The first day of the new job was fine. It was about the same as any first day - full of awkwardness trying to figure things out, meeting people, etc. Given that the organization is so grassroots at this moment that they have no fax machine, I was not terribly surprised to learn that they also do not know how to change people's voice mail messages, and as a result people who haven't worked there in years are still on the voice mail. Needless to say, I have no computer log in or email yet. But hey! At least there is email! Once I started some real work, it was good.
Fortunately, I like the people with whom I will work, and the others seem very nice. I was cornered at the end of the day by a nutjob who told me all about how Gov. Spitzer was framed so that the real criminals will get away with their crimes while all the attention is on the sex scandal. Sadly, I found myself silently agreeing with his rant even as I looked around nervously for an escape and backed away.
As if a first day at a new job is not tiring enough, I also signed up to be part of a focus group about Fidelity Investments, which is where I rolled my 401k into an IRA when I left my last job. It paid $150 for two hours (8 pm - 10 pm), so it was hard to say no. I figured I could use the cash for my upcoming trip with my sister and brother-in-law. Let's just say that it was difficult to keep my eyes open at the end there. Still, I am $150 richer for sharing my uninformed opinions on Fidelity's services, so no complaints.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
I'm Alive!
Just in case anyone was worried since I didn't post since I mentioned that my stomach might explode, it didn't. I was just running around like an idiot today, trying to finish articles, grade budgets (one thing I actually finished), take pictures for the book, edit the pictures and ftp them to the publisher, and eat Indian sweets. The last part was not taxing.
As my brother-in-law spruced up the book photos on his computer this evening, I learned that New York State's governor, Eliot Spitzer, who ran on a big reform platform and was formerly the State Attorney General who busted all the corrupt folks on Wall Street, was caught in a federal prostitution sting. It seems that he had a high-priced hooker sent down from NY while he was in DC one night, which is against a 1910 law that prohibits transporting a person across state lines for "immoral" purposes.* There's all kinds of media circus going on around this.
My friend wanted to know why he just couldn't settle for a DC call girl like the other politicians. A former colleague who works in New Jersey sent me an email asking me what was wrong with my governor. "My governor may pay for sex," I replied, "but yours is trying to buy a new Florida primary for his friend Hillary Clinton." I'm not really sure which is worse.
*Honestly, this law scares the crap out of me because I now fear it will be used against people who leave on state to go to another to obtain an abortion, but that's another story.
As my brother-in-law spruced up the book photos on his computer this evening, I learned that New York State's governor, Eliot Spitzer, who ran on a big reform platform and was formerly the State Attorney General who busted all the corrupt folks on Wall Street, was caught in a federal prostitution sting. It seems that he had a high-priced hooker sent down from NY while he was in DC one night, which is against a 1910 law that prohibits transporting a person across state lines for "immoral" purposes.* There's all kinds of media circus going on around this.
My friend wanted to know why he just couldn't settle for a DC call girl like the other politicians. A former colleague who works in New Jersey sent me an email asking me what was wrong with my governor. "My governor may pay for sex," I replied, "but yours is trying to buy a new Florida primary for his friend Hillary Clinton." I'm not really sure which is worse.
*Honestly, this law scares the crap out of me because I now fear it will be used against people who leave on state to go to another to obtain an abortion, but that's another story.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Feeling Like a Dinosaur
Husband's off to Europe for work. It's very quiet in here, except for the episode of Myth Busters that is blaring from the TV to cover up how quiet it is in here. I'd rank the effectiveness of the TV-blaring strategy as low right now.
I have a stomach ache that could kill a large animal. In fact, it makes me wonder if the dinosaurs did not become extinct because they all ate Uighur (pronounced "way-wooer")* food for a late lunch, then chased it down with an early vegetarian Indian dinner. They had very little brains, after all, as apparently do I.
*Uighurs are "a Muslim Turkic group who historically served as guides along the ancient trade routes," according to Robert Sietsma's Village Voice review of Cafe Kashkar, the restaurant at which I consumed the potentially fatal late lunch. It's in Brighton Beach, a community of Russians and other Eastern Europeans in Brooklyn. I was in the neighborhood with my new bestest friend Roger, who heroically filled in as a photographer for my book at the last minute after my friend Stef got food poisoning. (She did not get food poisoning from Cafe Kashkar, though.)
Uighur cuisine is tasty stuff, but also greasier than my hair when I haven't washed it in three days, which I haven't, but that's another story. I knew I was in for imminent future bad times as I shoveled the slick foods down my gullet, and for no good reason decided to make matters worse by meeting Dr. H for dinner and ordering deliciously rich Indian food (vegetable korma and paneer makhani - mmmmmmm). Assuming I do not explode, I will consider this a lesson learned.
I have a stomach ache that could kill a large animal. In fact, it makes me wonder if the dinosaurs did not become extinct because they all ate Uighur (pronounced "way-wooer")* food for a late lunch, then chased it down with an early vegetarian Indian dinner. They had very little brains, after all, as apparently do I.
*Uighurs are "a Muslim Turkic group who historically served as guides along the ancient trade routes," according to Robert Sietsma's Village Voice review of Cafe Kashkar, the restaurant at which I consumed the potentially fatal late lunch. It's in Brighton Beach, a community of Russians and other Eastern Europeans in Brooklyn. I was in the neighborhood with my new bestest friend Roger, who heroically filled in as a photographer for my book at the last minute after my friend Stef got food poisoning. (She did not get food poisoning from Cafe Kashkar, though.)
Uighur cuisine is tasty stuff, but also greasier than my hair when I haven't washed it in three days, which I haven't, but that's another story. I knew I was in for imminent future bad times as I shoveled the slick foods down my gullet, and for no good reason decided to make matters worse by meeting Dr. H for dinner and ordering deliciously rich Indian food (vegetable korma and paneer makhani - mmmmmmm). Assuming I do not explode, I will consider this a lesson learned.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Welcome to the Insect Graveyard
Since we live on the ground floor of our building and our windows look directly out onto the sidewalk, Husband and I never open our curtains. While I would prefer to allow the sun to shine in every once in a while, I also am not cool with people inspecting our fine home as they bop down the street. Two halogen lamps keep our living room brightly illuminated to make up for the lack of natural light and chase away some of the cave shadows that seem to form.
The halogen lamps work very well for us in more than one way. In addition to giving us light, they also appear to annihilate large numbers of winged insects. Recently, as I looked at the lamp while turning it on, I noticed that dozens of insect carcasses filled up the clear plastic piece at the bottom of the light.
While I am glad that my lamp kills flies, the unfortunate part is that the graveyard is below a large metal plate, and hence not possible for me to empty into the trash. Now every time I turn on the lamp, I am forced to look at this grotesque scene and contemplate about mortality. Oh, the conundrum!
The halogen lamps work very well for us in more than one way. In addition to giving us light, they also appear to annihilate large numbers of winged insects. Recently, as I looked at the lamp while turning it on, I noticed that dozens of insect carcasses filled up the clear plastic piece at the bottom of the light.
While I am glad that my lamp kills flies, the unfortunate part is that the graveyard is below a large metal plate, and hence not possible for me to empty into the trash. Now every time I turn on the lamp, I am forced to look at this grotesque scene and contemplate about mortality. Oh, the conundrum!
Totally Inappropriate Comparison...
Although my dental appointment yesterday was mostly without incident, every time the hygienist accidentally scratched my tender pink gum with the sharp scraper tool while cleaning my teeth, I thought about how utterly awful a coat hanger abortion would feel.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Ouch! Now That's Funny! Ouch! Hilarious!
It takes a great storyteller to make me laugh while a method of torture prohibited in the Geneva Conventions (well, not specifically prohibited, but it fits in with the other methods that are, so I think it is covered) is deployed, but Average Jane sent me a link to a story about a Brazilian wax gone horribly, horribly wrong at Money in a Suit, and I laughed my ass off as I read it. (I also crossed my legs and hunched protectively over my crotch, all while giggling.) The Monkey in a Suit is a fine comedy writer.
While I am not knocking women who choose to undergo Brazilian waxes, I still can't help but wonder whether it is worth the pain. Obviously it is to some, otherwise they wouldn't pay people good money to pour hot wax in their cooter, and I've heard from many women who I very much respect who feel better with a shiny waxed snatch, so I sorta get it. But I also really, really hate unnecessary pain, and really, it seems far less painful to just leave the damn hairs there. My friend Mara did once point out that too much pooter puff could possibly get tangled up or accidentally get yanked while grabbing a tampon string to unplug oneself, thus causing unpleasant ouchiness, but I'm willing to take that risk. Trimming seems reasonable, and also does not carry the potential danger of skin being ripped out, burned, or bruised. (I guess there's a small chance one could get cut, but that my advice would be not to trim while drunk, high, or distracted on the phone to lessen that possibility.)
Pubic hairs strike me as peaceful bystanders in a beauty war. (Again, I do not mean to dis women who hate body hair for whatever reason. I get that you don't like it, just like I don't like how moisturizer feel heavy on my face.) They are just minding their own business, listening to their boss (the body), and suddenly, bam! Hot wax is dumped on the unsuspecting village of fuzz. Craziness.
While I am not knocking women who choose to undergo Brazilian waxes, I still can't help but wonder whether it is worth the pain. Obviously it is to some, otherwise they wouldn't pay people good money to pour hot wax in their cooter, and I've heard from many women who I very much respect who feel better with a shiny waxed snatch, so I sorta get it. But I also really, really hate unnecessary pain, and really, it seems far less painful to just leave the damn hairs there. My friend Mara did once point out that too much pooter puff could possibly get tangled up or accidentally get yanked while grabbing a tampon string to unplug oneself, thus causing unpleasant ouchiness, but I'm willing to take that risk. Trimming seems reasonable, and also does not carry the potential danger of skin being ripped out, burned, or bruised. (I guess there's a small chance one could get cut, but that my advice would be not to trim while drunk, high, or distracted on the phone to lessen that possibility.)
Pubic hairs strike me as peaceful bystanders in a beauty war. (Again, I do not mean to dis women who hate body hair for whatever reason. I get that you don't like it, just like I don't like how moisturizer feel heavy on my face.) They are just minding their own business, listening to their boss (the body), and suddenly, bam! Hot wax is dumped on the unsuspecting village of fuzz. Craziness.
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