Monthly Archives: November 2012

On flossing, and belts, and the overuse of commas by lapsed English majors.

Some snippets.

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I think that I need to preface this thought with a disclaimer: I floss regularly. My dentist takes note of this and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy for doing something that people should just do and I’m regularly appalled by others’ lack of flossing (forgetting sometimes is okay; forgetting for a few years is not) but anyway, my point is: I floss. It’s not a once-a-month kind of deal.
But. Here’s the thing. Each time I do, I unspool a ridiculous amount to use. Like, criminally wasteful. Why, why why can I never remember how much I realistically need? It’s not like I didn’t floss my teeth twenty-four frickin’ hours ago while thinking Hey! Why the hell did I just take so much floss? I did not grow extra rows of teeth in the interim, or participate in some sort of corn-on-the-cob eating contest, or sustain an injury to my hippocampus resulting in the inability to form new memories. I shouldn’t have to Post-it this to my bathroom mirror, but I just might.
It doesn’t help that a standard container of floss contains something like 7 miles of the stuff. I’m not going through a new pack each week or anything. So I’ve grown comfortable in my floss-wasting ways. If I switched to some fancy-pants expensive brand (does that even exist?) would I be more aware of how much I used? Probably not.

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I’ve recently come into quite a few belts. I use the phrase “come into” intentionally. Like someone who has “come into” money, it was unexpected and has changed my life.

At the end of this summer, I owned two proper belts: one was brown, the other black. I had a couple of those decorative, came-with-a-tunic-shirt type things, but those could really only be worn with the blouse from whence they came. I can’t pull off the belted-shirt look, though Lord knows I try.
But then I got a job with a “business casual” dress code, which meant purchasing “business casual” attire. By no means have I re-wardrobed myself, but I did use this as an excuse to do a little upgrading. But. Here’s the thing. Every. single. thing I’ve bought since comes with a damn belt. Pants. Dresses. Shirts. Belts. Belts. Belts. And sometimes, not just one! A three-pack of belts? Sure! Why the hell not?
I’ll tell you why not: my closet looks like a goddamned belt store.
In August, life was simple. To work, I wore my black belt. To everywhere else, I wore my brown one. Now, when I dress myself in the morning, I end up rifling through some great hanging curtain of leather and leather-ish materials in order to find something to keep my belt loops in work.

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If I ever invite you to my home for dinner, here’s a fun game you can play during the car ride over. It’s called Soup or Pasta? and, depending on the number of folks in your carpool and their collective knowledge of statistics, there’s always a winner.

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the creepy kind of compliments

One of my new supervisors has awesome hair.

Like, shampoo-commercial hair. And I can tell that she’s just naturally blessed with it because it’s just…good. Like she comes into work and it’s just down, or pulled into a ponytail – not painstakingly clipped back at exacting angles and tamed by precise spritzes of sort-of-nice-but-sort-of-acrid hair product. I’m certain she just washes it, combs it, and lets it dry.

I’ve already said too much; you think me some sort of hair-obsessed crazy person who spends measurable amounts of time gazing at this woman’s head. I swear to you: I do not. It’s like how some women notice other women’s shoes, or handbags, or wedding bands… I just notice hair.

But this is kind of unfortunate, because hair is not something that can often be complimented offhandedly, like someone’s cute heels or colorful purse. And double-unfortunate is that she’s kind of like my boss.

Me: Jane,* you have such pretty hair.

Jane: Oh, haha. Thanks

Me: Like, it’s just so…nice.

awkward pause

Me: Oh, haha. That sounded so weird. Like [creepy voice] “oh, I really like your hair.” Haha. I just meant, I wanted to compliment you on it.

uncomfortable pause

Me: Well, I mean. I didn’t know how to say that without sounding all creepy. I guess it could be worse. I could have come up to you and been all like [Slingblade voice] “Yer hair sure do smell purty.” Because that would be weeeeeeird!

Jane looks around to see if anyone else is hearing this

Me: Oh, haha. I mean, like, I’m sorry. I just wanted to… You just… It just…looks so…soft…Like, I want to touch it…

Jane backs away slowly and we only interact if absolutely necessary and never make eye contact again.

Me: Hmmm. I do not think that went well.
*Of course her name’s not Jane. Did you really need the asterisk? Sigh.

Mo’ turkey, mo’ problems.

“Your Biggest Thanksgiving Problems–Solved!”
The following are (apparently) Thanksgiving “problems”
(according to a Dash magazine piece published last week)
with my unsolicited advice.

You’re expecting 12 guests but have only eight good china place settings
The way I see it, you have a couple options here:
1) Decide which of your family members deserve the good stuff and send the rest home, or
2) Get over it. Everyone eats off the Dixie plates.

The gravy boat creates a drippy mess on your tablecloth.
I don’t understand why this is happening. Is there a hole in the boat? Then cover it with duct tape and move on. Otherwise, your family is just a bunch of slobs and this can’t be helped.

You can’t afford a big floral centerpiece.
I don’t have any advice for this one. I’m just genuinely sorry that your friends and family suck so hard that your lack of a big floral centerpiece has become such a cause for concern. Actually, I do have some advice: Start drinking. Now (see next).

You need a cheery drink to serve before the meal.
A few fingers of Glenlivet’ll perk the room right up, but be sure to pace yourself. We’re going for “perky” not “spinny.”

The potluck table is strewn with mystery casseroles.
Were these dishes dropped off by the Casserole Fairy? No? Well then ask the person who brought it what the hell they brought.

Last year the gravy was full of lumps.
Maybe you should make some new gravy. It’s probably lumpy BECAUSE IT’S A YEAR OLD.

Friends and family say they want to help, but no one knows what to do.
B-double E-double R-U-N

You need to keep the youngsters occupied while you cook.
Baby, run up to the Citgo and get Gramma a pack of smokes. Tell Jeff that Gloria sent you. He owes me one.

You’re running low on wine.
That’s not even funny. Don’t joke about that.

Everyone loves cranberry sauce, but making your own seems so complicated.
No. It’s not.

 

Trussing and basting take forever.
Use real words. I cannot answer your question if I do not know what you are asking.

You don’t have any napkin rings – or they look bulky and outdated.
Never mind. Forget it. THANKSGIVING IS FUCKING RUINED.

Extremely specialized health care

I have a new job, and with that new job comes insurance benefits. This means a) I no longer care about those poor fools with no health coverage* and b) I will never be ill or require health care again. Until I leave** this job and my benefits expire, of course. On that very day I’ll probably be attacked by some disease-infested orangutan in the parking lot of my apartment complex.

In the meantime I’ve been online exploring this whole “health care” thing. The provider of my insurance has a surprisingly handy website on which one can search for doctors to treat their horrific maladies. And I say “horrific” because as I searched for lady-part doctors, I was able to manipulate the search criteria to find this:

That number seems a bit…off.

*Completely kidding here.
**Read: fired.