The Kid Is So Tired He Draws An Angry Face Instead of Writing A Proper Hate Letter

He’s going to be sorely disappointed when he gets to high school and learns you can’t compose a term paper with emojis.

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The Kid Is So Tired He Draws An Angry Face Instead of Writing A Proper Hate Letter

I’m Having Shrimp Fried Rice for Easter Dinner in Solidarity of the Best Thing on Twitter Last Week

Happy Easter! We’re heathens, so we don’t celebrate or even get dressed up. I spent the day reading The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver and sending inappropriate Easter memes to my sister and a former coworker.

On Friday, like most of the Twitter-verse, I read with great interest a short thread of tweets concerning someone in the office throwing out a colleague’s lunch of shrimp fried rice.

Please, read the tweets referenced in the story if you can. As someone who’s had her (properly labeled, non-smelly, work-fridge-appropriate) lunch summarily thrown out on more than one occasion, I was particularly transfixed with the story. I don’t know what was better: the wronged employee was allowed to view surveillance footage; his eventual decision not to confront the thief; the narrator going out and buying shrimp fried rice for EVERYONE, including the thief, just so he could see her reaction (which was: I LOVE SHRIMP FRIED RICE!).

I had my husband, who works in an office but in a completely different environment, and he was mystified that I was so worked up about it. “I like that you like it,” he lamely offered me with a weak smile, and I immediately took him off my list of people to whom I send inappropriate Easter memes.

Work is unique in that you’re thrown together with random people not necessarily of your choosing, yet you have the same common goal. When I was working, I spent more time with coworkers than with my husband. At my first job, my coworkers doubled as my friends.

At the same time, work is dreary and monotonous and I don’t care if people say “if you do what you love it’s not work” or some other facile hokey claptrap. There’s hardly any vacation. Health insurance is expensive. If you don’t have good chemistry then work can get passive-aggressive really quickly.

So the shrimp fried rice story simultaneously amplifies and distracts from the minor indignities one ensures at work. That’s what makes it great.

I’m Having Shrimp Fried Rice for Easter Dinner in Solidarity of the Best Thing on Twitter Last Week

Happy International Women’s Day!

I’m not an expert in many things, but I’ve spent more than 41 years being female.

I tend to think about nearly every issue or event in terms of being a woman, but I’ve compiled five tips below that are easy, simple actions you can do (or not do) every day to make the world a little easier for a woman in your life. Human rights are not like pie; there’s not a finite amount of them. We move forward and become a better society as a whole when everyone is treated fairly.

  1. When disagreeing with a woman, don’t (a) interrupt her or (b) immediately call her a name that denigrates an entire gender (i.e., bitch, c*nt, etc.) or (c) dismiss her as mentally imbalanced. I assure you, multiple people disagree with me every day, including my husband, children, relatives, neighbors and other people in the world. On the whole, they disagree with what I’m saying, not me personally.
  2. Refrain from catcalling or wolf-whistling. Despite your intent, it’s not complimentary and reduces us to sexual beings. I read online that a good rule of thumb is never shout at a woman what you wouldn’t want a man shouting at you in prison. (Among other times, I’ve been catcalled at a train station, during the day, in 30-degree weather, wearing three layers of clothes.)
  3. Don’t tell a woman what she wants, or what she’s thinking, unless you’re repeating what she just told you to make sure you’re on the same page. You’re not a mind reader.
  4. When a woman tells you to stop touching her or you’re in her space, please step back. Women’s bodies are not inclusive. And again, see number 3.
  5. Don’t tell women to smile, unless you’re a photographer and you’re suggesting she say cheese.
Happy International Women’s Day!

What Occupies My Head

I often tell people I don’t judge others–especially moms and women–because I literally don’t have the head space to do it.

Here’s what I think about instead:

  • Does Queen Elizabeth have any friends? My grandmother has a pinochle club, goes swimming and lunches with her friends. Do you think Betty plays cards, meets up with anyone besides Prince Philip or sends emails to her family about how Jesus loves them, here’s a balloon?
  • Why don’t more batters bunt when the defense uses the shift? I think it happened once during the World Series and Joe Buck harrumphed, “You can only do that one time and get away with it.” Why? The third baseman is hanging out with the second baseman and if you bunt it hard enough, the pitcher and catcher can’t field it cleanly. I don’t care how bunting affects slugging percentage and other metrics. It’s your job as a hitter to (1) get on base, (2) advance the runner and/or (3) bring the runner home. If you can bunt to make this happen, then bunt.
  • All I want on my social media platforms is to see posts in chronological order in my timeline. The algorithm that can accommodate this request cannot possibly be as complicated as the mess I see now.
  • How many drafts does a script go through–before and during production–until it’s finalized? Either television episode or movie. How closely does the finished product resemble the original version?
  • As I get older, I increasingly relate to Bert from Sesame Street and Squidward from SpongeBob Square Pants. (This might be its own separate post in the future.) I mean, they both just want to relax and have a little dignity but constantly have to put up with an annoying roommate (Bert) or an annoying coworker/neighbor (Squidward).
  • Yesterday my (newish) trainer just asked his clients to post, in gif format only, how they feel about burpees. I waited until after our session and after other people posted because I was afraid he was going to use the submissions to determine how many burpees we would have to do. Some people used positive gifs and now I’m wondering how to politely request my trainer never to put me in a group during a session with those people, please and thank you.
  • How are people not sick of Ryan Seacrest? I don’t even watch or listen to anything he does (American Idol, Live With Kelly and Ryan, New Year’s Eve, E! red carpet, Top 40 countdown) and I’m over him, even before the harassment allegations. I mean, is he so bland and inoffensive that networks think there’s no alternatives?
  • If you could have a dinner party with anyone you wanted, alive or dead, who would you invite?
  • I really would like to meet famous people and somehow pull off being witty and charming that they’d want to be MY friend, but then I remember I have regular, everyday friends who are pretty great in and of themselves and still want to hang out with me because I’m also awkward and uncomfortable.
What Occupies My Head

An Apple A Day

I have no strong feelings about technology. I’m a basic white suburban lady who plays Words With Friends and attempts to be crunchy on Pinterest. I have an iPhone 6S but prefer to use Google myself than ask Siri. (She’s wrong way too often for my liking.) I like Apple products in general because they’re incredibly intuitive in their design and easy to use, but I have no need for the Apple Watch or the homepod or anything.

I’ve long suspected that with each new software upgrade Apple is nudging customers to buy the latest phone, and late last year, I found out it was true. The company was offering a discounted battery replacement program, so I read this article and like a good do-bee, I followed the directions:

1. Download the Apple Support app.

2. Schedule a phone call with Apple corporate.

3. Talk with a lovely woman in Houston who ordered the battery for me to be shipped to my local Apple store.

4. Wait for the store to call me to confirm the part was in and set up an appointment. (For me, it was six weeks. I was uncharacteristically patient about it because I don’t use my phone for work. I can see why people would be frustrated with such a long wait.)

5. Get battery replaced.

My appointment was yesterday and I should preface this by saying I don’t go to the Apple store that much; I’ve been there once in maybe six years. But I got a headache from being in the store for maybe 10 minutes total. It was a combination of being overstimulated–bright lighting; many, many products available to test and play; numerous customers and employees despite it being early afternoon on a weekday–and feeling as though Apple could be a bit of a cult.

Lots of stores have greeters. But the first person to come up to me in the store had a device in her hand and I felt she was about to read my theta signals. I was there 10 minutes early for my appointment and she said (in a very friendly manner) she couldn’t “sit” me until 5 minutes before. I left the store, wandered into a Bath and Body Works, and tried to figure out if I could make a foaming soap all by myself.

I returned, got checked in (my theta readings must have been normal), and was told to sit on a specific stool at a particular table. Another employee swooped in with another device and after I gave him my phone, he told me to check in with “his guys or his gal.”

There were roughly 20 Apple employees in the store at the time. They were all wearing Apple long-sleeved tees. He pointed them out but when I returned an hour later (only three minutes early, #lessonlearned) none of them were there. I went to the original Theta Lady and my phone wasn’t showing up yet as ready for pickup. Theta was concerned and radioed to the back of the shop and informed me my phone was in “post” phase and would be out shortly.

I hung out and did some people-watching (the majority of the male employees had untamed beards and I spent some time thinking about that: were they Apple playoff beards?) and another employee asked me if I was OK, then Theta encouraged me to play with the products on display. (To give Theta credit, she said she’d check periodically if my phone was ready and even though she examined the levels of at least three other people while I was waiting she told me immediately when it was done. Theta DID NOT MESS AROUND.) Yet another employee with a bushy beard came out with my phone, and my headache and I checked out. (I thanked Theta as I was leaving.)

I had an overall good experience, and I really can’t put my finger on what makes me so uneasy about the whole visit. Everyone was kind, knowledgeable, pleasant. No one in the store, even customers, were upset or unhappy, especially in regard to the whole battery fiasco. Maybe it was because everyone–customers and employees alike–seemed to be interacting more with technology than with each other. I know that’s the whole point of visiting an Apple store, but it still made me feel a little empty nonetheless.

 

 

 

 

 

An Apple A Day

This Is the Craziest Article I’ve Read All Week

I lived in a dorm at college and I went through three different roommates in three years. By the time my senior year came around, I didn’t have a roommate assigned to me and I didn’t go out of my way to let Student Life know there was an opening. I ended up being by myself for my last two semesters. (It was glorious.)

I got along with my roommates freshman and junior years, but it was the sophomore roommate–the one I chose myself–who was not a good match. She was messy; I was neat. Her boyfriend hated me. My boyfriend hated her. My boyfriend hated her boyfriend, who hated him in return. She would put a scrunchie on the door when she and her boyfriend were fooling around and she would leave it on the door after he left. Once I locked her out of the room while she was in the shower. She would run out of space to put her things and end up putting them on my desk. It was awful.

(I do give her a lot of credit: she worked a great deal to repair our friendship after our year of living together. She ended up marrying her boyfriend and invited me to her wedding. I didn’t go; it was after graduation and I had to return home to hunt for a job. My boyfriend broke up with me over the phone about five days before we graduated. She was supportive and made me go out to bars with her to get me back in the saddle. She eventually introduced me to the guy I would end up marrying and even though she lived in Texas at the time and had two small children at home, she flew up alone to our wedding. She sent us Christmas cards–complete with letters–every single year. She had run cross-country in high school and when I told her I was thinking of taking up running she immediately invited me to run a half-marathon with her. She died very suddenly from an embolism a few years ago. She had four children and I wish I hadn’t been so mean to her sophomore year, but mostly because of her we ended up being good friends.)

Anyway, I thought two 19-year-old women were experts in passive-aggressive behavior but we had NOTHING on this guy. (Worst Roommate Ever is NOT an exaggeration, it’s the most apt headline ever.)

Jamison Bachman, who apparently went to law school solely to become an expert on arcane tenancy issues, would move into someone’s apartment and eventually become a legally sanctioned squatter. Among other things, he would:

  • Take his roommates’ things, put them in his room and refuse to give them access or return their belongings
  • Clog up toilets by throwing kitty litter and argue that toilets are for disposing shit, so it’s OK
  • Refuse to pay rent because he was inconvenienced and offended when his roommates left dirty dishes in the sink
  • Dropping off his roommates’ pets at kill shelters.

Every time he got taken to court he would eventually lose but he seemed to thrive on the drama and tension that arose when people who don’t get along live within close proximity.

Read and then, if you’re like me, think back to your worst roommate experience and comfort yourself by telling yourself that you weren’t as bad as Bachman.

This Is the Craziest Article I’ve Read All Week

An Open Letter to the Ladies of My Son’s Fourth Grade Class

Gals,

Your Valentines explicitly mention an Anna and Elsa tattoo that you will quickly discover is nonexistent. Bear with me while I explain.

What started out as a simple combination of procrastination (and a sincere but ultimately disproven belief we had leftover Valentines in the junk drawer) on my part and overall disinterest on Olly’s part (he only cared about making a Valentines box that looked like a spaceship) ballooned into a full-grown crisis when Olly let me know about the dearth of tattoos last night.

Olly decided to tape (on-brand) Frozen pencils on the Valentines. He completed all the cards himself. Please feel free to use the pencils to draft blog posts complaining about the oversight. If it consoles you, I bought my husband three loaves of gluten-free bread and a card for Valentine’s Day. A high-five is under consideration.

Enjoy the upcoming President’s Day weekend that was cut short because the school district doesn’t build snow days into the calendar and now has to make up time.

All my best,

Online Offal

An Open Letter to the Ladies of My Son’s Fourth Grade Class