funny

 

NOTE TO SELF, v.1071

When you have the luxury of living a mile away from work, thus going home every day to make lunch, take a nap, browse the boob tube, etc., maybe it’s not such a good idea to start watching a show on Animal Planet that shows abandoned and malnourished and abused dogs, for you might return to work looking like a 16-year-old girl who just got stood up for her Junior Prom.

Deep Thoughts... Really Deep (with footnotes!)

So at work, I’m pretty much in our ERP¹ system 24/7.   Well, more like 7.5/5 but you know what I mean… Anyway, so the system’s command for “go back a screen” (much like hitting the “back” button in any web browser) is F3.

 

It’s true, I’ve become one of those people at work with the Jack-be-nimble fingers, that can navigate the system with my swift keystrokes and deft fingers.  You know when you were a little kid and you used to go to the bank with your mom, and you’d watch the tellers use a calculator or keyboard and they’d pound out the numbers and you’re just left thinking “Oh my gosh, how do they know where the numbers are so quickly?  Mom, can we get ice cream on the way home?”   Anyway, I’ve become that bank teller.  I am that person typing 200 words per minute at work.  At all times, I have my right hand on the number-portion of the keyboard, and my left hand hovered over the F3 button, always a tap away from going back.

 

Don’t you wish you could just F3 your life?  And I’m not talking Marty McFly² like go back in time, but more like just go back to the way things used to be, when going to the bank meant trips to the ice cream store on the way home, when your first instinct was to drive instead of fly because the road trip with your best friend was worth it even if meant it took six times as long than the time-efficient mode of flying.  I recently realized that I need to go back.  I need to F3³ my life.

 

(Say it with me: DEEP.)

 

¹ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enterprise_resource_planning

² http://imdb.com/title/tt0088763/ (swoon re: Marty)

³ http://www.flickr.com/photos/lindsay_smith/1061682802/

 

From McSweeney's.net

Mundane Dreams.

BY JESSY RANDALL AND DANIEL M. SHAPIRO

I am in math class. I have done my homework.

I am at work, wearing my clothes.

I registered for a college class and today is the final exam. I am well prepared.

No one is chasing me.

I'm standing perfectly still. I don't feel like I'm falling.

A guy comes up to me in an alley, smiles and says hello, and keeps walking.

I'm underwater for a long, long time. Then I surface, take a deep breath, and go underwater again.

I drive my car really fast and get to Cleveland that much sooner.

 

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/4JessyRandallandDanielM.Shapiro.html

 

"Starfish" by Eleanor Lerman

"Starfish" by Eleanor Lerman, from Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds. © Sarabande Books, 2005. (Not sure if I’m allowed to post this on a blog, ‘reprinted with permission’ and sent to me via email from The Writer’s Almanac.)

Starfish

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.
So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.

 

Women Are Tricky

I don’t get us.  We are our own worst enemies.  Why is it that judge each other, sabotage each other, are curt with each other, yet excuse men for much, much more?   This is not a man-rant, so I won’t further propogate that argument, but seriously, women can be so ruthless to other women, it’s alarming and makes my stomach flip-flop a little.

 

Whether it’s judging someone because of their job position (ranking, bosses [thank God I love my female boss]) or because she’s your ex’s new girlfriend or because she has something that you want (a child, a fancy car, a house, peace-of-mind, good luck, good fortune, drive & determination, or any combination of the sorts), we are definitely our own worst critics, our biggest unfriendly rival, and our fiercest judges.

 

Now, I’m not interested in having heart-to-hearts Oprah-style while eating at Panera and maybe getting teary eyed over a scone (my idea of purgatory), but let’s cut each other some slack and not keep living our stereotypes of being bitchy and judgemental.

 

</rant>

 

Vending Machine Purchases Gone Bad

So I skip breakfast this morning, sacrificing my bowl of Grape Nuts and glass of V8 for 10 minutes on the internet. DAMMIT.  Seeing as how my level of cheapness went from $12 bottle of Aveda shampoo to $0.99 bottle of Sassoon… let’s just say I was a little uneasy going to the vending machine.

 

I blame my year-old career in Purchasing, but I’m as cheap as it gets now.

 

::: Thinking to myself :::  “Now why would I buy a 20 oz. pop from the vending machine for $1.10 when I can buy, like, 6 cans of pop from the store for the same price?!”  Of course, I do realize this is the ultimate in cheapness, it’s like, JUST PAY THE DAMN DOLLAR AND GET A SODA FOR GOD’S SAKE!   It’s not as if I am totally cheap – I will still drop pretty pennies on clothes, vacations, shoes, purses, books, music, etc.  It’s just this random, doesn’t-make-any-sense cheapness about commodities that I’ve recently developed.

 

Anyway, so at this point, I’ve mentally committed to my Vending Machine Purchase. I was having lunch with a supplier today anyway, so what’s a little bit of coin in the machine going to do, I “saved” money by not going out to lunch.

 

So, first mistake – in my attempt to get a Diet Coke, I somehow end up with Coke Zero VANILLA.  You’ve got to be kidding me, people.  WHO INVENTED THIS, and WHERE DO THEY LIVE?!  I’m saying this in a bad way, as Coke Zero Vanilla is a bad, bad idea. Like, Barry Manilow plastic surgery bad.  ::: Shudder :::  (See: Perez Hilton)

 

You’d think my bad luck ended there. You are, and always will be, wrong.

 

Next stop: food machine.  So much to choose from… who knew they had Chocolate Payday?!  And why didn’t you tell me sooner?  And Lorna Doone.  Excuse me for sounding like an old lady, but DAAAAYUM those are good.   (Open Note to Lorna Doone people:  A little redo of your packaging would go a lonnnng way.)

 

So, foregoing the sugary sweet treats that looked so tempting, but not wanting to negate my hour of cardio yesterday, I opt for a healthier treat.  Like maybe some baked Cheetos.  Or Salsa Sun Ships.  Or Caribou Granola Bar!  OH THE CHOICES!!

 

So, I decide to go for the baked Cheetos.  Can’t go wrong there. 

 

Well, maybe you can go wrong, let’s say, by pushing B2 instead of B4.  

 

Now, not only do I have to endure Coke Zero Vanilla, I also have the joy of eating, nay, wasting UNSALTED TRAIL MIX.  Worst $1.85 I ever spent!

 

P.S. Quite possibly, one of the worst blogs ever posted, yes I’m well aware, but also out of the blogging-loop.

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Reason # 4 Why I Love Living 5 Minutes Away From Work

I can go home at lunchtime, fix myself a grilled hammin’ cheese, and watch E! explain the details of Paris Hilton’s house arrest.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2007/5/23passet.html

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2007/5/23passet.html

 

Go.

 

Now.

Vent-y

So I sign up for Yoga, right?   Thinking it will be a way for me to become all Zen-like and holy and one with God and nature and self and quite possibly Budda as well.  You know, body-mind connection crap.   So nerdy little Lindsay drives herself to Target (where else?!) and buys herself a yoga mat, dons herself up in inconspicuous yoga clothes (can’t be a typical yoga yuppie yet, you know) and heads off to the gym.

 

First thing I hear when I walk in the door:   “We don’t wear shoes in here.”   Um, okay.  Do I get to be a part of this “we”?   Are you exclusive already?   Am I out of the group before I was even in it?    I’m feeling a little bit like Bridget Jones when she shows up to the Tarts & Vicars party only to realize… the Tarts & Vicars party was cancelled and it’s now a posh luncheon… Except I’m not wearing a corset and stockings to everyone elses’ Sunday best, it’s more like tennies to barefoot.    So, okay, I get over it and take my shoes off.

 

Next, I get dirty looks and am told “oh, put that yoga mat away, use our sticky mats here” and inside I curse myself for having ripped off the tag just seconds before entering, in fear that I look like a novice who just picked up her first yoga mat.  Except, I AM a novice who just picked up her first yoga mat, it turns out, unnecessarily.    I chalk the $15 up to a lesson learned in not ripping tags off of something until you’re actually USING it and move on.

 

So, we finally start the class.  Tiny Hipster Buddhist Lady (THBL) goes into yoga poses and we follow. Although, lying on your back with you feet up the wall, it’s kinda hard to turn and see what she’s doing next.    I digress.   She says she’s moving on to another pose… but here comes the kicker:    “Are any of you ladies menstruating right now?”    Awhaaaa?  Exsqueeze me?  First of all, there are men-folk in the room… we ladies must never mention the M. as a first-person occurance with men in the room.   Sure, I’ll be the first to talk about “It’s sucks for women cuz we have our periods and cramps and we push BABIES out of our hoo-ha’s and you dudes? What? You get kicked in the junk and it hurts? You want me to feel bad for you?”   but always in the second or third person… you know “we women…”  or “women in general”  but NEVER, no never, the first person.   Am I seriously expected to raise my hand profess to be riding the crimson wave??  (Shameless Clueless quote) Shaaaaa right.

 

Screw this mind-body crap.  Let’s get to the humming and pointing the thumb to the finger and closing the eyes and can we not talk about our periods?  

 

So yoga! LOVES IT!  (Cue: Quick fake smile and a roll of the eyes)