Because I do.
Maybe I'll write a real post later. Maybe.
P.S. Did I miss the day when everyone got taught these stupid "adult" things that happen to people? Did I miss training? Did the bus leave without me?
And, a metaphor: Being new to an adult and an employee makes me feel as such:
Let's pretend I don't know how to swim. I feel as though all of my "superiors" or those who are "experienced" have thrown me into this pool of work/adulthood and are simply telling me how to swim. They aren't throwing me any life preserver, they certainly aren't going to fucking jump in and pull me to the side. As a matter of fact, they keep tying these weights to my ankles (heavy weights that say ha, ha student loans! and you can't afford health insurance, bitch! and everyone has a boyfriend but you!), and the superiors/experienced persons are like, stay up! It's fucking easy! Everybody does it! NO YOU JUST HAVE TO TRY NOT TO DROWN HARDER.
Same shit, different outfit.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
WHY ARE NONE OF YOU HERE WHEN THIS HAPPENS?
Today, on my way home from work, a truck passed me. The truck sped by, and when I looked at the emblem on the door, it said this:
BEAVER LANDSCAPING.
Now, at first, I was like. Heh heh. Beaver.
But then I was like, whoa. Beaver LANDSCAPING? Are you serious? That's a real company name? Awesome.
But really, does the person who calls their company beaver landscaping know what they're doing? Dear Company: You probably shouldn't name your business Beaver Landscaping. Even if you really like Beavers. Even if your last name is Beaver. Even if a beaver saved your child from a burning building and you are forever indebted to him. You still probably shouldn't name your business Beaver Landscaping.
Unless, of course, you shave vaginas. For profit.
*
Today David and I got a membership to Costco, which we share because we considered, for that moment, ourselves "domestic partners."
It was probably a bit unneccesary. Costco is walking distance from my house, which is entirely useless because everything you purchase there weighs at least 40 lbs. and must be carried home in a box. I wanted a membership because I wanted some place to very easily go when I wanted to plan a quick dinner or ran out of deodorant. For some reason, I thought they just might have small or solo things to sell, just in case anyone else in the area had the same idea.
Turns out no.
The most interesting thing about Costco is how it causes you to illogicially consider your needs as a human being. Once you walk into that store, reality no longer exists. First of all, the cart is the size of two carts. You might as well be pushing a taxi cab through the aisles. You feel like a midget. (I can't even imagine what a real midget would feel like in Costco. Probably very sad. You probably buy midgets in bulk there.)
Costco makes you consider questions such as**:
BEAVER LANDSCAPING.
Now, at first, I was like. Heh heh. Beaver.
But then I was like, whoa. Beaver LANDSCAPING? Are you serious? That's a real company name? Awesome.
But really, does the person who calls their company beaver landscaping know what they're doing? Dear Company: You probably shouldn't name your business Beaver Landscaping. Even if you really like Beavers. Even if your last name is Beaver. Even if a beaver saved your child from a burning building and you are forever indebted to him. You still probably shouldn't name your business Beaver Landscaping.
Unless, of course, you shave vaginas. For profit.
*
Today David and I got a membership to Costco, which we share because we considered, for that moment, ourselves "domestic partners."
It was probably a bit unneccesary. Costco is walking distance from my house, which is entirely useless because everything you purchase there weighs at least 40 lbs. and must be carried home in a box. I wanted a membership because I wanted some place to very easily go when I wanted to plan a quick dinner or ran out of deodorant. For some reason, I thought they just might have small or solo things to sell, just in case anyone else in the area had the same idea.
Turns out no.
The most interesting thing about Costco is how it causes you to illogicially consider your needs as a human being. Once you walk into that store, reality no longer exists. First of all, the cart is the size of two carts. You might as well be pushing a taxi cab through the aisles. You feel like a midget. (I can't even imagine what a real midget would feel like in Costco. Probably very sad. You probably buy midgets in bulk there.)
Costco makes you consider questions such as**:
- Do I need 32 snack packs?
- How long, exactly will 5 lbs. of Crisco vegetable oil last me?
- Wouldn't it be cool if I bought that huge thing of tootsie rolls and just set it up in my kitchen and charged people who came over to my house 5 cents for each one they ate?
- Does buying 100 tampons seem odd for just one person?
- Could I eat a 5 pound box of Cheez-its, and how long would it take?
- Where in the hell in your shower would you put a 80 oz bottle of shampoo?
So, this may have not been worth it, but if I am ever craving 30 peanut butter cookies, I'm golden.
**
- Yes, I definitely do need 32 snack packs. I probably should get two cases, just in case.
- Longer than I will live, unless I use it to put on a slip & slide and slide across the lawn in my swimsuit.
- Yes, that'd be kickass, if I wouldn't eat them all myself before everyone came over.
- No, I guess not. I guess it could be something crazy like 150 tampons.
- Yes. 4 minutes and 7 seconds.
- You build a special little shelf and hold it up with waterproof duct tape.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Baby animal smorgasbord!
Well, Liz, Chad and I traveled across the horizon of Wisconsin to the sweet siren sound of the Lil' Penguin, who welcomed us with open wings, Tostitos hint of lime chips, a fancy apartment, and a Whirly-Pop birthday gift for yours truly.
It was a grand weekend. Wisconsin was a rich green from all angles, Green Bay was humid, yet the touch of breeze made it tolerable, and on Saturday I spent my first-ever day in Michigan, in the UP, at DeYoung Family Zoo. Quite possibly the happiest, trashiest, place on earth. It is also probably rated "most likely place to get eaten" on some sort of "getting eaten" scale.
If you have ne'er heard Penguin explain the concept of the Northern Michigan family zoo, it is as such: Apparently Michigan has this law wherein it has no law that you can keep any sort of any amount of animals in your backyard. And since a lot of the people in the UP are either a) crazy or b) smart enough to manipulate non-laws for their own profit, Buddy DeYoung of the DeYoung family started collecting tigers. He's an avid animal lover. Then he got bears and lions and monkeys and alligators and peacocks and deer and fat, odd pigs and emus. And those animals have darling little babies, and the backyard zoo grows and grows and charges $7 admission.
A baby monkey that looks exactly like a 97-year-old man. It's just a very-minature senior.
I adored this horse. He ate out of our hands and he let me pet him and pet him and pet him and I asked if I could do his hair (he said no) and I asked if I could bring him home with me (he said maybe).
Llama & Pig: We are different, but we are in love.
On the way home, we stopped at a geographical marker that stated we were at the latitudinal mid-way point between the equator and the north pole. But then it said it was a hypothetical mid-way point (or something) and directed us to the real landmark. This made no sense to me. At all. Why would you make a fake landmark? Anyway, we're representin' the 45th parallel. What what.
It was a grand weekend. Wisconsin was a rich green from all angles, Green Bay was humid, yet the touch of breeze made it tolerable, and on Saturday I spent my first-ever day in Michigan, in the UP, at DeYoung Family Zoo. Quite possibly the happiest, trashiest, place on earth. It is also probably rated "most likely place to get eaten" on some sort of "getting eaten" scale.
If you have ne'er heard Penguin explain the concept of the Northern Michigan family zoo, it is as such: Apparently Michigan has this law wherein it has no law that you can keep any sort of any amount of animals in your backyard. And since a lot of the people in the UP are either a) crazy or b) smart enough to manipulate non-laws for their own profit, Buddy DeYoung of the DeYoung family started collecting tigers. He's an avid animal lover. Then he got bears and lions and monkeys and alligators and peacocks and deer and fat, odd pigs and emus. And those animals have darling little babies, and the backyard zoo grows and grows and charges $7 admission.
This makes it sound bad. But really, the zoo is amazing. First of all, this family really does take care of these animals. There is minimal concrete, they have large cages, and local farmers donate cow carcasses for food. They use roadkill to feed their animals too. So, with volunteer workers and the support of visitors and the community, the zoo is successful. Successful enough to house 4% of the world's white tiger population, successful enough to nurse little babies into big, strong animals. And the owners are crazy enough (or well-insured enough) to keep the animals merely feet away from the public, behind two layers (to prevent the finger-poking of human to large cat) of small, wire fence. You see into, literally, the eye of the tiger. It's amazing. An experience you can only expect in Northern Michigan.
And so, our cameras all died before the day was over, and I don't have the pictures from the rest of Jenny's-birthday-weekend-o'-fun, but I do have pictures of baby animals. And that's all you need.
Baby cougar! Rawr rawr rawr rawr.
Liz, experiencing the best moment of her life, as she holds a baby bobcat. I know it just looks like a kitten, but it's a bobcat. I promise.
Baby raccoon! I'm gonna grow up to eat garbage!
Baby raccoon! I'm gonna grow up to eat garbage!Baby wallaby! It doesn't look like it, but his fur was really soft. And the volunteer carried him around in a little homemade pouch.
A baby monkey that looks exactly like a 97-year-old man. It's just a very-minature senior.
Brown bear, brown bear, what do you see?
Shut the hell up. I'm gonna eat you.
Shut the hell up. I'm gonna eat you.
We fed Emus. They were taller than Jenny, and the rule was that they couldn't peck from your hand--you had to feed them from your corn bag. And every time they went to peck for corn, a thick membrane covered their eyes. Pretty gross. The biggest birds I've ever seen. (It's hard to tell from this picture.) Their damn feet were massive.
This goat was my favorite of the bunch. He was cute. And greedy and fat. He ate most of our corn and then followed us around through the fence as we moved on. I called all of the goats and donkeys and llams and horses meh-meh-mehs because of how they ate. They move their mouths back and forth (no tongues) and just seem to suck the food right out of your hands. It's sort of robotic and very fast. You know, meh-meh-meh.
This goat was my favorite of the bunch. He was cute. And greedy and fat. He ate most of our corn and then followed us around through the fence as we moved on. I called all of the goats and donkeys and llams and horses meh-meh-mehs because of how they ate. They move their mouths back and forth (no tongues) and just seem to suck the food right out of your hands. It's sort of robotic and very fast. You know, meh-meh-meh.
I adored this horse. He ate out of our hands and he let me pet him and pet him and pet him and I asked if I could do his hair (he said no) and I asked if I could bring him home with me (he said maybe).Llama & Pig: We are different, but we are in love.The tigers faught over the bath, biting necks, baring teeth. There was a hose/shower apparatus spraying down, like a shower. It reminds me of a bit on Sesame Street--the tigers walking around in the black pool while splish splash I was takin' a bath plays in the background. Then, when the song is over, you cut to the cartoon of one-two-three-four-five...
My absolute favorite picture: lion with bangs. Look at this flock of seagulls thing going on! Get a haircut, hippie! We also saw a duck with a spikey-haired mohawk (unfortunately, didn't get a picture), and we called him punk-duck. Who is your stylist?
The fawn at the deer park, Bambi as he liked to be called, practically licked the skin off of Chad's hand. So unnaturally friendly. We pet him through the fence until we realized that we were allowed to open the gate and run around with the deer in their rehabilitation habitat. As you may have guessed, they really liked that.
Oh, Chad-deer.
Sly bastard. The alligators did not move. Actually, I think they were fake. But I still didn't reach my hand over the whopping 3 feet wall between us and their swamp-pit. Oh, no.
Jenny and I feeding the llama-llama-llama. The best word to say over and again. Llama-llama-llama-llama. He likes corn! So do I. I wish people would hand-feed me corn all day.
Have you seen the little piggies, crawling in the dirt? I love their tiny, tiny snouts.
Meat-eater: They throw huge hunks of red, raw flesh over the fences to all the large cats, who leap into the air and growl at each other for it. Then, when they're done eating, their paws are stained red. And it is scary.
My absolute favorite picture: lion with bangs. Look at this flock of seagulls thing going on! Get a haircut, hippie! We also saw a duck with a spikey-haired mohawk (unfortunately, didn't get a picture), and we called him punk-duck. Who is your stylist?The fawn at the deer park, Bambi as he liked to be called, practically licked the skin off of Chad's hand. So unnaturally friendly. We pet him through the fence until we realized that we were allowed to open the gate and run around with the deer in their rehabilitation habitat. As you may have guessed, they really liked that.
Oh, Chad-deer.
Sly bastard. The alligators did not move. Actually, I think they were fake. But I still didn't reach my hand over the whopping 3 feet wall between us and their swamp-pit. Oh, no.
Jenny and I feeding the llama-llama-llama. The best word to say over and again. Llama-llama-llama-llama. He likes corn! So do I. I wish people would hand-feed me corn all day.
Have you seen the little piggies, crawling in the dirt? I love their tiny, tiny snouts.Meat-eater: They throw huge hunks of red, raw flesh over the fences to all the large cats, who leap into the air and growl at each other for it. Then, when they're done eating, their paws are stained red. And it is scary.On the way home, we stopped at a geographical marker that stated we were at the latitudinal mid-way point between the equator and the north pole. But then it said it was a hypothetical mid-way point (or something) and directed us to the real landmark. This made no sense to me. At all. Why would you make a fake landmark? Anyway, we're representin' the 45th parallel. What what.Friday, June 15, 2007
I Can Now Officially Call Two People I Know “The Tornado”
The first, of course, being David and his drunken, blanket-clad bullshit charade moves that break my martini glasses, and now the second, Dave, of the TSB, and his Fender Cyclone. The headstock has a tiny tornado. It’s a silver and black beast of a guitar, and I like it.
Even though I woke this morning at 6 am, after only four hours of sleep, I was in a stellar mood. What a great fucking day today is. Who knows where this mood came from? All I know is that I need to take advantage of it while it lasts. Perhaps it is because I’m certain I was still slightly buzzed this morning at work. At least I know my productivity increases with leftover Honey Weiss in my system. Because I finished the hell out of my work and my morning flew. And then, as I look forward to every day, I lunched with Kristin and Matt and said funny things about people and lawyers and MSU alum and literature.
Next Friday is my birthday, and I haven’t really thought about that much, other than last night, when I hoped that turning 25 could be as fun as yesterday’s random Thursday goings-on. Maybe it’s because we hadn’t really spent a night at the café recently, or maybe it’s because I had only planned on one and then driving my sleepy ass back to St. Louis Park. Or maybe it’s because Shannon and I know how to have a damn good time and our creative making-fun-of-people juices were flowing just a little extra. After all, I have all of this practice at work. I’ve nicknamed like three people in the last week. It’s hard to keep track of Dr. Hibbert and The Miami Vice Villain. This is why Kristin made an ultimate document of everyone’s names. It will eventually get so big we will have to alphabetize it. And add an index that reads as such:
Dyke Pants, Spongebob.
Del Ugly, Benicio.
Shirt 2, Dragon.
To add to my unofficial Tony Sims Band Night document, I can mention Marathon, quite possibly the most athletic muscular mass of woman I’ve ever seen on a dance floor. Imagine someone in their 22nd mile of a marathon. Now imagine someone having a seizure while standing up. Now put them together: a marathon dancing seizure. Every aerobic-like move she made was exaggerated—bend the knee, lift the leg, pump it, up to the chest, do it again, sweat like morning dew, now I’m over here, oh yeah, I’m dancing, let’s go, four miles left, oh yeah. Her thighs were as thick as a telephone pole.
There were a couple of chubby guys on the dance floor who I almost fell in love with. They had some joke-y moves that cracked Shan and me up from the rail. You know. They reminded us of us. I should’ve asked the one with glasses and flip-flops to dance. Another potential husband, just slipping through my apprehensive fingers. What a night. What a good, typical, booze-driven, well-deserved, traditional night. It really pulled me back into reality: that reality, of course, being that even though so many aspects of my life have changed, even though I’m an adult now, even though I have a real-person job: I still have Thursday nights to get a beer buzz, listen to stories of shenanigans from the TSB, sit at the rail, and listen to music that I never, ever tire of.
*
I’ve been writing parts of websites and then wholes of a website this week. All fake, of course—just practice until next week when real work begins and I have to talk to real lawyers instead of mock-lawyers on the phone and ask them real questions when I really just want to ask them fuck, how do you spell lawyer again? And Hey, did you know that “lawyer” has the word “law” in it? That’s just fucking weird, huh!
Anyway, even though I still know very little, the breadth of knowledge I’ve acquired in the past two weeks is stunning. Not stunning in a conceited way, as in I’ve acquired more knowledge than everyone else, but stunning in the way that it stuns me that I have remembered all of this knowledge and that as I type I can feel the new information spilling out of my dense head onto the computer screen.
Really, though, my head is empty. I was struggling with my mock-site yesterday, and I explained it to Matt like this: Normally when I write, I have all of this experience up in my head. Books, poems, workshops, criticisms I’ve taken, former pieces I’ve written. I open the writing portal, and there all of it is, sitting, waiting to be used. Plus there’s that dash of creativity that marries all of it in a polygamous bliss, and the motivation to keep digging through the knowledge until I find the best possible way to convey whatever it is I’m trying to convey.
And when I go to write websites about law firms, I open my technical writing portal and this is what I find:
I’m drowning in my brain’s emptiness. My brain is barren. I have no pool of knowledge to draw from, no keg to tap, no “best option,” just “only option that I can think of that isn’t any good at all.” Litigation? Power of attorney? Chapter 11? I think the only term I understood my first day here was DWI. And that’s just because I went to school in Mankato.
My fingers rest on the oily keyboard, which inappropriately is called the “Dell QuietKey.” (It should be called the “Dell 1996 keyboard with sticky keys that click loudly no matter how quietly you try to push them.” It’s an atonal piano.) My fingers wait for the electricity of brain to finger to work, but it doesn’t. Even with all of the notes in front of me, with millions of similar websites accessible to me, nothing comes. Well, it’s starting to come. I spend a lot of my free time reading websites of law firms. Explaining the “experience” these firms have. Everyone has so much experience! And so will the firms I’m writing for.
I am looking forward to the forthcoming challenges of this work. It’s much like writing a nonfiction essay: what is the center of this that we’re trying to achieve by both direct statement and reading through the lines? What is the core of this website? What can I pull from these pages and pages of notes and information from this lawyer to market him or her? How do I make it sound good? When writing an essay, (which I admit I haven’t done for awhile) I sort through metaphoric pages and pages of life experience. I wonder, what is the core of this experience? What can I pull from this information to make my writing important and appealing to my audience? How do I make it sound good?
The last thing I want to say about this work is that it’s a true testament to my time management/not getting off track skills. As you can see by this 4 page blog, I'm doing quite well.
*
The Cub Foods by my house is shitty. It’s a shit-Cub. I absolutely despise it. I hate that the lady who checked me out last time commented on my “horrible” driver’s license photo (the driver’s license that I kept forgetting to renew and that expires next Friday—when the HELL am I going to have time for that?); I hate that this time the girl who checked me out was obviously a lesbian (that’s not the part I hate) but I hate the part where she angrily threw all of my food onto the belt (that bitch whipped it down there, overhand, I swear it) because the girl in line ahead of me did not respond to her oddly flirty advances; I hate that someone left a note on my car in the parking lot that read Learn how to park, duuuhh; I hate that they don’t carry the Klarbrunn flavored water I’ve become addicted to because it doesn’t contain Aspartame; I hate that they don’t have foccacia bread (and I hate that MS word underlines “foccacia” in red and suggest I replace it with “moccasin”). Screw you, Knollwood Cub. You super-suck. You ruin Cub for all of the other Cubs, just like the dirty floors and brown fruit and extra-chromosomed cashiers of uptown Mankato Cub almost ruined downtown Mankato Cub. Get some good cheese, you dicks.
*
I’ve been spending way too much time in my car lately. I get angry at traffic. You should be surprised that I have not dedicated an entire blog to Minnesota drivers. Because I wrote one in my head the other day, all while idling on the crosstown.
The one lovely thing about the crosstown, though, is that when you first get on from Highway 55 and cross the bridge, you can see both the skylines of Minneapolis and St. Paul. I found this exciting. I kept turning around to look at St. Paul and then looking right to Minneapolis and thinking, huh. There they both are. I love these cities.
*
If I ever meet a woman who talks so much I wish I had brain damage so I couldn't understand her, I'm naming her cunt force twat-ma. Like blunt force trauma. It is, quite possibly, the most misogynistic comment ever. And feel free to use that. You don’t even have to give me recognition. I spend too much time in the car. Too much time thinking of things that should never, ever be thought of.
*
My sunburn is finally peeling. Everyone stop by and peel off a little piece of skin.
Even though I woke this morning at 6 am, after only four hours of sleep, I was in a stellar mood. What a great fucking day today is. Who knows where this mood came from? All I know is that I need to take advantage of it while it lasts. Perhaps it is because I’m certain I was still slightly buzzed this morning at work. At least I know my productivity increases with leftover Honey Weiss in my system. Because I finished the hell out of my work and my morning flew. And then, as I look forward to every day, I lunched with Kristin and Matt and said funny things about people and lawyers and MSU alum and literature.
Next Friday is my birthday, and I haven’t really thought about that much, other than last night, when I hoped that turning 25 could be as fun as yesterday’s random Thursday goings-on. Maybe it’s because we hadn’t really spent a night at the café recently, or maybe it’s because I had only planned on one and then driving my sleepy ass back to St. Louis Park. Or maybe it’s because Shannon and I know how to have a damn good time and our creative making-fun-of-people juices were flowing just a little extra. After all, I have all of this practice at work. I’ve nicknamed like three people in the last week. It’s hard to keep track of Dr. Hibbert and The Miami Vice Villain. This is why Kristin made an ultimate document of everyone’s names. It will eventually get so big we will have to alphabetize it. And add an index that reads as such:
Dyke Pants, Spongebob.
Del Ugly, Benicio.
Shirt 2, Dragon.
To add to my unofficial Tony Sims Band Night document, I can mention Marathon, quite possibly the most athletic muscular mass of woman I’ve ever seen on a dance floor. Imagine someone in their 22nd mile of a marathon. Now imagine someone having a seizure while standing up. Now put them together: a marathon dancing seizure. Every aerobic-like move she made was exaggerated—bend the knee, lift the leg, pump it, up to the chest, do it again, sweat like morning dew, now I’m over here, oh yeah, I’m dancing, let’s go, four miles left, oh yeah. Her thighs were as thick as a telephone pole.
There were a couple of chubby guys on the dance floor who I almost fell in love with. They had some joke-y moves that cracked Shan and me up from the rail. You know. They reminded us of us. I should’ve asked the one with glasses and flip-flops to dance. Another potential husband, just slipping through my apprehensive fingers. What a night. What a good, typical, booze-driven, well-deserved, traditional night. It really pulled me back into reality: that reality, of course, being that even though so many aspects of my life have changed, even though I’m an adult now, even though I have a real-person job: I still have Thursday nights to get a beer buzz, listen to stories of shenanigans from the TSB, sit at the rail, and listen to music that I never, ever tire of.
*
I’ve been writing parts of websites and then wholes of a website this week. All fake, of course—just practice until next week when real work begins and I have to talk to real lawyers instead of mock-lawyers on the phone and ask them real questions when I really just want to ask them fuck, how do you spell lawyer again? And Hey, did you know that “lawyer” has the word “law” in it? That’s just fucking weird, huh!
Anyway, even though I still know very little, the breadth of knowledge I’ve acquired in the past two weeks is stunning. Not stunning in a conceited way, as in I’ve acquired more knowledge than everyone else, but stunning in the way that it stuns me that I have remembered all of this knowledge and that as I type I can feel the new information spilling out of my dense head onto the computer screen.
Really, though, my head is empty. I was struggling with my mock-site yesterday, and I explained it to Matt like this: Normally when I write, I have all of this experience up in my head. Books, poems, workshops, criticisms I’ve taken, former pieces I’ve written. I open the writing portal, and there all of it is, sitting, waiting to be used. Plus there’s that dash of creativity that marries all of it in a polygamous bliss, and the motivation to keep digging through the knowledge until I find the best possible way to convey whatever it is I’m trying to convey.
And when I go to write websites about law firms, I open my technical writing portal and this is what I find:
I’m drowning in my brain’s emptiness. My brain is barren. I have no pool of knowledge to draw from, no keg to tap, no “best option,” just “only option that I can think of that isn’t any good at all.” Litigation? Power of attorney? Chapter 11? I think the only term I understood my first day here was DWI. And that’s just because I went to school in Mankato.My fingers rest on the oily keyboard, which inappropriately is called the “Dell QuietKey.” (It should be called the “Dell 1996 keyboard with sticky keys that click loudly no matter how quietly you try to push them.” It’s an atonal piano.) My fingers wait for the electricity of brain to finger to work, but it doesn’t. Even with all of the notes in front of me, with millions of similar websites accessible to me, nothing comes. Well, it’s starting to come. I spend a lot of my free time reading websites of law firms. Explaining the “experience” these firms have. Everyone has so much experience! And so will the firms I’m writing for.
I am looking forward to the forthcoming challenges of this work. It’s much like writing a nonfiction essay: what is the center of this that we’re trying to achieve by both direct statement and reading through the lines? What is the core of this website? What can I pull from these pages and pages of notes and information from this lawyer to market him or her? How do I make it sound good? When writing an essay, (which I admit I haven’t done for awhile) I sort through metaphoric pages and pages of life experience. I wonder, what is the core of this experience? What can I pull from this information to make my writing important and appealing to my audience? How do I make it sound good?
The last thing I want to say about this work is that it’s a true testament to my time management/not getting off track skills. As you can see by this 4 page blog, I'm doing quite well.
*
The Cub Foods by my house is shitty. It’s a shit-Cub. I absolutely despise it. I hate that the lady who checked me out last time commented on my “horrible” driver’s license photo (the driver’s license that I kept forgetting to renew and that expires next Friday—when the HELL am I going to have time for that?); I hate that this time the girl who checked me out was obviously a lesbian (that’s not the part I hate) but I hate the part where she angrily threw all of my food onto the belt (that bitch whipped it down there, overhand, I swear it) because the girl in line ahead of me did not respond to her oddly flirty advances; I hate that someone left a note on my car in the parking lot that read Learn how to park, duuuhh; I hate that they don’t carry the Klarbrunn flavored water I’ve become addicted to because it doesn’t contain Aspartame; I hate that they don’t have foccacia bread (and I hate that MS word underlines “foccacia” in red and suggest I replace it with “moccasin”). Screw you, Knollwood Cub. You super-suck. You ruin Cub for all of the other Cubs, just like the dirty floors and brown fruit and extra-chromosomed cashiers of uptown Mankato Cub almost ruined downtown Mankato Cub. Get some good cheese, you dicks.
*
I’ve been spending way too much time in my car lately. I get angry at traffic. You should be surprised that I have not dedicated an entire blog to Minnesota drivers. Because I wrote one in my head the other day, all while idling on the crosstown.
The one lovely thing about the crosstown, though, is that when you first get on from Highway 55 and cross the bridge, you can see both the skylines of Minneapolis and St. Paul. I found this exciting. I kept turning around to look at St. Paul and then looking right to Minneapolis and thinking, huh. There they both are. I love these cities.
*
If I ever meet a woman who talks so much I wish I had brain damage so I couldn't understand her, I'm naming her cunt force twat-ma. Like blunt force trauma. It is, quite possibly, the most misogynistic comment ever. And feel free to use that. You don’t even have to give me recognition. I spend too much time in the car. Too much time thinking of things that should never, ever be thought of.
*
My sunburn is finally peeling. Everyone stop by and peel off a little piece of skin.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Do tha bitch deserve what's coming to her?
Does you have some legal issuez?
If your baby-daddy be up and deciding he don't wanna give you no childz support, the law firm of Pimps, Hos, and Playaz, LLC will fight for your rightz. Wit ovah 27 yearz of experience, we be dedicated to servin' our communities and fightin' for dat baby that might be of another man.
Do the bitch be takin' up all the money you be makin' on the streetz? Is the fuzz tryin' to bring a playah down? Realizing you actually are a baby-daddy is a stressful and exhausting experience. We want to make your new family as comfortable as possible, whether you be home at night or be runnin' wit some other hos, fo sho.
Contact us today for a free consultation. It be free, meaning it don't cost your broke ass shiz.
*
That's what I do all day. I be writing. Of course, the websites I'll be writing will be professional, but this is what I want to write. This is what I will think of in my head while I'm trying to capture the personality of your firm.
*
It was a good, long weekend. Since weekends are now blocks of time for me that will bring pure joy instead of just another day off, I'm trying to live them up. I've decided, for sure, that they should be three days instead of two days long. That would only be fair.
Shannon, Henry, and I watched the Twins get their asses handed to them on Friday, but I had a good time in right field just because the drunk men behind us decided to harass the Nationals right fielder Ryan Church. Poor guy committed an error and dropped two fly balls. Drunk guys responded with That's gonna be on Sports Center, Church! And If that was a softball you would've caught it, Church! And I laughed so hard I think a little dome dog mustard came out of my nose. Before long our entire section was like WOO! CHURCH! Love you! It just made us feel better since our hometeam sucked it up.
On Saturday David and I finally finished putting our house together. Boxes are no longer in the living room, but in the garage. The kitchen is full of unpacked utensils. We still don't have cable, because somehow calling seems like too big a chore, but we've been stretching out on his long, comfortable couch to watch movies. We drove around the area a bit, finally found the lake, a better way to get to Target. And while driving, David made me pull over the car so he could chase some geese, including little furry gray goslings that ran in circles while the bigger geese hissed through their black beaks and spread their wide wings. It was cute for a number of reasons.
On Sunday we drove up to Albertville Friendly City Days, which is exactly like the parade scene in Drop Dead Gorgeous: people lining a street for the parade, the humidity and heat seemingly lifting the black tar off the ground and into the thick air, cigarettes, candy in the street, You betchas as far as the ear can hear. Trashy chic. We visited the carnival, where the ferris wheel was broken, walked down to my dad and his cooler of MGD Light/Pepsi/too much ice, and watched my old marching band do the exact same routine they did seven years ago, when I was in the band. Awesome that I remember that, huh? I said Here comes the horn flare! And then it came.
I got sunburned. My shoulders are red and stiff.
And today I went back to work for my first full week. The days, fortunately, go by fast. I write and format and write. I get feedback from my editor. It's like workshop, except I don't know as much about what I should be doing, so I have to rely on the comments of others instead of thinking the others don't know what they're talking about. So then I just ask Matt.
This morning on the radio I heard, seriously, about a bomb that the army almost created regarding a gas that would make the enemy fall in love with each other. No, no, I said seriously! In forcing the enemy to fall in love with each other, the army felt they could more easily defeat them. The 7 million dollar budget was not approved and, as I understand it, never will be. But I plan to do some research on this bizarre warfare, and if it's legit, writing a poem about it. That's the only reason I'm telling you. So I don't forget.
If your baby-daddy be up and deciding he don't wanna give you no childz support, the law firm of Pimps, Hos, and Playaz, LLC will fight for your rightz. Wit ovah 27 yearz of experience, we be dedicated to servin' our communities and fightin' for dat baby that might be of another man.
Do the bitch be takin' up all the money you be makin' on the streetz? Is the fuzz tryin' to bring a playah down? Realizing you actually are a baby-daddy is a stressful and exhausting experience. We want to make your new family as comfortable as possible, whether you be home at night or be runnin' wit some other hos, fo sho.
Contact us today for a free consultation. It be free, meaning it don't cost your broke ass shiz.
*
That's what I do all day. I be writing. Of course, the websites I'll be writing will be professional, but this is what I want to write. This is what I will think of in my head while I'm trying to capture the personality of your firm.
*
It was a good, long weekend. Since weekends are now blocks of time for me that will bring pure joy instead of just another day off, I'm trying to live them up. I've decided, for sure, that they should be three days instead of two days long. That would only be fair.
Shannon, Henry, and I watched the Twins get their asses handed to them on Friday, but I had a good time in right field just because the drunk men behind us decided to harass the Nationals right fielder Ryan Church. Poor guy committed an error and dropped two fly balls. Drunk guys responded with That's gonna be on Sports Center, Church! And If that was a softball you would've caught it, Church! And I laughed so hard I think a little dome dog mustard came out of my nose. Before long our entire section was like WOO! CHURCH! Love you! It just made us feel better since our hometeam sucked it up.
On Saturday David and I finally finished putting our house together. Boxes are no longer in the living room, but in the garage. The kitchen is full of unpacked utensils. We still don't have cable, because somehow calling seems like too big a chore, but we've been stretching out on his long, comfortable couch to watch movies. We drove around the area a bit, finally found the lake, a better way to get to Target. And while driving, David made me pull over the car so he could chase some geese, including little furry gray goslings that ran in circles while the bigger geese hissed through their black beaks and spread their wide wings. It was cute for a number of reasons.
On Sunday we drove up to Albertville Friendly City Days, which is exactly like the parade scene in Drop Dead Gorgeous: people lining a street for the parade, the humidity and heat seemingly lifting the black tar off the ground and into the thick air, cigarettes, candy in the street, You betchas as far as the ear can hear. Trashy chic. We visited the carnival, where the ferris wheel was broken, walked down to my dad and his cooler of MGD Light/Pepsi/too much ice, and watched my old marching band do the exact same routine they did seven years ago, when I was in the band. Awesome that I remember that, huh? I said Here comes the horn flare! And then it came.
I got sunburned. My shoulders are red and stiff.
And today I went back to work for my first full week. The days, fortunately, go by fast. I write and format and write. I get feedback from my editor. It's like workshop, except I don't know as much about what I should be doing, so I have to rely on the comments of others instead of thinking the others don't know what they're talking about. So then I just ask Matt.
This morning on the radio I heard, seriously, about a bomb that the army almost created regarding a gas that would make the enemy fall in love with each other. No, no, I said seriously! In forcing the enemy to fall in love with each other, the army felt they could more easily defeat them. The 7 million dollar budget was not approved and, as I understand it, never will be. But I plan to do some research on this bizarre warfare, and if it's legit, writing a poem about it. That's the only reason I'm telling you. So I don't forget.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Operation: I am job.
David did not find it funny when I told him that unwrapping and removing the giant sheets of plastic from his boxspring was like taking a condom off a giant's dick, and he especially didn't find it funny when I accidentally hit him in the nose while ripping off the tape, so he told me to just leave.
So I slammed the door to my room and cried a little, because he also called me retarded when I tried to screw a screw while the drill was on reverse. And all I was trying to do was help. But now, after 5 minutes, I've decided that as nice as I am, I don't want to help him unpack all of his shit (wasn't it supposed to arrive two days ago? yes; didn't he pay the movers to unpack it for him? yes) because nobody helped me unpack mine. And I really don't like being called names after having such a good, solid first day of work.
Anyway, the movers came while David and I were at work today. David's mom watched the place while they brought his things in, as we no longer trust this company because they are horseshit at communicating and David's stuff was in Colorado for a long time and they don't do their job, which, surprisingly is to MOVE STUFF. But it's all here, based on what he can tell from boxes and boxes and his couch and his desk. And as an added bonus, there is a brown sleek leather chair that he has never seen before. So, free leather chair. The one good thing. Well, the leg on the chair is broken.
This morning I commuted. To work. Weird. Last night I picked out my business professional clothes, hung them from the footboard of my bed, and went to sleep. This morning I showered and did my hair while wearing only my black bra and my gray skirt, like I assume sexy business wives do. Then I walked out the door with my briefcase. Then I listened to morning radio. Actually, the KOOL108 deejays are funny. They remind me of Lance because they talk about Transformers. I mean, they fight about Transformers. Lance would totally do that.
Thomson, as I truly found out today, is fucking huge, and in its enormity (is that a word? enormousness?) the complex reminded me too much of working at the Nike shoe factory. Much like Nike was the hub of St. Charles, MO (the suburb of St. Louis), Thomson is much like the hub of Eagan (the suburb of the Twin Cities). To make the nerves worse about this situation (mind you, I have nerves because working 3rd shift from 5pm to 5am at the Nike shoe factory was the worst month and a half of my life), the staffing agency uses the same company that Nike did. I work, somewhat, through Adecco. It says this on my badge. Luckilly, my paystubs will not say as such, but the point is that I have a badge, just like I did at Nike, and the badge says "Adecco" and I get this nervous pang in my stomach that I'll be eating cheese cubes for lunch at one in the morning and calling my dad crying while he's praying the rosary on his way to work and I'm just getting off work to go sleep the long day away.
The plus side, of course, of Thomson is that I get to dress nice and I don't smell like fucking burnt plastic all day. I also don't want to vomit from the smell, people don't say warsh in Minnesota, and there are more people who work here--almost 6000 on this one campus. More people than live in Albertville drive to work here everyday. It's hard not to feel like a spec of dust. The similarities are odd, though, between Nike and Thomson. How people file into the building with their badges, how they carry their bag lunches, how they have 3rd shift.
I trained, at first, with two other people today. They are also contract writers. One of them was an older woman who wore red polyester pants and brought special white sneakers to change in to when we walked around the giant building. As we walked, she also sweat quite a bit from the back of her neck, where the gray hairline meets the folds of skin. She was formerly an attorney, and not a writer, so she brings an interesting perspective to the group. And I will take advantage of her when I have random questions about the law or lawyers or what "mediation" means. The other trainee was a guy about my age. Of course, he was as gay as the day is long, but he dressed nice and presented great poise at the meeting and although he also has no education as a writer (just experience) he looks like he'll know what he's doing in a couple of weeks. At first I thought he had the same glasses I did, and I noticed this because I was trying to think of something to talk to him about , but then I noticed they were a bit different and that his had tape on the side where they'd obviously been broken. I did not decide if the tape on the glasses was charming or not, but he wore them on the tip of his nose in a nerdy way, which was. We also checked out some of the same men. And by "men," I mean one man. Because of the thousands there, only one was attractive. And I don't think he works in our section of the building.
The highlight of the day--where there are a number of highlights. In true Thomson fashion, here's a list:
1. kick-ass salad bar in one of the cafeterias (there are 2, and there is also a Caribou, which is apparently the highest grossing Caribou location anywhere even though Thomson offers free coffee (and milk! and tea!) every day) and also the other general kick-ass food in case I decide I don't want to bring a lunch. Think: exact opposite of what the CSU had to offer because it's reasonably priced and delicious. Fucking CSU;
2. Lunch with both Kristin & Matt, wherein I listened to hilarious conversation about the formerly (and currently) nicknamed employees, such as Benicio del Ugly (I mean, Benicio del Turo is by no means attractive, Kristin said, but this guy still manages to be an ugly version of him) and a man she calls Auschwitz and--what was it, Captain Dandruff?--and that crazy-ass lady who hangs Spongebob Squarepants paraphernelia and who I don't even know but suggested I start a Spongebob contest with (even though I don't really care for that cartoon...anymore...) just to piss off. This sounds silly, but I promise you, it is all so very exciting. I've even already nicknamed someone myself. It's after my former MSU mentor. Actually, now that I think about it, keeping all of the nicknames straight may be more difficult than remembering all of this website lingo I need to recall when it comes time to really do my job...;
3. Training with Matt in my group for 6 days! So wonderful. He's training for his fulltime gig and it's the same thing I'm going to be doing, so we get to learn all of these wonderful things together, and since he has experience I get to ask him questions and won't be thought of as retarded. Well, Matt would never say so. Unless he and Kristin give me some nickname like "tard," which would be fine because it would just remind me of good ol' Mankato days
4. Something apparently called "ice cream time" which today consisted of being dropped off at a "meeting" with the computer guy and other employees gathered around a table. We were dropped off for "ice cream time" late, and so Gary (the newly nicknamed) demanded that I go eat some ice cream. He not only insisted, he practically dragged me into the cafeteria, led me to the ice cream machine. And then, when I was about to walk away, I was scolded for not putting toppings on my chocolate/vanilla combo. Then, he paid for it. This, I can handle.
5. At the "ice cream time" "meeting" I told people I knew Kristin and they said she got you to work here? And you still wanted to come?! And it was so great that she is known for that--that her personality shines at work. Seriously, that's awesome. I'm jealous. It's a good thing!;
6. MY CUBICLE IS RIGHT NEXT TO MATT'S. I know! What kind of kick-fucking-ass stroke of fate is it that at this real job I can write "Imagine Jo-Jo naked holding her "cat" in the exact appropriate place right now" on a post-it and then toss it over the gray faux-wall that separates us. Lovely.
I cannot stress how lucky I feel about all of this. To have this job, to have people I enjoy around me in so many aspects, but especially at work. I'm just lucky. How did this even happen? To me? I am the most grateful person in the world. I am grateful. When I am stressed out at work (which looks like it may happen, this job seems very high-pressure based on what I've heard/seen) I will think" grateful. Grateful.
Today Matt and I found a typo on a brief. It read "their old website was aweful." Interesting. As in, their website was full-of-awe? Liz, Chad. You love that, right? Stinkin' nerds.
So, to sum. My cubicle is next to Matt's. I'm planning on reserving Kristin a tiny little space in which to sit when she comes to visit us. Although I am ever-so-grateful for this job, I am actually a little nervous. I learned more terms today than I have in a long time. I have been micro-schooled in Marketing 101 and Law 101, which in general are those subjects that you feel like you know a lot about without education, but you actually really don't. (As in, I don't need to take a marketing class. That shit's pretty straightforward. I mean. Target audience. Give people what they want. Duh.) Some of it's like that, but also some of it made me go, Oh yeah. Yeah! That totally makes sense. I still have a lot to learn about Law, though. Mostly so I know what types of questions to ask when I talk with clients. And to make this more clear, my job here is to write websites for Law firms. I found out what they want, and then I give them what they want. Why is this exciting? My position is copywriter. I'm a writer. As a whole, as a group, the people around me say things like we as writers. And I mean. That's what I'm trained to do. I'm trained to do something. (Speaking of, it feels weird to be here right out of school, and I feel very young, which in turn, I fear, makes me lack just a little bit of confidence. I have experience, but it all comes in strings of knowledge that I pull from my other jobs--sales and marketing from Pier 1, writing basics and learning to ask the right questions and learning to collaborate with others and learning how to take authority from teaching (and also from forensics). It's interesting what you take with you when you leave a place and start somewhere new...but I feel that if I told anyone I was 24 they'd kick me in the crotch.)
*
TEST RUN #1: I do want to record that I went on my first test run yesterday, meaning I tried to find where in St. Louis Park I'd spend 40 minutes of my day listening to my ipod while sweating. I actually found some trails while trying to find Cedar Lake (which I really wanted to find but never actually found--I tried to literally sniff it out, because I figured that sniffing out unseen lakes was a natural talent that Minnesotans had--turns out, no). Anyway, the trails were amazing. From them, I could see the Minneapolis skyline in all of it's hazy glory. The trails went through the woods, which just smelled green and fresh, and sometimes they went by rich people's houses which, since they could afford it, had planted flowers that smelled green and fresh and flower-y. I took my stopwatch with me to figure out where it'd be best to turn around (20 minutes to there (wherever it was) and 20 minutes back) but I got so wrapped up in trying to figure out where the trails went that I kept going (running, then walking) for an hour and a half. I wish I was one of those people who could just run 10 miles. But I really didn't find much on the trails though my random exploration. Other than a lot of train tracks (some that I climbed up to that went over a bridge, and it was a very Stand by Me moment) and a trail that was so covered in little black caterpillars that I actually had to run in weaves around them. They were all crossing. So many had already been squished by running shoes and bike tires. Such an interesting spectacle. Such a metaphor.
Anyway, who knows how good I'll be at keeping up the running gig. I'm nervous, really. Really. It's so tough to want to go after work, I waited 4 or 5 days to even break out the running shoes just yesterday, and I still haven't officially found a path. Luckily, the parking lots at Thomson are so huge, I have to walk 7 miles just to get to the building. And I'll keep taking the stairs and hope for the best. And, because I am dedicated and afraid of getting fat, I'll keep running, so help me.
So I slammed the door to my room and cried a little, because he also called me retarded when I tried to screw a screw while the drill was on reverse. And all I was trying to do was help. But now, after 5 minutes, I've decided that as nice as I am, I don't want to help him unpack all of his shit (wasn't it supposed to arrive two days ago? yes; didn't he pay the movers to unpack it for him? yes) because nobody helped me unpack mine. And I really don't like being called names after having such a good, solid first day of work.
Anyway, the movers came while David and I were at work today. David's mom watched the place while they brought his things in, as we no longer trust this company because they are horseshit at communicating and David's stuff was in Colorado for a long time and they don't do their job, which, surprisingly is to MOVE STUFF. But it's all here, based on what he can tell from boxes and boxes and his couch and his desk. And as an added bonus, there is a brown sleek leather chair that he has never seen before. So, free leather chair. The one good thing. Well, the leg on the chair is broken.
This morning I commuted. To work. Weird. Last night I picked out my business professional clothes, hung them from the footboard of my bed, and went to sleep. This morning I showered and did my hair while wearing only my black bra and my gray skirt, like I assume sexy business wives do. Then I walked out the door with my briefcase. Then I listened to morning radio. Actually, the KOOL108 deejays are funny. They remind me of Lance because they talk about Transformers. I mean, they fight about Transformers. Lance would totally do that.
Thomson, as I truly found out today, is fucking huge, and in its enormity (is that a word? enormousness?) the complex reminded me too much of working at the Nike shoe factory. Much like Nike was the hub of St. Charles, MO (the suburb of St. Louis), Thomson is much like the hub of Eagan (the suburb of the Twin Cities). To make the nerves worse about this situation (mind you, I have nerves because working 3rd shift from 5pm to 5am at the Nike shoe factory was the worst month and a half of my life), the staffing agency uses the same company that Nike did. I work, somewhat, through Adecco. It says this on my badge. Luckilly, my paystubs will not say as such, but the point is that I have a badge, just like I did at Nike, and the badge says "Adecco" and I get this nervous pang in my stomach that I'll be eating cheese cubes for lunch at one in the morning and calling my dad crying while he's praying the rosary on his way to work and I'm just getting off work to go sleep the long day away.
The plus side, of course, of Thomson is that I get to dress nice and I don't smell like fucking burnt plastic all day. I also don't want to vomit from the smell, people don't say warsh in Minnesota, and there are more people who work here--almost 6000 on this one campus. More people than live in Albertville drive to work here everyday. It's hard not to feel like a spec of dust. The similarities are odd, though, between Nike and Thomson. How people file into the building with their badges, how they carry their bag lunches, how they have 3rd shift.
I trained, at first, with two other people today. They are also contract writers. One of them was an older woman who wore red polyester pants and brought special white sneakers to change in to when we walked around the giant building. As we walked, she also sweat quite a bit from the back of her neck, where the gray hairline meets the folds of skin. She was formerly an attorney, and not a writer, so she brings an interesting perspective to the group. And I will take advantage of her when I have random questions about the law or lawyers or what "mediation" means. The other trainee was a guy about my age. Of course, he was as gay as the day is long, but he dressed nice and presented great poise at the meeting and although he also has no education as a writer (just experience) he looks like he'll know what he's doing in a couple of weeks. At first I thought he had the same glasses I did, and I noticed this because I was trying to think of something to talk to him about , but then I noticed they were a bit different and that his had tape on the side where they'd obviously been broken. I did not decide if the tape on the glasses was charming or not, but he wore them on the tip of his nose in a nerdy way, which was. We also checked out some of the same men. And by "men," I mean one man. Because of the thousands there, only one was attractive. And I don't think he works in our section of the building.
The highlight of the day--where there are a number of highlights. In true Thomson fashion, here's a list:
1. kick-ass salad bar in one of the cafeterias (there are 2, and there is also a Caribou, which is apparently the highest grossing Caribou location anywhere even though Thomson offers free coffee (and milk! and tea!) every day) and also the other general kick-ass food in case I decide I don't want to bring a lunch. Think: exact opposite of what the CSU had to offer because it's reasonably priced and delicious. Fucking CSU;
2. Lunch with both Kristin & Matt, wherein I listened to hilarious conversation about the formerly (and currently) nicknamed employees, such as Benicio del Ugly (I mean, Benicio del Turo is by no means attractive, Kristin said, but this guy still manages to be an ugly version of him) and a man she calls Auschwitz and--what was it, Captain Dandruff?--and that crazy-ass lady who hangs Spongebob Squarepants paraphernelia and who I don't even know but suggested I start a Spongebob contest with (even though I don't really care for that cartoon...anymore...) just to piss off. This sounds silly, but I promise you, it is all so very exciting. I've even already nicknamed someone myself. It's after my former MSU mentor. Actually, now that I think about it, keeping all of the nicknames straight may be more difficult than remembering all of this website lingo I need to recall when it comes time to really do my job...;
3. Training with Matt in my group for 6 days! So wonderful. He's training for his fulltime gig and it's the same thing I'm going to be doing, so we get to learn all of these wonderful things together, and since he has experience I get to ask him questions and won't be thought of as retarded. Well, Matt would never say so. Unless he and Kristin give me some nickname like "tard," which would be fine because it would just remind me of good ol' Mankato days
4. Something apparently called "ice cream time" which today consisted of being dropped off at a "meeting" with the computer guy and other employees gathered around a table. We were dropped off for "ice cream time" late, and so Gary (the newly nicknamed) demanded that I go eat some ice cream. He not only insisted, he practically dragged me into the cafeteria, led me to the ice cream machine. And then, when I was about to walk away, I was scolded for not putting toppings on my chocolate/vanilla combo. Then, he paid for it. This, I can handle.
5. At the "ice cream time" "meeting" I told people I knew Kristin and they said she got you to work here? And you still wanted to come?! And it was so great that she is known for that--that her personality shines at work. Seriously, that's awesome. I'm jealous. It's a good thing!;
6. MY CUBICLE IS RIGHT NEXT TO MATT'S. I know! What kind of kick-fucking-ass stroke of fate is it that at this real job I can write "Imagine Jo-Jo naked holding her "cat" in the exact appropriate place right now" on a post-it and then toss it over the gray faux-wall that separates us. Lovely.
I cannot stress how lucky I feel about all of this. To have this job, to have people I enjoy around me in so many aspects, but especially at work. I'm just lucky. How did this even happen? To me? I am the most grateful person in the world. I am grateful. When I am stressed out at work (which looks like it may happen, this job seems very high-pressure based on what I've heard/seen) I will think" grateful. Grateful.
Today Matt and I found a typo on a brief. It read "their old website was aweful." Interesting. As in, their website was full-of-awe? Liz, Chad. You love that, right? Stinkin' nerds.
So, to sum. My cubicle is next to Matt's. I'm planning on reserving Kristin a tiny little space in which to sit when she comes to visit us. Although I am ever-so-grateful for this job, I am actually a little nervous. I learned more terms today than I have in a long time. I have been micro-schooled in Marketing 101 and Law 101, which in general are those subjects that you feel like you know a lot about without education, but you actually really don't. (As in, I don't need to take a marketing class. That shit's pretty straightforward. I mean. Target audience. Give people what they want. Duh.) Some of it's like that, but also some of it made me go, Oh yeah. Yeah! That totally makes sense. I still have a lot to learn about Law, though. Mostly so I know what types of questions to ask when I talk with clients. And to make this more clear, my job here is to write websites for Law firms. I found out what they want, and then I give them what they want. Why is this exciting? My position is copywriter. I'm a writer. As a whole, as a group, the people around me say things like we as writers. And I mean. That's what I'm trained to do. I'm trained to do something. (Speaking of, it feels weird to be here right out of school, and I feel very young, which in turn, I fear, makes me lack just a little bit of confidence. I have experience, but it all comes in strings of knowledge that I pull from my other jobs--sales and marketing from Pier 1, writing basics and learning to ask the right questions and learning to collaborate with others and learning how to take authority from teaching (and also from forensics). It's interesting what you take with you when you leave a place and start somewhere new...but I feel that if I told anyone I was 24 they'd kick me in the crotch.)
*
TEST RUN #1: I do want to record that I went on my first test run yesterday, meaning I tried to find where in St. Louis Park I'd spend 40 minutes of my day listening to my ipod while sweating. I actually found some trails while trying to find Cedar Lake (which I really wanted to find but never actually found--I tried to literally sniff it out, because I figured that sniffing out unseen lakes was a natural talent that Minnesotans had--turns out, no). Anyway, the trails were amazing. From them, I could see the Minneapolis skyline in all of it's hazy glory. The trails went through the woods, which just smelled green and fresh, and sometimes they went by rich people's houses which, since they could afford it, had planted flowers that smelled green and fresh and flower-y. I took my stopwatch with me to figure out where it'd be best to turn around (20 minutes to there (wherever it was) and 20 minutes back) but I got so wrapped up in trying to figure out where the trails went that I kept going (running, then walking) for an hour and a half. I wish I was one of those people who could just run 10 miles. But I really didn't find much on the trails though my random exploration. Other than a lot of train tracks (some that I climbed up to that went over a bridge, and it was a very Stand by Me moment) and a trail that was so covered in little black caterpillars that I actually had to run in weaves around them. They were all crossing. So many had already been squished by running shoes and bike tires. Such an interesting spectacle. Such a metaphor.
Anyway, who knows how good I'll be at keeping up the running gig. I'm nervous, really. Really. It's so tough to want to go after work, I waited 4 or 5 days to even break out the running shoes just yesterday, and I still haven't officially found a path. Luckily, the parking lots at Thomson are so huge, I have to walk 7 miles just to get to the building. And I'll keep taking the stairs and hope for the best. And, because I am dedicated and afraid of getting fat, I'll keep running, so help me.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Some homos are anti-girl. Or just a little bit slow.
There are a lot of odd things about not living in a college town anymore. There are actually a lot of odd things about this area. I'm living in the middle of everything, as though I'm standing in the center of every single major MN highway, but I don't feel really close to anything. Other than Home Depot or Dairy Queen or, thankfully, Caribou, I can't just go anywhere. I can't just really walk there because there are too many big roads in the way.
I'm antsy and full of piss and vinegar because I haven't had the chance to find my running path yet. David and I have gone out to run (so many) errands at this place, but I still don't know where I am. I wonder how long it takes to figure out where one is, and then I wonder whether it will take longer than 3 months and if I should just stop trying.
Part of me still feels like I live in Mankato. Or, perhaps, even Winona. There is a spot in the back of my mind that tells me if I hop onto 169 and drive South, that all of my things will be at the Highland house, even though they are here. As though my belongings have been merely copied (and not cut) and pasted into this new place. But if I go to Highland, all that will be in my room is dust, the door/desk that has always been there, the entertainment stand I abandoned, and the holes in the wall from where my pictures and floating shelf used to be. (That shelf was the one that required screws that I didn't have, so I hung it with giant bent nails instead. It took about 2 hours.)
This weekend has not been what I wanted it to be, but it's odd to say what "I wanted it to be" is. I go from moments of extreme excitement, to depression, to steaming anger. The kind of anger that starts in the stomach and spreads, until it gets to your head and you say I hate this person. This is not who I am. Some of these emotions have to do with David, but I can't yet blame him entirely. We're living at the house with only my things right now--his movers told him last week that his things were in Colorado, and then he spent this week attempting contacting them, only to get ignored. He's staying in my bed, and I have allergies, and then can't sleep because I'm worried my sniffles will keep him awake. I have been half-asleep for three days straight.
Half of the house is empty, and half of it is full of boxes. Plus, we have no TV. I haven't realized how much I rely on TV until now, and I feel a bit disconnected from the world. I'd like to say that I'm one of those people who can survive without TV, but I'm not. I'm sure not.
In an attempt to bring a sense of normalcy here, I've been organizing and improving the hell out of my things. I'm taking on projects. Yesterday, David and I went to Ikea to buy house things you forget you need--kitchen utensils, garbage cans, curtain rods. We bought the curtain rods with the wire, which are "fun" and industrial looking. We then spent the night attempting to hang one in my room (as the sun is so bright in there in the morning, I swear I've become a sunbeam-fearing vampire) and then had to make 2 separate trips to Home Depot for parts. And then we realized we didn't have a wire cutter. And then we realized that the screw didn't support my curtains as much as it could, so they sagged in the middle and looked absolutely ridiculous; and then we decided that we were for sure taking those stupid metal curtain rods back to the store.
Yesterday I bought 3 giant wicker baskets in which to organize my movies on the built-in bookshelves here (as the movies, though alphabetized, looked tacky just sitting on the shelves) and then I bought 4 sqaures of corkboard to apholster, based on an art project that Christina and I watched on HGTV the other day. I took my old curtains and cut the fabric to fit over the corkboard, to make a homemade memo board. Who knew TV projects actually worked...
...and today I went to an outlet fabric store in Brooklyn Park and bought new suede for the ottoman. Unfortunately, they didn't have the green of my chair, so I went with a dark brown. The ottoman looks fine (although the shape of the fabric does not suit the shape of the ottoman well, so David and I had to, uh, compromise just a bit--at least it's all covered) but next to the green chair, the dark brown suede makes it like a tree. Funny how I hadn't thought of that at the store, but there you go.
*
I am the first female that the Good Doctor has ever lived with, so with a pinch of resentment and anger in my voice, I spent a large part of our shopping trip to Ikea yesterday explaining why it was necessary for women to have garbage cans in the bathroom. David said things like who cares? and Can't we hide the garbage in a cupboard somewhere? and Gross! and I don't want to look at that! (as though I'd leave bloody tampon applicators right on top of the Kleenexes he uses too much of; I'm actually a bit grossed out by them too, so I hide them like a squirrel and his nuts; I guess that's pretty gross). I replied with comments like you are so ignorant sometimes, why don't you think about this and we are not going to have female guests over and make them hunt for the garbage--do you know how awkward that would be? and you fucker, I am going to put tampons in your bed.
I guess we compromised by getting a garbage can with a lid.
I shouldn't start complaining about this yet--because I think David will be a wonderful roommate (at the most, he's very clean)--but it amazes me that a man who went to school for so long and who graduated at the top of his doctoral class thinks that a bathroom doesn't need a garbage can because it "doesn't look nice." On the same note, I have to wonder how someone with that education thinks it's not a problem to open a can of soda, take one sip of it, and then leave it to flatten and warm all night. Because shit like that--well, I swear it makes me irrate enough to (sorry, Liz) kill a puppy.
Anyway, I've been so stressed out this weekend that my jaw hurts from clenching it too much. I went to the dentist on Friday (p.s., do you think people who work in dentist's office get sick of hearing the song "Barely Breathing" 58 times a day?) and he said I might need a night mouth guard to protect my teeth while I sleep. Awesome. Just another item on the list of things to "help me get a boyfriend."
I can't wait to start work on Tuesday and become a real human being. Purpose is out there somewhere.
I'm antsy and full of piss and vinegar because I haven't had the chance to find my running path yet. David and I have gone out to run (so many) errands at this place, but I still don't know where I am. I wonder how long it takes to figure out where one is, and then I wonder whether it will take longer than 3 months and if I should just stop trying.
Part of me still feels like I live in Mankato. Or, perhaps, even Winona. There is a spot in the back of my mind that tells me if I hop onto 169 and drive South, that all of my things will be at the Highland house, even though they are here. As though my belongings have been merely copied (and not cut) and pasted into this new place. But if I go to Highland, all that will be in my room is dust, the door/desk that has always been there, the entertainment stand I abandoned, and the holes in the wall from where my pictures and floating shelf used to be. (That shelf was the one that required screws that I didn't have, so I hung it with giant bent nails instead. It took about 2 hours.)
This weekend has not been what I wanted it to be, but it's odd to say what "I wanted it to be" is. I go from moments of extreme excitement, to depression, to steaming anger. The kind of anger that starts in the stomach and spreads, until it gets to your head and you say I hate this person. This is not who I am. Some of these emotions have to do with David, but I can't yet blame him entirely. We're living at the house with only my things right now--his movers told him last week that his things were in Colorado, and then he spent this week attempting contacting them, only to get ignored. He's staying in my bed, and I have allergies, and then can't sleep because I'm worried my sniffles will keep him awake. I have been half-asleep for three days straight.
Half of the house is empty, and half of it is full of boxes. Plus, we have no TV. I haven't realized how much I rely on TV until now, and I feel a bit disconnected from the world. I'd like to say that I'm one of those people who can survive without TV, but I'm not. I'm sure not.
In an attempt to bring a sense of normalcy here, I've been organizing and improving the hell out of my things. I'm taking on projects. Yesterday, David and I went to Ikea to buy house things you forget you need--kitchen utensils, garbage cans, curtain rods. We bought the curtain rods with the wire, which are "fun" and industrial looking. We then spent the night attempting to hang one in my room (as the sun is so bright in there in the morning, I swear I've become a sunbeam-fearing vampire) and then had to make 2 separate trips to Home Depot for parts. And then we realized we didn't have a wire cutter. And then we realized that the screw didn't support my curtains as much as it could, so they sagged in the middle and looked absolutely ridiculous; and then we decided that we were for sure taking those stupid metal curtain rods back to the store.
Yesterday I bought 3 giant wicker baskets in which to organize my movies on the built-in bookshelves here (as the movies, though alphabetized, looked tacky just sitting on the shelves) and then I bought 4 sqaures of corkboard to apholster, based on an art project that Christina and I watched on HGTV the other day. I took my old curtains and cut the fabric to fit over the corkboard, to make a homemade memo board. Who knew TV projects actually worked...
...and today I went to an outlet fabric store in Brooklyn Park and bought new suede for the ottoman. Unfortunately, they didn't have the green of my chair, so I went with a dark brown. The ottoman looks fine (although the shape of the fabric does not suit the shape of the ottoman well, so David and I had to, uh, compromise just a bit--at least it's all covered) but next to the green chair, the dark brown suede makes it like a tree. Funny how I hadn't thought of that at the store, but there you go.
*
I am the first female that the Good Doctor has ever lived with, so with a pinch of resentment and anger in my voice, I spent a large part of our shopping trip to Ikea yesterday explaining why it was necessary for women to have garbage cans in the bathroom. David said things like who cares? and Can't we hide the garbage in a cupboard somewhere? and Gross! and I don't want to look at that! (as though I'd leave bloody tampon applicators right on top of the Kleenexes he uses too much of; I'm actually a bit grossed out by them too, so I hide them like a squirrel and his nuts; I guess that's pretty gross). I replied with comments like you are so ignorant sometimes, why don't you think about this and we are not going to have female guests over and make them hunt for the garbage--do you know how awkward that would be? and you fucker, I am going to put tampons in your bed.
I guess we compromised by getting a garbage can with a lid.
I shouldn't start complaining about this yet--because I think David will be a wonderful roommate (at the most, he's very clean)--but it amazes me that a man who went to school for so long and who graduated at the top of his doctoral class thinks that a bathroom doesn't need a garbage can because it "doesn't look nice." On the same note, I have to wonder how someone with that education thinks it's not a problem to open a can of soda, take one sip of it, and then leave it to flatten and warm all night. Because shit like that--well, I swear it makes me irrate enough to (sorry, Liz) kill a puppy.
Anyway, I've been so stressed out this weekend that my jaw hurts from clenching it too much. I went to the dentist on Friday (p.s., do you think people who work in dentist's office get sick of hearing the song "Barely Breathing" 58 times a day?) and he said I might need a night mouth guard to protect my teeth while I sleep. Awesome. Just another item on the list of things to "help me get a boyfriend."
I can't wait to start work on Tuesday and become a real human being. Purpose is out there somewhere.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Everyone please come over to my house. We are going to take a wonderful shower.
Well, I'm here. I am a Twin Citizen.
Yesterday my dad and my brother Travis came to Mankato, where most of my shit was either piled in the garage or sitting on our front lawn behind the garbage (and its 7 extra bags that didn't fit in the bin--so the garbage man decided he didn't have to take them...la-zy), and then we all put it into a giant white trailer. The trailer looked like it could've been carrying a single cow. Or a horse, maybe, that I was taking upstate to ride in a riding show. Instead the trailer was filled with mostly my books and the green chair (without the slipcover it is the most torn, disgusting piece of furniture I've ever seen) and my bed and my bookshelves and my records and my desk and my stuff.
Christina and I experienced a moment of team lez, wherein we carried the desk and my dresser down the dusty blue-carpeted steps. We should start a moving company. I'd hire Team-Lez Movers before I hired anyone else. Lesbians work hard. And they don't leave the toilet seat up. That can be our motto.
She and I appropriately shook hands goodbye. I patted Truman's furry head, and got through it by telling myself how soon I'd be back. I'll be back soon, I said. The Highland house is empty without all of my junk in it. Christina moved the couch to the middle of the room to fill space. We hadn't really dusted under there for a year, so you can imagine what it looked like. If you can't imagine: well. It looked fucking dusty.
I followed the trailer of my things up 169 for 79 miles to St. Louis Park and to this townhouse. We parked and then unloaded everything, which was entirely exhausting, as we had to walk up a long sidewalk to get to my door. These aren't typical townhomes. They are sort of buried and secluded. Lovely for privacy, shitty for moving when you're 50 yards from the road and carrying a 100 pound television. My dad is a fucking hero. I lost 60 pounds yesterday. I lost over half a TV.
The neighbors were also moving in next door. They had a big truck, and they had movers. The man had a blue-tooth, and the woman had a business suit. And they lived right by the road. So, my dad, Travis, and I walked by all of their moving men with their professional shirts and their ramp and their "where do you want this?" with our little dolly and our hands full of my boxes of books. It actually felt good, even though I was exhausted, to be moving my stuff on my own. It felt a little blue-collar.
Yeah. If I could hire movers, I would. I can't put my dad through this again. The poor guy will have a stroke. One of the moving men said to me: You have a lot of stuff. What a wonderful thing to say. Thanks for watching me move it all, I wanted to say. Instead I said, yup. And it's just me.
My dad and Travis left me with a house full of boxes around five. I unpacked until 8:30, having not really eaten, save a doughnut 12 hours ago. I wanted to fall over. I was disgusting. And then. I tried our shower. The shower. The glorious shower.
It has a massage head. I didn't know this before we rented the place--but it massages you as you shower. The water comes out in very strong streams and pulses at your head, at your aching muscles. And it sort of sounds like a motor boat! Rrr rrr rrr. So that's fun too.
If you're wondering if you should come and visit me, the answer is yes. Just for the shower. I promise you, it will be the best shower you've ever had. It is going to be so much easier to wake up for work, knowing I get to take that shower. Of course, I will still be late, as I will not be able to get out of the shower.
It is pretty much the exact opposite of Highland. I mean, I love the place for what it is, but when I told my dad that nobody had yet rented it for next year, he said good. That place should be condemned for a year until someone fixes it up. True as that is, I'll still always consider it some sort of home.
Because the green chair looks a bit odd in this new living room.
Yesterday my dad and my brother Travis came to Mankato, where most of my shit was either piled in the garage or sitting on our front lawn behind the garbage (and its 7 extra bags that didn't fit in the bin--so the garbage man decided he didn't have to take them...la-zy), and then we all put it into a giant white trailer. The trailer looked like it could've been carrying a single cow. Or a horse, maybe, that I was taking upstate to ride in a riding show. Instead the trailer was filled with mostly my books and the green chair (without the slipcover it is the most torn, disgusting piece of furniture I've ever seen) and my bed and my bookshelves and my records and my desk and my stuff.
Christina and I experienced a moment of team lez, wherein we carried the desk and my dresser down the dusty blue-carpeted steps. We should start a moving company. I'd hire Team-Lez Movers before I hired anyone else. Lesbians work hard. And they don't leave the toilet seat up. That can be our motto.
She and I appropriately shook hands goodbye. I patted Truman's furry head, and got through it by telling myself how soon I'd be back. I'll be back soon, I said. The Highland house is empty without all of my junk in it. Christina moved the couch to the middle of the room to fill space. We hadn't really dusted under there for a year, so you can imagine what it looked like. If you can't imagine: well. It looked fucking dusty.
I followed the trailer of my things up 169 for 79 miles to St. Louis Park and to this townhouse. We parked and then unloaded everything, which was entirely exhausting, as we had to walk up a long sidewalk to get to my door. These aren't typical townhomes. They are sort of buried and secluded. Lovely for privacy, shitty for moving when you're 50 yards from the road and carrying a 100 pound television. My dad is a fucking hero. I lost 60 pounds yesterday. I lost over half a TV.
The neighbors were also moving in next door. They had a big truck, and they had movers. The man had a blue-tooth, and the woman had a business suit. And they lived right by the road. So, my dad, Travis, and I walked by all of their moving men with their professional shirts and their ramp and their "where do you want this?" with our little dolly and our hands full of my boxes of books. It actually felt good, even though I was exhausted, to be moving my stuff on my own. It felt a little blue-collar.
Yeah. If I could hire movers, I would. I can't put my dad through this again. The poor guy will have a stroke. One of the moving men said to me: You have a lot of stuff. What a wonderful thing to say. Thanks for watching me move it all, I wanted to say. Instead I said, yup. And it's just me.
My dad and Travis left me with a house full of boxes around five. I unpacked until 8:30, having not really eaten, save a doughnut 12 hours ago. I wanted to fall over. I was disgusting. And then. I tried our shower. The shower. The glorious shower.
It has a massage head. I didn't know this before we rented the place--but it massages you as you shower. The water comes out in very strong streams and pulses at your head, at your aching muscles. And it sort of sounds like a motor boat! Rrr rrr rrr. So that's fun too.
If you're wondering if you should come and visit me, the answer is yes. Just for the shower. I promise you, it will be the best shower you've ever had. It is going to be so much easier to wake up for work, knowing I get to take that shower. Of course, I will still be late, as I will not be able to get out of the shower.
It is pretty much the exact opposite of Highland. I mean, I love the place for what it is, but when I told my dad that nobody had yet rented it for next year, he said good. That place should be condemned for a year until someone fixes it up. True as that is, I'll still always consider it some sort of home.
Because the green chair looks a bit odd in this new living room.
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