and hopped up on to our individual respective massage tables and waited for our massage therapists to come in. When they did, Whit explained to each of them that she needed a soft touch as she has extremely sensitive muscles and skin and I needed someone to beat the crap out of me. They started. Here’s the summary:
Whit’s gal was a spider monkey ninjasian. She was all over the place, and at one point I swore I looked over and she was sporting “the crane”. Whit said she had “thumbs of fury” and she could never tell when or where super ninja spider monkey massage lady would strike next.
My massage therapist you ask? Ah yes, her. When she was told I like it hard… no, not “that”, she assumed the people’s elbow was in order. I finally smelled what the Rock was cookin’. Unfortunately the pressure was in all the wrong places and my neck, back and shoulders still hurt. My ass on the other hand has no stress whatsoever. Wanna know why? Tell you why. She must have thought my Kardashean sized keister was so big because that’s where I keep my stress (even though I assured her it was my neck and shoulders) because a good 20-30 minutes of my massage was spent rubbing my bum. I kept wanting to whisper to Whitney – “umm where’s YOUR towel?” And of course every time I thought this, I started giggling which made my massage therapist press down harder in the wrong spots.
In every massage I’ve ever had, the therapist will move the privacy towel around as to make sure the client isn’t exposed for some, if any of the time spent there. The privacy towel was a mere laughable suggestion. That, or she thought the backs of my knees and calves were shy. I thought to myself “so this must be what Neverland Ranch feels like”.
After an hour long assperience, Whit and I couldn’t get to the car fast enough to share our thoughts and hysterical fits of laughter. I’ll never go back but I’m kind of glad I went. My neck, back and shoulders are still killing me but at least I still have my prid- umm my dignit- umm, my health. Did I mention I’ve got my health?
Whit visited her friend all day and night yesterday for her friend’s birthday so I had the whole day and house to myself. What’s the best thing to do when you’re by yourself? No, not “that”. I booked myself a spa appointment. The massage was lacking in every aspect and my neck, back and shoulders still hurt. God I LOVE blowing $100 on nothing, don’t you?
So Whit got back today and was unable to sleep at her friend’s house. She’s a light sleeper and apparently had to sleep on her friend’s couch. Her friend’s dog is about the sweetest German shepherd you’ll ever meet and didn’t want my poor sister to be alone in the room so he plopped down on the floor below the couch and slept there. He’s a sleep talker which apparently kept her up most of the night.
Long story epic, we both felt like we needed a massage today and we sort of got one.
We’d never been to this place before. No, scratch that – Whit had been there before when it was under its former management. She got a massage from a 3” stiletto wielding tranny whose long finger nails kept stabbing her in the back. This should be the part of the story where I say “… and that’s why we laughed and drove somewhere else and had a fabulous experience and lived happily ever after.”
I scoff in logic’s general direction; scoff, scoff, scoff!
The appointment was for 4 o’clock. The receptionist didn’t speak English very well so when the reservation was made for 2 people for 1 hour each at 4 o’clock, we were surprised to arrive and be escorted to a joint room for the lovers’ package. Somehow this did not put my sister or me in the mood. But no problem, we’ve known each other our entire lives, it’s cool we can deal with this.
We got undressed and hopped up on to our individual respective massage tables and waited for our massage therapists to come in. When they did, Whit explained to each of them that she needed a soft touch as she has extremely sensitive muscles and skin and I needed someone to beat the crap out of me. They started. Here’s the summary:
Whit’s gal was a spider monkey ninjasian. She was all over the place, and at one point I swore I looked over and she was sporting “the crane”. Whit said she had “thumbs of fury” and she could never tell when or where super ninja spider monkey massage lady would strike next.
My massage therapist you ask? Ah yes, her. When she was told I like it hard… no, not “that”, she assumed the people’s elbow was in order. I finally smelled what the Rock was cookin’. Unfortunately the pressure was in all the wrong places and my neck, back and shoulders still hurt. My ass on the other hand has no stress whatsoever. Wanna know why? Tell you why. She must have thought my Kardashean sized keister was so big because that’s where I keep my stress (even though I assured her it was my neck and shoulders) because a good 20-30 minutes of my massage was spent rubbing my bum. I kept wanting to whisper to Whitney – “umm where’s YOUR towel?” And of course every time I thought this, I started giggling which made my massage therapist press down harder in the wrong spots.
In every massage I’ve ever had, the therapist will move the privacy towel around as to make sure the client isn’t exposed for some, if any of the time spent there. The privacy towel was a mere laughable suggestion. That, or she thought the backs of my knees and calves were shy. I thought to myself “so this must be what Neverland Ranch feels like”.
After an hour long assperience, Whit and I couldn’t get to the car fast enough to share our thoughts and hysterical fits of laughter. I’ll never go back but I’m kind of glad I went. My neck, back and shoulders are still killing me but at least I still have my prid- umm my dignit- umm, my health. Did I mention I’ve got my health?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Your Important Unimportance
I’m starting a campaign, who is with me? It’s going to be called the “you’re just not that important” effort. Hear me out.
Cell phones are a fantastic invention. I have no idea how anyone functioned without them and don’t know howI’d cope without mine. I have exactly two phone numbers memorized: mine and my sister’s. I don’t know my parents’ numbers, my friends’ numbers, or even my own boyfriend’s number. If something happened to my phone, I’d have to make all new friends and put myself up for adoption.
All of that being said, I know when the appropriate time and place is to use my cell phone. I also have activities in my life where I realizeI look like das uber tool when I’m talking on my phone, so I don’t do it. These places include but are not limited to:
· While I’m sitting at my table at a restaurant
· While I’m working out at the gym
· When I’m paying for whatever at a store (cashiers are people too)
I have been at the gym jogging on the treadmill and have had some ass hat get on the treadmill next to me and clunk his cell phone down in the cup holder. If you are SO important that you can’t take one hour away from your Nokia, you probably should be back at your desk, or out flying around the city in your super-suit trying to find your arch nemisis. Which brings me back to my campaign – you’re just not that important. I assure you, you can put your cell phone in your locker and focus on your workout for one hour, and if not – I have other suggestions for where you can put your Motorola.
If in fact you do decide you are that important and must talk on your phone when you’re working out/in a restaurant/pretending the cashier isn’t a person, at least make your conversation interesting to those around you. It’s the least you can do since you’re now making me listen to your LOUD apparently invaluable conversation that you just can’t miss.
Lines that are acceptible include but are not limited to quotes like:
· “If it weren’t for that horse, I’d have never made it through that 2nd year in college”
· “… and that’s the 3rd time I got crabs”
· “… so I said to him ‘hey that’s my cousin, and she still has the one good leg!”
And so forth.
So please, stop bringing everyone into your retarded conversations. You’re uninteresting, you’re loud, and you’re just not that important.
Cell phones are a fantastic invention. I have no idea how anyone functioned without them and don’t know howI’d cope without mine. I have exactly two phone numbers memorized: mine and my sister’s. I don’t know my parents’ numbers, my friends’ numbers, or even my own boyfriend’s number. If something happened to my phone, I’d have to make all new friends and put myself up for adoption.
All of that being said, I know when the appropriate time and place is to use my cell phone. I also have activities in my life where I realizeI look like das uber tool when I’m talking on my phone, so I don’t do it. These places include but are not limited to:
· While I’m sitting at my table at a restaurant
· While I’m working out at the gym
· When I’m paying for whatever at a store (cashiers are people too)
I have been at the gym jogging on the treadmill and have had some ass hat get on the treadmill next to me and clunk his cell phone down in the cup holder. If you are SO important that you can’t take one hour away from your Nokia, you probably should be back at your desk, or out flying around the city in your super-suit trying to find your arch nemisis. Which brings me back to my campaign – you’re just not that important. I assure you, you can put your cell phone in your locker and focus on your workout for one hour, and if not – I have other suggestions for where you can put your Motorola.
If in fact you do decide you are that important and must talk on your phone when you’re working out/in a restaurant/pretending the cashier isn’t a person, at least make your conversation interesting to those around you. It’s the least you can do since you’re now making me listen to your LOUD apparently invaluable conversation that you just can’t miss.
Lines that are acceptible include but are not limited to quotes like:
· “If it weren’t for that horse, I’d have never made it through that 2nd year in college”
· “… and that’s the 3rd time I got crabs”
· “… so I said to him ‘hey that’s my cousin, and she still has the one good leg!”
And so forth.
So please, stop bringing everyone into your retarded conversations. You’re uninteresting, you’re loud, and you’re just not that important.
Friday, January 2, 2009
A Letter to Sam - My Spam Stalker
I have yahoo email. I love my yahoo email. I’ve had the same email address since I knew about email, i.e. a very long time. I have my spam filter set so spam is sent to a different folder since occasionally something I actually need to see goes to spam. I learned this when I applied to work/volunteer for the YMCA and didn’t hear back from them for a week. First I thought – holy crap, what in god’s name does it take to teach a friggin fitness class at the YMCA? I promptly did the Village People YMCA hand gesture over my head to show my enthusiasm. Then I checked my spam folder and voila! Needless to say, I now occasionally comb through copious amounts of shite to make sure I’m not missing anything.
Sam. I get about 20 emails every day from Sam. Sam has tried to say “Hi” in his subject line. Sam has asked if I want tickets to the Brittany Spears concert. Sam even wants to help enlarge my penis. I hate Sam. This is why I have decided that since he knows so much about me, I will assume he subscribes to my blog and will read this message.
Dear Sam,
First off I’d like to thank you for your devotion. I’ve had needy boyfriends, jealous boyfriends and clingy boyfriends, but none of them have written me 20-30 emails per day. Your persistence is impressive and I hope someday you’ll find a lady worthy of it. By reading that last sentence, you probably know what this letter is about.
I just can’t go on like this, Sam. You try too hard and are constantly offering me too much. Have some self-respect man! Don’t just give it away, a woman wants a man who is thoughtful and listens and gives specifically as such. If you’d have listened to me just once, you would know I can’t stand Brittany Spears, I don’t need a good deal on 24 carat gold earrings, I never entered a lottery in Venezuela and I don’t even have a penis you for some reason want to enlarge. I feel like you just aren’t paying attention to what I’m saying, Sam.
There’s another thing Sam. You really need to work on your spelling and grammar especially when it comes to your job. I realize this is the age of IM’s and text messages so things get abbreviated but I’m pretty sure your employer, Mr. Zamir Mgaoldiahgioy of Svengoliachtenstein wouldn’t appreciate the shoddy way you put together an email that’s going to all of his poor dead uncle’s heirs. I mean, think of the amount he’s paying you to find all of us! Not taking pride in your work is a real turn off, Sam.
And so, I must say farewell Sam. Please find another woman who needs a stronger e-male presence in her life. Someone who likes to receive an email from you every half hour on the half hour. Someone who loves concerts, has rich family dying in foreign countries, and has erectile dysfunction disorder. I know it’s hard to hear, but someday when you find Mrs. Right, you’ll thank me.
Sincerely,
Haley
P.S. Please don’t write
Sam. I get about 20 emails every day from Sam. Sam has tried to say “Hi” in his subject line. Sam has asked if I want tickets to the Brittany Spears concert. Sam even wants to help enlarge my penis. I hate Sam. This is why I have decided that since he knows so much about me, I will assume he subscribes to my blog and will read this message.
Dear Sam,
First off I’d like to thank you for your devotion. I’ve had needy boyfriends, jealous boyfriends and clingy boyfriends, but none of them have written me 20-30 emails per day. Your persistence is impressive and I hope someday you’ll find a lady worthy of it. By reading that last sentence, you probably know what this letter is about.
I just can’t go on like this, Sam. You try too hard and are constantly offering me too much. Have some self-respect man! Don’t just give it away, a woman wants a man who is thoughtful and listens and gives specifically as such. If you’d have listened to me just once, you would know I can’t stand Brittany Spears, I don’t need a good deal on 24 carat gold earrings, I never entered a lottery in Venezuela and I don’t even have a penis you for some reason want to enlarge. I feel like you just aren’t paying attention to what I’m saying, Sam.
There’s another thing Sam. You really need to work on your spelling and grammar especially when it comes to your job. I realize this is the age of IM’s and text messages so things get abbreviated but I’m pretty sure your employer, Mr. Zamir Mgaoldiahgioy of Svengoliachtenstein wouldn’t appreciate the shoddy way you put together an email that’s going to all of his poor dead uncle’s heirs. I mean, think of the amount he’s paying you to find all of us! Not taking pride in your work is a real turn off, Sam.
And so, I must say farewell Sam. Please find another woman who needs a stronger e-male presence in her life. Someone who likes to receive an email from you every half hour on the half hour. Someone who loves concerts, has rich family dying in foreign countries, and has erectile dysfunction disorder. I know it’s hard to hear, but someday when you find Mrs. Right, you’ll thank me.
Sincerely,
Haley
P.S. Please don’t write
Limerickal Assassins
You know how you’re just driving along listening to the radio and all of a sudden a song comes on that’s like nails down a chalkboard that’s been stapled to Rosie O’Donnell’s ass? (graphic, I know). I have here a short list of songs I’m done with:
· Any song dealing with Route 66. You can sing it raspy, soft, rock & rolly or bluegrass but ain’t nothing going to make that song not suck. Oh I’m sure when it first came out in 1946 it was akin to “the hard stuff” as far as music went, it was in fact the cocaine of music even. Since then it’s been bastardized in so many ways that it walks with a limp and is asking 6 different other songs for child support. Stop with this song, it’s been done.
· Any song that literally counts. I mean really? You can’t think of any more clever lyrics than 1, 2, 3 look at me. 4, 5, 6 get your kicks, 7, 8, 9 STOP IT! Whenever I hear those mind numbing lyrics I hear 1, 2, 3 I can’t rhyme 4, 5, 6 would you like fries with that? If you have to rely on numbers to rhyme with in your songs, you’re not an artist – you’re an accountant.
· Songs that have lyrics that don’t contain actual words. There’s a song out right now that I believe is called “Just Dance” (how original). The chorus goes something like this “… just dance, da-da do-do, just dance…” Really? What’s worse, no one cares what they dance to anyway so people are just singing and dancing away to this crap. I’m probably just jealous that I can’t let go of actually paying attention to these things and just… ummm… dance. Ooooh I’m an artist!
Other music related items that should be paid attention to and/or fixed:
· Any DJ that plays dance or R&B music that wears a turtleneck should be stopped immediately. You have no business playing, buying or listening to rap or R&B music if you wear turtlenecks nor do you have any business thinking you’re cool.
· Live bands playing WAY too loud. I was recently at Waldo’s here in Washington attending a charity event night. There were 3 bands playing, they were all too loud. They didn’t sound good to begin with and they didn’t sound any better at 150 decibels. Here’s another tip – enunciate. Most people have no idea what you’re saying. Also if you’re at a place called Waldo’s, don’t keep saying over and over again “where’s Waldo’s”, it’s not clever or funny no matter how drunk the crowd (except for the stupid blonde with the camera who is probably your girlfriend).
Did I miss anything?
· Any song dealing with Route 66. You can sing it raspy, soft, rock & rolly or bluegrass but ain’t nothing going to make that song not suck. Oh I’m sure when it first came out in 1946 it was akin to “the hard stuff” as far as music went, it was in fact the cocaine of music even. Since then it’s been bastardized in so many ways that it walks with a limp and is asking 6 different other songs for child support. Stop with this song, it’s been done.
· Any song that literally counts. I mean really? You can’t think of any more clever lyrics than 1, 2, 3 look at me. 4, 5, 6 get your kicks, 7, 8, 9 STOP IT! Whenever I hear those mind numbing lyrics I hear 1, 2, 3 I can’t rhyme 4, 5, 6 would you like fries with that? If you have to rely on numbers to rhyme with in your songs, you’re not an artist – you’re an accountant.
· Songs that have lyrics that don’t contain actual words. There’s a song out right now that I believe is called “Just Dance” (how original). The chorus goes something like this “… just dance, da-da do-do, just dance…” Really? What’s worse, no one cares what they dance to anyway so people are just singing and dancing away to this crap. I’m probably just jealous that I can’t let go of actually paying attention to these things and just… ummm… dance. Ooooh I’m an artist!
Other music related items that should be paid attention to and/or fixed:
· Any DJ that plays dance or R&B music that wears a turtleneck should be stopped immediately. You have no business playing, buying or listening to rap or R&B music if you wear turtlenecks nor do you have any business thinking you’re cool.
· Live bands playing WAY too loud. I was recently at Waldo’s here in Washington attending a charity event night. There were 3 bands playing, they were all too loud. They didn’t sound good to begin with and they didn’t sound any better at 150 decibels. Here’s another tip – enunciate. Most people have no idea what you’re saying. Also if you’re at a place called Waldo’s, don’t keep saying over and over again “where’s Waldo’s”, it’s not clever or funny no matter how drunk the crowd (except for the stupid blonde with the camera who is probably your girlfriend).
Did I miss anything?
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