It's strange that our society greets each other by shaking hands. Our hands are probably the third dirtiest part our bodies, and yet we subject strangers to our germs. If you decline to shake hands, you've effectively destroyed any possibility of friendship/commaraderie with that person.
The military salutes their superiors. Their peers, who knows. Maybe they fist bump, if anything.
I wonder if the Army has lesser rates of communicable diseases among their ranks?
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
A diary in the Documents folder.
I hit "save as" on the freelance article I was working on. My documents list popped up, seeking verification that the "save as" location was indeed what I wanted.
Instead of confirming and then going on my merry digital way, something caught my eye.
"Leadershipphilosophypaper-KEEP!!!"
I smiled to myself. That was the first paper I wrote for my Masters in Communication and Leadership. It detailed the philosophies I had developed thus far in my educational and professional career (having consisted of a 2-year stint in the drive-through window at Taco Bell). After submitting the assignment for a grade, we were told to keep it because we would be referring back to it in our final theses.
I don't keep things well. I think to myself, "When on Earth will I ever need this again?" and then throw away my passport.
Further down the Desktop Documents list was 9, 10, 11 applications for jobs I never got called for.
There's the 3 novels that are in various stages of completion, all having been rejected by many, many agents.
My housesitter instructions are buried in the list. I've taken to only traveling when my father isn't. He is a great housesitter and doesn't take typed instructions.
They say that social media has become our new diaries, chronicalling our every move online. I think it's more stalkerish, carefully watching, watching, documenting things that are more important to target marketing rather than our life experiences.
If it's conceded that the diary is extinct, I think the word processing "documents" folder is a good substitution. It's a repository that is actually controlled by the user and not a social media interface. Our documents are survivors of the Recycle Bin, evidence of our lives that we not only write down but save time and time again, updating, revamping, and making just a little bit better for the next time we're here.
Instead of confirming and then going on my merry digital way, something caught my eye.
"Leadershipphilosophypaper-KEEP!!!"
I smiled to myself. That was the first paper I wrote for my Masters in Communication and Leadership. It detailed the philosophies I had developed thus far in my educational and professional career (having consisted of a 2-year stint in the drive-through window at Taco Bell). After submitting the assignment for a grade, we were told to keep it because we would be referring back to it in our final theses.
I don't keep things well. I think to myself, "When on Earth will I ever need this again?" and then throw away my passport.
Further down the Desktop Documents list was 9, 10, 11 applications for jobs I never got called for.
There's the 3 novels that are in various stages of completion, all having been rejected by many, many agents.
My housesitter instructions are buried in the list. I've taken to only traveling when my father isn't. He is a great housesitter and doesn't take typed instructions.
They say that social media has become our new diaries, chronicalling our every move online. I think it's more stalkerish, carefully watching, watching, documenting things that are more important to target marketing rather than our life experiences.
If it's conceded that the diary is extinct, I think the word processing "documents" folder is a good substitution. It's a repository that is actually controlled by the user and not a social media interface. Our documents are survivors of the Recycle Bin, evidence of our lives that we not only write down but save time and time again, updating, revamping, and making just a little bit better for the next time we're here.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Bite-sized Blackjack.
Last weekend I volunteered to help out at the nearby elementary school's Winter Carnival, having forgotten just how loud a gym full of 6-year-olds can be.
On approaching the volunteer check-in desk, I was greeted with, "Oh! You must be Susan's friend! So good of you to volunteer!"
"No one volunteers with Susan," I answered. "She tells them when and where to be."
The other lady laughed, thinking I was kidding. "We have you at the '21' table," she said. "It's right inside this gym here."
Yes, elementary schools have more than one gym now. Remember to vote "Yes" on your next school building levy.
"You must be my replacement," said a harried-looking woman.
I set my jacket and purse down on the miniature cafeteria table. "That's right," I said. "So, what do I do?"
"It's basically Blackjack," she answered, "but we don't call it Blackjack. That would be condoning gambling."
I raised my eyebrows. "Of course."
"The point of this table is really just an addition game. Oh, can you be sure to return the cards to my room when you're done? Thanks!" She bolted for the door before I could ask what room was hers. Or who she was.
I scruched myself onto the table seat and took stock. Surrounding me were fake fishing booths, plastic bowling, Matchbox car racing, and hopscotch. Kids were lined up to play the other games, none of which involved math.
After a few minutes, I was starting to feel like a weirdo, fiddling with a deck of playing cards larger than most of the kids' heads.
"Hey, YOU!" I hollered at a kid across the room.
He looked up from his slice of pizza.
"Yeah, you. Come over here." (Realization dawns on me that this is how many jail sentences start.)
The kid ambled over.
"You want to play '21.'"
He shook his head.
"Sure you do. Sit down."
Grudgingly, he sat.
"Do you know how to play?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. "It's just Blackjack."
Why does a 7-year-old know this?
I dealt him two cards, one face down, one face up. "Okay," I said. "Are your cards greater than 21 or less than 21?"
He looked at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet.
"What?" I asked.
"Dealer needs to play a hand, too."
On approaching the volunteer check-in desk, I was greeted with, "Oh! You must be Susan's friend! So good of you to volunteer!"
"No one volunteers with Susan," I answered. "She tells them when and where to be."
The other lady laughed, thinking I was kidding. "We have you at the '21' table," she said. "It's right inside this gym here."
Yes, elementary schools have more than one gym now. Remember to vote "Yes" on your next school building levy.
"You must be my replacement," said a harried-looking woman.
I set my jacket and purse down on the miniature cafeteria table. "That's right," I said. "So, what do I do?"
"It's basically Blackjack," she answered, "but we don't call it Blackjack. That would be condoning gambling."
I raised my eyebrows. "Of course."
"The point of this table is really just an addition game. Oh, can you be sure to return the cards to my room when you're done? Thanks!" She bolted for the door before I could ask what room was hers. Or who she was.
I scruched myself onto the table seat and took stock. Surrounding me were fake fishing booths, plastic bowling, Matchbox car racing, and hopscotch. Kids were lined up to play the other games, none of which involved math.
After a few minutes, I was starting to feel like a weirdo, fiddling with a deck of playing cards larger than most of the kids' heads.
"Hey, YOU!" I hollered at a kid across the room.
He looked up from his slice of pizza.
"Yeah, you. Come over here." (Realization dawns on me that this is how many jail sentences start.)
The kid ambled over.
"You want to play '21.'"
He shook his head.
"Sure you do. Sit down."
Grudgingly, he sat.
"Do you know how to play?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. "It's just Blackjack."
Why does a 7-year-old know this?
I dealt him two cards, one face down, one face up. "Okay," I said. "Are your cards greater than 21 or less than 21?"
He looked at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet.
"What?" I asked.
"Dealer needs to play a hand, too."
Monday, February 20, 2012
A long-lost friend reappears
I found myself at Barnes and Noble the other day. I was with a friend who was shopping for items to put on a bookshelf for her child's classroom auction. After my initial confusion about the classroom auction not being the actual sale of children, I set about helping her select books.
"They studied the human body and eagles this year," she said, "so I want to get books that have something to do with those subjects."
I looked around the kids' section. The bookshelves were all disproportionately low. It makes sense I suppose, as their perusers would likely be short, but I think the retailer should have more respect for the backs of the wallet owners.
Every book in there looked like so much fun. When was the last time you purchased a book that was packaged with a craft kit, or toy dioramas, or a recorder instrument, or a chemistry set?
"Oh my GOD!" I said to my friend, who was an aisle or two away.
She whipped her head around. "Shhh! Indoor voice."
"But look!" I rushed up to her, holding up my find. "It's Mr. Bones!"
"Who's Mr. Bones?"
I eagerly pointed out the plastic pieces, all anatomically correct and just waiting for assembly into a fun skeleton friend, approximately 13 inches tall.
"I had one of these in middle school! It's how I leared the bones of the body so well. You HAVE to get this!" I thrust it into her hands, not waiting for a response.
"Oookay," she said. "Are you sure a book wouldn't be better? It would go better with the theme of the bookcase."
"Smookcase," I said, already lost in the other treasures of the Kids' Section. "Mr. Bones is the raddest thing EVER and I bet your bookshelf will get a lot of bids just because no one will have ever seen anything quite so cool."
There was still another Mr. Bones on the shelf. It was $17.
Never mind that I can recite the human skeleton, musculature, and organ systems by heart. Mr. Bones is educational! It's always okay to spend money as long as it's for an educational purpose.
After carefully assembling his knee bone to his thigh bone to his foot bone, I'd dress him up in seasonal attire and place him on my mantle.
My friend stood next to me and watched these thoughts go through my head.
She took me by the arm. "Let's go," she said. "He'll find a good home. Perhaps to someone who is actually 12 and not 30."
"They studied the human body and eagles this year," she said, "so I want to get books that have something to do with those subjects."
I looked around the kids' section. The bookshelves were all disproportionately low. It makes sense I suppose, as their perusers would likely be short, but I think the retailer should have more respect for the backs of the wallet owners.
Every book in there looked like so much fun. When was the last time you purchased a book that was packaged with a craft kit, or toy dioramas, or a recorder instrument, or a chemistry set?
"Oh my GOD!" I said to my friend, who was an aisle or two away.
She whipped her head around. "Shhh! Indoor voice."
"But look!" I rushed up to her, holding up my find. "It's Mr. Bones!"
"Who's Mr. Bones?"
I eagerly pointed out the plastic pieces, all anatomically correct and just waiting for assembly into a fun skeleton friend, approximately 13 inches tall.
"I had one of these in middle school! It's how I leared the bones of the body so well. You HAVE to get this!" I thrust it into her hands, not waiting for a response.
"Oookay," she said. "Are you sure a book wouldn't be better? It would go better with the theme of the bookcase."
"Smookcase," I said, already lost in the other treasures of the Kids' Section. "Mr. Bones is the raddest thing EVER and I bet your bookshelf will get a lot of bids just because no one will have ever seen anything quite so cool."
There was still another Mr. Bones on the shelf. It was $17.
Never mind that I can recite the human skeleton, musculature, and organ systems by heart. Mr. Bones is educational! It's always okay to spend money as long as it's for an educational purpose.
After carefully assembling his knee bone to his thigh bone to his foot bone, I'd dress him up in seasonal attire and place him on my mantle.
My friend stood next to me and watched these thoughts go through my head.
She took me by the arm. "Let's go," she said. "He'll find a good home. Perhaps to someone who is actually 12 and not 30."
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Technology strikes the fat.
I was at a friend's house for dinner, and while I was washing the dishes, her daughter came up to me.
"Hey, Katie! Let me take your picture!" In her hand was the ipad that her grandma bought her for Christmas. I want her grandma to be my grandma.
"Okay..." I said. "Why?"
"I want to Fatify your face!"
I set the sponge down. "You want to what?"
She turned the ipad around so I could see the screen. "It's this really funny app I got. You take a picture of someone, then the app stretches their face and makes them look really fat."
Awesome.
"See? Here's my brother's picture." She pulled up a picture of her 7-year-old brother looking more like a 30-year-old former wrestler gone to fat.
"Nice," I said. "Okay, take my picture." I peered close into the camera lens, partly to ensure a ridiculous shot, and partly because my own 30-year-old eyes could barely see the camera lens.
With a faux digital-sounding "click," the ipad took my picture and rendered it into a likeness of myself that was worrisome for its continued resemblance. I was hoping it would look more like an actor on TV wearing a fat suit, where you know it's still them, you can recognize it's still them, but it looks comically different. (Well, not comically. I find zero humor in fat suits.) Instead, I looked like myself, as if I had repeated my freshman year of college a few times, but still like myself.
"Awww, I'm cute!" I said, trying to ward off any weight insults.
No dice.
"What?" the daughter recoiled. "No you're not! Look at your cheeks!" Her 13-year-old hatred for obesity was good for the future of healthcare, but not good for anyone else's feelings.
"Well, I think I'm cute," I said, turning back to the dishes.
"Mom, look at Grandma's picture," she said, having lost interest in me.
As I rinsed the plates, I wondered exactly what we're doing here. Technological advancement is amazing, especially when it gets a young person so excited.
Somehow, I don't think "Fattify Your Face" is what Steve Jobs had in mind.
"Hey, Katie! Let me take your picture!" In her hand was the ipad that her grandma bought her for Christmas. I want her grandma to be my grandma.
"Okay..." I said. "Why?"
"I want to Fatify your face!"
I set the sponge down. "You want to what?"
She turned the ipad around so I could see the screen. "It's this really funny app I got. You take a picture of someone, then the app stretches their face and makes them look really fat."
Awesome.
"See? Here's my brother's picture." She pulled up a picture of her 7-year-old brother looking more like a 30-year-old former wrestler gone to fat.
"Nice," I said. "Okay, take my picture." I peered close into the camera lens, partly to ensure a ridiculous shot, and partly because my own 30-year-old eyes could barely see the camera lens.
With a faux digital-sounding "click," the ipad took my picture and rendered it into a likeness of myself that was worrisome for its continued resemblance. I was hoping it would look more like an actor on TV wearing a fat suit, where you know it's still them, you can recognize it's still them, but it looks comically different. (Well, not comically. I find zero humor in fat suits.) Instead, I looked like myself, as if I had repeated my freshman year of college a few times, but still like myself.
"Awww, I'm cute!" I said, trying to ward off any weight insults.
No dice.
"What?" the daughter recoiled. "No you're not! Look at your cheeks!" Her 13-year-old hatred for obesity was good for the future of healthcare, but not good for anyone else's feelings.
"Well, I think I'm cute," I said, turning back to the dishes.
"Mom, look at Grandma's picture," she said, having lost interest in me.
As I rinsed the plates, I wondered exactly what we're doing here. Technological advancement is amazing, especially when it gets a young person so excited.
Somehow, I don't think "Fattify Your Face" is what Steve Jobs had in mind.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Inviting Friendship
"Mom, guess what! Adreanne wants me to spend the night tonight."
Mom looked carefully at me. "Did she ask you if you wanted to spend the night?"
I nodded. "Uh huh."
"You're sure you didn't invite yourself?"
In this particular case, I think I had invited myself over to her house. You would have, too. She had a Nintendo with Mario Brothers and a drawer in the kitchen that had miniature bags of Ranch Doritos and her mom didn't care how many we ate.
Does the rule still hold for adults? Are we supposed to wait for an unambiguous invitation before attending something/hanging out?
Of course, you think. You can't assume that just because you were within hearing proximity of social plans means you were meant to be included.
But in all honesty: the last time you hung out with some friends, did you get a call from a host who requested the pleasure of your presence at a certain time and place? Chances are, it was more like, "Hey, Katie - we're playing Scrabble at 2. Come if you can!" Ours is a society of casualness. Lack of tightly guided social rules can make discerning more difficult. If you're not issued the proverbial engraved invitation, your presence is specifically not wanted. But if you're with some people who are making plans and you're around, are you invited? The 1900s were definitely a time for the black-and-white thinker.
At the Scrabble table, I turned to my neighbor. "Susan, what are you making for dinner and is it gluten-free?"
The rest of the table burst out laughing at my fowardness, the complete lack of any attempt to...well, be smooth about trying to wrangle a dinner invitation.
As I was washing the dinner dishes, I found myself thinking about how glad I was that I had been so rude. I wouldn't have gotten to spend a wonderful couple of hours in her company and the company of her daughter. She probably never would have asked! How often do we not extend invitations, assuming the other person wouldn't want to or would have something better to do, etc.? In the vestiges of manners from a bygone era, we lose the potential for grabbed opportunities.
Okay, so maybe I could've politely asked for the dinner invite rather than grabbing it. I'll give that some more thought as I go nuke my awesome looking dinner leftovers.
Mom looked carefully at me. "Did she ask you if you wanted to spend the night?"
I nodded. "Uh huh."
"You're sure you didn't invite yourself?"
In this particular case, I think I had invited myself over to her house. You would have, too. She had a Nintendo with Mario Brothers and a drawer in the kitchen that had miniature bags of Ranch Doritos and her mom didn't care how many we ate.
Does the rule still hold for adults? Are we supposed to wait for an unambiguous invitation before attending something/hanging out?
Of course, you think. You can't assume that just because you were within hearing proximity of social plans means you were meant to be included.
But in all honesty: the last time you hung out with some friends, did you get a call from a host who requested the pleasure of your presence at a certain time and place? Chances are, it was more like, "Hey, Katie - we're playing Scrabble at 2. Come if you can!" Ours is a society of casualness. Lack of tightly guided social rules can make discerning more difficult. If you're not issued the proverbial engraved invitation, your presence is specifically not wanted. But if you're with some people who are making plans and you're around, are you invited? The 1900s were definitely a time for the black-and-white thinker.
At the Scrabble table, I turned to my neighbor. "Susan, what are you making for dinner and is it gluten-free?"
The rest of the table burst out laughing at my fowardness, the complete lack of any attempt to...well, be smooth about trying to wrangle a dinner invitation.
As I was washing the dinner dishes, I found myself thinking about how glad I was that I had been so rude. I wouldn't have gotten to spend a wonderful couple of hours in her company and the company of her daughter. She probably never would have asked! How often do we not extend invitations, assuming the other person wouldn't want to or would have something better to do, etc.? In the vestiges of manners from a bygone era, we lose the potential for grabbed opportunities.
Okay, so maybe I could've politely asked for the dinner invite rather than grabbing it. I'll give that some more thought as I go nuke my awesome looking dinner leftovers.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Dust-busting Machine
Quick note before we get onto the subject matter at hand:
I hate hyphens. Just when I think I've mastered the wheres and whys, up pops a grammatical situation to prove me wrong. I hate them.
Anyway, so I'm getting ready to go to California for my much-anticipated(there you are again, you flat bastard) birthday trip. My parents will be here in 20 minutes to take me to the airport, and I'm hurridly shoveling a microwaved burrito into my mouth. It's really too hot to be holding, let alone sticking in a place with sensitive tissue, but oh well. What's a 3rd degree burn when you're at Disneyland?
Since my mom, aunt, cousin, and I are going to the Happiest Place on Earth, my dad generously volunteered to not go and instead stay home and take care of my home and pets. Linky (the cat) sheds a lot. I realize that dust is 99% dead skin cells, but the dust bunnies in my home are 99.9% cat hair. Every so often, a person can walk down the hall and spot a cat hair tumbleweed blowing across their path.
Thus, for Christmas this year my parents gifted me a brand-new Dustbuster.
I opened the box and looked at them.
"What?" Mom said, eyes wide with innocence. "You needed one."
Even though I'm on the cusp of 30, my definition of need is still somewhat different than my parents'. See, I "need" the latest stamping and scrapbooking stuff. I "need" to take baths instead of showers (less rushed). But a Dustbuster?
Last night I partook in a very dangerous activity in bed. It didn't involve whips and chains or anything, but it did involve a Rice Krispy treat.
And it got dirty.
Very dirty.
This morning, I woke up amidst a pile of crushed Krispies. They were stuck to the bedspread, to my pillow, and to my dog's head.
"You're a mess," I said to myself. I wouldn't accept this midnight plate-less snacking behavior from anyone else, so why do I let myself be such a grossy?
Grossy...dusty...Dustbuster!
I grabbed it from it's perch on the laundry room wall and went to my bedroom.
It sucked the crumbs from my bedspread without complaint. My dog, on the other hand, had a bit to say about it.
"Trumie, settle down," I said. "I'm helping you shed."
I'm sure my parents didn't intend for me to use the Dustbuster in such a way. Likewise, I didn't expect to find it to be so useful. Once again, Proctor and Gamble bridges the generational divide.
I hate hyphens. Just when I think I've mastered the wheres and whys, up pops a grammatical situation to prove me wrong. I hate them.
Anyway, so I'm getting ready to go to California for my much-anticipated(there you are again, you flat bastard) birthday trip. My parents will be here in 20 minutes to take me to the airport, and I'm hurridly shoveling a microwaved burrito into my mouth. It's really too hot to be holding, let alone sticking in a place with sensitive tissue, but oh well. What's a 3rd degree burn when you're at Disneyland?
Since my mom, aunt, cousin, and I are going to the Happiest Place on Earth, my dad generously volunteered to not go and instead stay home and take care of my home and pets. Linky (the cat) sheds a lot. I realize that dust is 99% dead skin cells, but the dust bunnies in my home are 99.9% cat hair. Every so often, a person can walk down the hall and spot a cat hair tumbleweed blowing across their path.
Thus, for Christmas this year my parents gifted me a brand-new Dustbuster.
I opened the box and looked at them.
"What?" Mom said, eyes wide with innocence. "You needed one."
Even though I'm on the cusp of 30, my definition of need is still somewhat different than my parents'. See, I "need" the latest stamping and scrapbooking stuff. I "need" to take baths instead of showers (less rushed). But a Dustbuster?
Last night I partook in a very dangerous activity in bed. It didn't involve whips and chains or anything, but it did involve a Rice Krispy treat.
And it got dirty.
Very dirty.
This morning, I woke up amidst a pile of crushed Krispies. They were stuck to the bedspread, to my pillow, and to my dog's head.
"You're a mess," I said to myself. I wouldn't accept this midnight plate-less snacking behavior from anyone else, so why do I let myself be such a grossy?
Grossy...dusty...Dustbuster!
I grabbed it from it's perch on the laundry room wall and went to my bedroom.
It sucked the crumbs from my bedspread without complaint. My dog, on the other hand, had a bit to say about it.
"Trumie, settle down," I said. "I'm helping you shed."
I'm sure my parents didn't intend for me to use the Dustbuster in such a way. Likewise, I didn't expect to find it to be so useful. Once again, Proctor and Gamble bridges the generational divide.
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