Today is Friday. Glorious, glorious Friday! To make things even better, it's 66 degrees outside, and one of my bosses is away, leaving Seth and I to our own devices. What a relaxing day.
The morning passes into the afternoon with ease. I love days like this! Seth is keeping to himself in his office, and I am working hard (read: g-chatting with Kathryn and Mariella, bbming with Heidi) at my desk.
I should've known better than to be so smug in my lazy day...
I am reading a recap of last night's American Idol on Gawker when suddenly, and with no warning,
clip.
clip.
CLIP.
My blood freezes. My stomach churns. My face burns in indignation.
Seth. Is clipping. His fingernails.
Unfortunately, I am very sensitive to noises. Not in that they are extra loud to me, but that I am severely intolerant of annoying noises like gum snapping, the slosh of saliva mixing with food being chewed in a mouth that is open (or even closed. it's a terrible affliction inherited from my father) or when someone repeatedly sniffs huge snotballs up their nose and down their throat (get a freaking tissue and blow that shit out!)
I wish I weren't so affected by the noises created by others. Especially when stuck in a stalled subway car with one or all of them together. But I can't help it, and it makes my blood boil until I want to scream in outrage: "SHUT UP!!" or "CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLSOED!!" or "STOP SNAPPING YOUR GUM, IT MAKES YOU LOOK STUPID!!(something my father used to say to me. But I realized, he's right. People snapping their gum and chomping on it with their mouths open DO look less intelligent)." But I never say these things of course.
As I mentioned, I know I am this way thanks to my father. As a child, I could be eating an apple in my bedroom with the door clsoed and music on, and he would shout from the garage: "STOP CRUNCHING ON THAT APPLE!!" (of course, once he determined that I also hated eating noises, he intentionally chewed loudly and with his mouth open whenever around me. My father the two-year old. He really is a great guy though. Hi Dad!! Love you!)
At the time I thought he was a crazy person, as many of my friends now think of me. But now I understand. I wish I weren't so sensitive to these noises, as it makes movies torturous with the horse-like chewing of popcorn all around, and I LOVE going to movies! But, it is what it is.
The sound of a nail clipper anywhere outside of the home drives me BONKERS. And it being Seth who is creating this noise only adds insult to injury.
There he sits, clip, clip, cliping away. Each clip is like an explosion, and I picture his fingernails flying into the air in slow-mo like the debris from the bomb in the beginning of The Hurt Locker.
Where is it landing?? On the floor? On his desk?? It is Friday, when the cleaning people come. Is that why he's doing this now? Cause he knows the cleaning people will take care of it?? RUDE!
Finally, the clipping explosions cease, as does my silent hyperventhilating. Peace can now be restored in the territory of---
CLIP!
AAGGHH!! There's more??
Oh, the humanity!!
CLIP!
Three times I nearly stick my head out to his line-of-sight to say incredulously, "Are you CLIPPING your NAILS?!"
But I can't. Why? Because even though I am in agony, I don't want to embarrass Seth. Or myself. The Midwest in me says, "Just ignore it, it will go away!"
But all I want to do, is go over there and slam his door shut!
As Kathryn says in alliance, "There is a time and a place for that and it's not at work..."
If only I could get her in here to tell Seth that.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
How I Got Here, Part I
Once they find out I am originally from MN, the first question out of peoples' mouths is always: "Why did you move to New York Minneapolis Minnesota
But I've come to learn that when one has spent enough time in NY or is a native, the majority of the rest of America is like uncharted wild-lands, where the residents are slack-jawed yokels voting against human rights and marrying their cousins. This perception is due to an obvious contentment in ignorance and the incorrect belief that NY is all that matters.
And so I see it in their eyes, the phenomenon of a Minnesota-born woman landing in NY. I myself am wondering what they expect to hear as my explanation. Perhaps I navigated my way here with the help of a guide, Lewis and Clark style? Did I fight my way out of a town of 200, crushing stereotypes and defying all odds? Or maybe I won a scholarship, and am merely a student-tourist, one of the many who will return back to the safety of my roots upon completion of my tour-of-student-duty.
But in reality, the reason I moved to NY is quite simple, and my answer never wavers: "Because I love it here." I then elaborate with the story that to me, is entirely defining.
I have two older brothers, and when I was in 1st grade, they were in 2nd and 5th, respectively. Deciding it was time for a family vacation, my semi-eccentric parents came up with two options to present my brothers and me. Where we ended up going was completely up to us. Our options? DisneyWorld , or New York City
Obviously we all chose DisneyWorld ! Look at how old we were! But Mom and Dad, they lied (and not for the first time. Ask me how my brothers and I learned what the word "accolades" means...)! Despite our choosing DisneyWorld (duh!), they forced us to go to NYC instead, breaking our wee hearts into a million little pieces, to be swept away right along with our dreams of meeting The Great Mickey Mouse.....
Oh wait, no, that's not how it happened at all.
My brothers and I, at ages 6, 7, and 10, unanimously decided that New York City
UNANIMOUSLY! I don't know why, I don't know how. But some instinct told us that reality was greater than fiction, and NY was the place to be. (Some years later my mom did take the three of us down to DisneyWorld , and it was awesome.)
After that trip, my fate was sealed. I would make a few more pilgrimages out here throughout the years before finally, I was 18 and a high school graduate. I figured the only way to get to NY was to go to College there. When I didn't get into NYU, the only school I applied to (I know, I know) I was beyond devastated. The words that could most accurately illustrate my dismay have yet to be created. But, exhibiting the kind of get-over-it-and-figure-out-another-way gumption necessary to live here in the first place, I quickly moved on to Plan B (no, not the emergency contraceptive. I don't think that existed yet).
There were always two dreams occupying much of my brain: To move to NY, and to be an actress ( grrroooan. I hate clichés.) I tried my best to combine them, and auditioned for a two-year acting conservatory program. I didn't really want to go to this school; I wanted to take all kinds of classes and end up with a degree, but at that point the number one goal was to just get myself to NY. So when I was accepted into the American Musical and Dramatics Academy, I was thrilled to finally have my key to the door of NY, but less thrilled about who was loaning me that key.
My parents, bless their powers of observation, understood that acting and NY were two separate dreams, that I didn't really want to go to this school, but that I didn't know how else to accomplish goal/dream numero uno of just moving to NY.
And so over lunch one day, they suggested the most brazen and UNFATHOMABLE of ideas: Why not take a year off from school and just move to NY and work?
....That's....that's an option? It had NEVER occurred to me. But as soon as Dad laid it out there, it seemed so obvious, so thrilling, so.... “dream come true”.
And so that is what I did. On Halloween, 2003, Mom and I flew out to NY to move me in. I got my first job at a Bath
It's been 7 years, but there's no itch. Not even from bedbugs.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Lunchtime for Seth!
He comes out of his office and puts on coat, gloves, hood, and earmuffs over the hood, but then heads into the bathroom instead of leaving.
And off he went to get his slice of pizza, leaving me thinking,
Coming out of the bathroom with two paper towels, I hear him mumble to himself, "oh, I need one for my eyes..."
"What's wrong?" I ask, kicking msyelf for engaging him.
"Nothings wrong, I'm just talking to myself!"
Ok, great, maybe it'll end here!
ha! In the immortal words of Alicia Silverstone, "As if.".
He comes back out of his office, and explains:
"I've started carrying around paper towels with me when I go outside for when my eyes water from the cold(paper towel for your eyes? Ouch. Maybe invest in those little kleenex packs. Just sayin'). But lately I've been seeing lots of bottle caps on the ground, so I pick them up, (Seth collects the points Coca-Cola offers on caps, and cardboard cases) but you know, they're all gross and wet (WHAT?! I am shocked.) so I wrap them in the paper towels, and then I dont have one for my eyes anymore (Oh dear. Yes, I see your predicament. horrible.)! So I went into the bathroom to get paper towels (for his half a block walk to get a slice of pizza), and while I was in there I thought I might as well pee (Yeah, you've got a long journey ahead of you, and there are no rest stops between here and the bodega half a block down the road). So ya know, I peed, washed my hands, tossed the paper towel (thank you SO MUCH for this thrilling play-by-play! Now could you re-enact it in slow motion as well? Excellent.), and as I was coming back out, I realized I forgot the paper towels that I had originally gone in there for! hahaha!(Oh my god! I do that ALL the time at Target! HAHAHA!) So, it was just the 50-year-old-man mumblings you heard. Ok, I'll be back"
And off he went to get his slice of pizza, leaving me thinking,
"That story is bullshit. He never washes his hands after peeing."
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Legendary
For all my lamenting, life isn't entirely disappointing. There are, and have been, many experiences where I find myself pinching an arm to ensure I am not actually dreaming. I've had the good fortune of seeing many legends on stage: Bob Dylan in concert three times before the age of 25, Prince in what he claims to be his final tour, and U2. Most recently it was Al Pacino in The Merchant of Venice on Broadway.
The tickets had been purchased by my father, who had originally intended to bring his girlfriend at the time. When they were unable to fly out here from Minnesota to attend the performance, he was kind enough to email the tickets to me.
My stomach fluttered with anticipatory delight. I would be seeing the legendary AL PACINO perform in life! On a stage in front of my very eyes! I could hardly wait.
As my darling boyfriend was unable to attend due to work, I set about procuring a worthy companion. It was a bit of a last minute invite, yet I was still shocked when no one responded to my texts or emails, until finally, my friend Will called. He had been in a movie when I texted, but was thrilled I had thought to invite him, and when should we meet??
The show as a whole was very well done, and very entertaining. The actors were adept at speaking the Shakespearean language in a way that made it easily understood. But Mr. Pacino as Shylock stood out from them all. It is a rare actor who can take such a contemptible character and give him a depth of humanity that leads one to feel compassion as well. It was one of those situations where one says, "Well yes, he does seem a bit monsterish, I can see why his daughter wishes to run away!" but a moment later feels compelled to argue for him, "But look at how they speak of the Jews, and Shylock in particular! No one deserves such bigotry. And the affection for his daughter is plain to see, he can't be all bad."
Mr. Pacino gave a heart wrenching performance, his final moments on stage stick in my mind as though a personal memory of witnessing an unjust persecution and being powerless to stop it.
Of course, I just had to see him at the Stage Door afterwards. Not only is it a tradition of mine, but come on, it's Al Pacino!
Usually I am one of the first to the Stage Door, securing for myself the best possible location. This time, however, I made the rookie mistake of not locating the Stage Door before heading into the theatre. This meant that when coming out, precious time was wasted searching for it. By the time Will and I arrived, a large group had already formed that we were forced to stand behind. Luckily Will is quite tall, so I knew we would at least get some good photos. But I was on a mission:
"Tell Al his performance in the movie version was perhaps his best cinematic performance ever," was my father's only request. And by God, I would honor it! Of course my current placement posed a bit of a hindrance, but I'd figure something out.
As a crowd we wait with baited breath for Mr. Pacino to appear. Every time the Stage Door opens, there is a collective "is it him? is it?? no, not yet", and back to waiting. We stare at the door like pups tied to a street sign, waiting for their owner to emerge again from Starbucks. Anxiously we await, the energy growing slightly more frenzied with every open and close of the door.
Finally, The Man In Charge Of The Door moves the barrier to allow more room. "Hurrah!" I think to myself, "Now is my chance to get a spot in front!"
Obviously, I am not the only one to have this thought. The crowd single-mindedly surges forward, the rear-momentum causing the front of the mob to crush against the barrier even though they have stopped moving. At this, the face of The Man In Charge Of The Door contorts into a terrifying rage as he threatens to whisk Mr. Pacino straight into his car from the door, or worse, make him take a different exit out of the building unless we STOP. PUSHING!
He makes his threat over and over, "IF I SEE ANYONE PUSHING HE DOES NOT COME OUT!" Eyeing each of us, one by one, shame washing over me when his eyes meet mine, even though I had merely been carried by the crowd (I don't push for celebs, even if they are Al Pacino. I still maintain a little civility. Ok, maybe I pushed a little). Finally he resumes his post at the door, and the dog-like concentration continues. Door opens, our tails wag...it's not him, ears droop. Open, wag, no, droop, until finally, as I am looking back towards Will (who elected to stay in the rear of the crowd and rely on his height to see) I feel a collective intake of breath which quickly explodes into a roar of delight. I turn back to the Stage Door, and there He is.
I am surprised at his small-stature. Dwarfed by his goose-down coat, he is a frail looking man who still managed to exude the energy of a twenty-something as he jumps onto the step of his waiting chariot (Suburban) to wave madly at the large crowd of fans gathered across the street. Wild wisps of hair peek out from under his skullcap, yet despite his aged face, there is no doubt that this is Tony Montana. It is fitting that he is currently "In Production" with the film "King Lear" as the title character. Here on the crowded sidewalk of 44th street, Mr. Pacino is King.
He makes his way first down one side of us, my side, signing posters and Playbills, posing for pictures, all the while a mad grin on his face, a twinkle in his eye. He moves to the other side and repeats, stopping for a moment with one fan to listen to what he has to say. I know then, that had I made my way to the front, I would most assuredly have been able to relay my father's message, and no doubt Mr. Pacino would be appreciative of the compliment. Instead, I observe it all, making my mind a video camera so I can at least replay it in as great a detail as possible. And of course, I keep my Playbill at the ready, should the opportunity to have it signed present itself. If only these people ahead of me who already got autographs would leave...
Mr. Pacino returns to my side, and we swell with the pride of a mother whose baby has just learned to poop in the potty. I watch him like a hawk, waiting for him to come closer. He kisses a young girl on the cheek eliciting the loudest cheers yet, and then, there he is, directly in front of my section. I hold my Playbill out, but he's reaching for others. I pull it back as he moves a little to the right, then back to the left and then, he's looking at me, dead in the eyes.
Making eye contact with Al Pacino was pretty rad. I felt a jolt run through me, and I was momentarily suspended from action, holding my Playbill to my chest rather than shoving it towards him. Much was said with just our eyes, however:
"Do you have something for me to sign? I don't know if I'll be able to reach it; you see how much is being thrust towards me right now, and my people are calling me to the car."
"I understand Mr. Pacino. You were fantastic tonight. And my Dad wanted me to tell you, your performance as Shylock in the film version was to him your best cinematic performance of all."
"Your Dad's alright by me. Tell him thanks, now I gotta fly!"
And with another wave to the crowd across the street, he hopped into his jet black Suburban and sped off down the street, hanging out the window and waving still....our King had taken his leave.
The tickets had been purchased by my father, who had originally intended to bring his girlfriend at the time. When they were unable to fly out here from Minnesota to attend the performance, he was kind enough to email the tickets to me.
My stomach fluttered with anticipatory delight. I would be seeing the legendary AL PACINO perform in life! On a stage in front of my very eyes! I could hardly wait.
As my darling boyfriend was unable to attend due to work, I set about procuring a worthy companion. It was a bit of a last minute invite, yet I was still shocked when no one responded to my texts or emails, until finally, my friend Will called. He had been in a movie when I texted, but was thrilled I had thought to invite him, and when should we meet??
The show as a whole was very well done, and very entertaining. The actors were adept at speaking the Shakespearean language in a way that made it easily understood. But Mr. Pacino as Shylock stood out from them all. It is a rare actor who can take such a contemptible character and give him a depth of humanity that leads one to feel compassion as well. It was one of those situations where one says, "Well yes, he does seem a bit monsterish, I can see why his daughter wishes to run away!" but a moment later feels compelled to argue for him, "But look at how they speak of the Jews, and Shylock in particular! No one deserves such bigotry. And the affection for his daughter is plain to see, he can't be all bad."
Mr. Pacino gave a heart wrenching performance, his final moments on stage stick in my mind as though a personal memory of witnessing an unjust persecution and being powerless to stop it.
Of course, I just had to see him at the Stage Door afterwards. Not only is it a tradition of mine, but come on, it's Al Pacino!
Usually I am one of the first to the Stage Door, securing for myself the best possible location. This time, however, I made the rookie mistake of not locating the Stage Door before heading into the theatre. This meant that when coming out, precious time was wasted searching for it. By the time Will and I arrived, a large group had already formed that we were forced to stand behind. Luckily Will is quite tall, so I knew we would at least get some good photos. But I was on a mission:
"Tell Al his performance in the movie version was perhaps his best cinematic performance ever," was my father's only request. And by God, I would honor it! Of course my current placement posed a bit of a hindrance, but I'd figure something out.
As a crowd we wait with baited breath for Mr. Pacino to appear. Every time the Stage Door opens, there is a collective "is it him? is it?? no, not yet", and back to waiting. We stare at the door like pups tied to a street sign, waiting for their owner to emerge again from Starbucks. Anxiously we await, the energy growing slightly more frenzied with every open and close of the door.
Finally, The Man In Charge Of The Door moves the barrier to allow more room. "Hurrah!" I think to myself, "Now is my chance to get a spot in front!"
Obviously, I am not the only one to have this thought. The crowd single-mindedly surges forward, the rear-momentum causing the front of the mob to crush against the barrier even though they have stopped moving. At this, the face of The Man In Charge Of The Door contorts into a terrifying rage as he threatens to whisk Mr. Pacino straight into his car from the door, or worse, make him take a different exit out of the building unless we STOP. PUSHING!
He makes his threat over and over, "IF I SEE ANYONE PUSHING HE DOES NOT COME OUT!" Eyeing each of us, one by one, shame washing over me when his eyes meet mine, even though I had merely been carried by the crowd (I don't push for celebs, even if they are Al Pacino. I still maintain a little civility. Ok, maybe I pushed a little). Finally he resumes his post at the door, and the dog-like concentration continues. Door opens, our tails wag...it's not him, ears droop. Open, wag, no, droop, until finally, as I am looking back towards Will (who elected to stay in the rear of the crowd and rely on his height to see) I feel a collective intake of breath which quickly explodes into a roar of delight. I turn back to the Stage Door, and there He is.
I am surprised at his small-stature. Dwarfed by his goose-down coat, he is a frail looking man who still managed to exude the energy of a twenty-something as he jumps onto the step of his waiting chariot (Suburban) to wave madly at the large crowd of fans gathered across the street. Wild wisps of hair peek out from under his skullcap, yet despite his aged face, there is no doubt that this is Tony Montana. It is fitting that he is currently "In Production" with the film "King Lear" as the title character. Here on the crowded sidewalk of 44th street, Mr. Pacino is King.
He makes his way first down one side of us, my side, signing posters and Playbills, posing for pictures, all the while a mad grin on his face, a twinkle in his eye. He moves to the other side and repeats, stopping for a moment with one fan to listen to what he has to say. I know then, that had I made my way to the front, I would most assuredly have been able to relay my father's message, and no doubt Mr. Pacino would be appreciative of the compliment. Instead, I observe it all, making my mind a video camera so I can at least replay it in as great a detail as possible. And of course, I keep my Playbill at the ready, should the opportunity to have it signed present itself. If only these people ahead of me who already got autographs would leave...
Mr. Pacino returns to my side, and we swell with the pride of a mother whose baby has just learned to poop in the potty. I watch him like a hawk, waiting for him to come closer. He kisses a young girl on the cheek eliciting the loudest cheers yet, and then, there he is, directly in front of my section. I hold my Playbill out, but he's reaching for others. I pull it back as he moves a little to the right, then back to the left and then, he's looking at me, dead in the eyes.
Making eye contact with Al Pacino was pretty rad. I felt a jolt run through me, and I was momentarily suspended from action, holding my Playbill to my chest rather than shoving it towards him. Much was said with just our eyes, however:
"Do you have something for me to sign? I don't know if I'll be able to reach it; you see how much is being thrust towards me right now, and my people are calling me to the car."
"I understand Mr. Pacino. You were fantastic tonight. And my Dad wanted me to tell you, your performance as Shylock in the film version was to him your best cinematic performance of all."
"Your Dad's alright by me. Tell him thanks, now I gotta fly!"
And with another wave to the crowd across the street, he hopped into his jet black Suburban and sped off down the street, hanging out the window and waving still....our King had taken his leave.
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Sweatshirt Situation, Part II
.....a new sweater! He did NOT wear the red hoodie! I almost keeled over from the shock. What's more, I won the bet! Carlos now owes me a diet coke.
I breathe a sigh of relief and think, maybe now everything will return to normal. While the mystery of why he wore the same sweatshirt everyday was not solved, at least it was over.
Until the following day.
That's right. Seth showed up the next day, removed his coat, and there it was. The bright red hoodie of torment. I couldn't disguise the look of horror on my face, as my ears filled with the Twilight Zone tune. The hoodie continued it's comeback again on Thursday, but Friday, Friday Seth was taking us all out to lunch as a belated Christmas celebration.
Would he wear it to that? I mean, that's sort of a thing; one would probably dress a little nicer on a day such as that. The night before, I lay in sleepless wonder....what would happen tomorrow? If he did wear it, would that be the final straw? Would I then finally have to say something? No, I couldn't! Could I? No!
Friday morning. Sitting in The Corner of Despair. If I chewed my nails, they'd be destroyed right about now. The clock ticks....I wait....here he comes!
In slow motion, Seth removes his coat to once more reveal, NOT the hoodie!
BUT!
It WAS the same sweater he wore the last time he didn't wear the hoodie. A pattern emerges!
And then, the most amazing thing happens. Something I was completely unprepared for.
Seth acknowledges the Sweatshirt Situation.
On one of his many cigarette breaks (he takes one every hour), Seth puts his coat on and makes to pull out a phantom hood from the collar. But of course, there is no hood as he did not wear the sweatshirt on this day.
To my utter astonishment, he says: "Oh, ha! I'm so used to wearing the sweatshirt, I automatically went to pull the hood out! Hahaha!"
"Ha. Ha. Ha," I manage, robotically.
"Yeah," Seth continues, "I've been wearing it a lot because it's so easy. It's just there on the chair and I just throw it on. But today, this sweater was on the chair too, and I thought since we're going out to eat I should wear something a little nicer."
I nod, confirming this idea to be well-founded. I am unable to really contribute to the convo, as I am not sure what I should say. Do I admit to noticing the sweatshirts' consistent appearance? Or play dumb? I have no precedent for this!
And then Seth lands the clincher:
"Also I thought you might kill me if I wore that sweatshirt one more day, HAHAHA!"
....what? Did he...know?? Could he read my mind? Or was my confusion and distaste written all over my face, unbeknownst to me? Again, I had no idea how to respond to this, so I just didn't, other than another robotic laugh, "Ha. Ha. Ha." And with that I turned to my computer, and Seth went out for his smoke.
Come Monday, the hoodie of course returned. But now the mystery was solved. Now I knew it was pure laziness that kept it coming back.
Things changed, Seth began rotating the hoodie with the sweater, and life carried on.
One day, Seth wears an entirely new sweatshirt. It is identical to the red hoodie, except in color. This hoodie is white. At first it seems there will now be a 3-article rotation, but alas, such is not the case. The white hoodie takes the lead, and has now been worn for 8 days straight. But I just can't care any longer.
The other day, another excuse:
"All of my other sweaters are all the way in the closet, and all stacked up...(why is this suddenly a striking issue? Have not your clothes always lived in a closet? How have you gotten this far in life, having to always trudge ALL THE WAY over to your closet, only to then have to PULL A SWEATER FROM A STACKED PILE?!?) ....
...And also, I have mice in my closet again. I am afraid if I pull a new sweater out, it will have mice poop on it."
I breathe a sigh of relief and think, maybe now everything will return to normal. While the mystery of why he wore the same sweatshirt everyday was not solved, at least it was over.
Until the following day.
That's right. Seth showed up the next day, removed his coat, and there it was. The bright red hoodie of torment. I couldn't disguise the look of horror on my face, as my ears filled with the Twilight Zone tune. The hoodie continued it's comeback again on Thursday, but Friday, Friday Seth was taking us all out to lunch as a belated Christmas celebration.
Would he wear it to that? I mean, that's sort of a thing; one would probably dress a little nicer on a day such as that. The night before, I lay in sleepless wonder....what would happen tomorrow? If he did wear it, would that be the final straw? Would I then finally have to say something? No, I couldn't! Could I? No!
Friday morning. Sitting in The Corner of Despair. If I chewed my nails, they'd be destroyed right about now. The clock ticks....I wait....here he comes!
In slow motion, Seth removes his coat to once more reveal, NOT the hoodie!
BUT!
It WAS the same sweater he wore the last time he didn't wear the hoodie. A pattern emerges!
And then, the most amazing thing happens. Something I was completely unprepared for.
Seth acknowledges the Sweatshirt Situation.
On one of his many cigarette breaks (he takes one every hour), Seth puts his coat on and makes to pull out a phantom hood from the collar. But of course, there is no hood as he did not wear the sweatshirt on this day.
To my utter astonishment, he says: "Oh, ha! I'm so used to wearing the sweatshirt, I automatically went to pull the hood out! Hahaha!"
"Ha. Ha. Ha," I manage, robotically.
"Yeah," Seth continues, "I've been wearing it a lot because it's so easy. It's just there on the chair and I just throw it on. But today, this sweater was on the chair too, and I thought since we're going out to eat I should wear something a little nicer."
I nod, confirming this idea to be well-founded. I am unable to really contribute to the convo, as I am not sure what I should say. Do I admit to noticing the sweatshirts' consistent appearance? Or play dumb? I have no precedent for this!
And then Seth lands the clincher:
"Also I thought you might kill me if I wore that sweatshirt one more day, HAHAHA!"
....what? Did he...know?? Could he read my mind? Or was my confusion and distaste written all over my face, unbeknownst to me? Again, I had no idea how to respond to this, so I just didn't, other than another robotic laugh, "Ha. Ha. Ha." And with that I turned to my computer, and Seth went out for his smoke.
Come Monday, the hoodie of course returned. But now the mystery was solved. Now I knew it was pure laziness that kept it coming back.
Things changed, Seth began rotating the hoodie with the sweater, and life carried on.
One day, Seth wears an entirely new sweatshirt. It is identical to the red hoodie, except in color. This hoodie is white. At first it seems there will now be a 3-article rotation, but alas, such is not the case. The white hoodie takes the lead, and has now been worn for 8 days straight. But I just can't care any longer.
The other day, another excuse:
"All of my other sweaters are all the way in the closet, and all stacked up...(why is this suddenly a striking issue? Have not your clothes always lived in a closet? How have you gotten this far in life, having to always trudge ALL THE WAY over to your closet, only to then have to PULL A SWEATER FROM A STACKED PILE?!?) ....
...And also, I have mice in my closet again. I am afraid if I pull a new sweater out, it will have mice poop on it."
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Sweatshirt Situation, Part I
It all began about a month ago. I try not to notice Seth. Giving him the slightest bit of attention only draws out that which I do not want to get involved in. Stories of familial drama and history, comments and criticism on, well, just about everyone and everything, descriptions of health crises, both past and present, the list goes on and on (as do the stories).
But it would be hard for anyone not to notice that Seth had been wearing the same bright red Aeoropostale sweatshirt to work everyday for about two weeks.
Seth is my boss. When the temp agency told me that the man I would be interviewing with was more interested in personality than resume/actual work experience, I was overjoyed! I had been a College Grad for almost an entire year, had sent out around 9,600 resumes and was at a point of desperation. As my friend Gil continued to encourage me to consider the sex industry, I was ready to accept anything that did not involve nudity. Or worse, Lucite heels.
What I should have taken as foreshadowing, I instead saw as my great, Big Break. I now know, that if a company has minimal interest in your work experience, the job is probably something an untrained chimpanzee could accomplish.
Anyway, the details of how I got here are a story for another day. Back to Seth and his sweatshirt.
I'll admit I noticed immediately when he wore the sweatshirt two days in a row. But I didn't think too much of it, it's a common enough occurrence. Maybe he had woken up late and grabbed the first thing he saw. Maybe he (shudder) had a booty call the night before, I don't know! The point is, it didn't affect me much.
But then he wore it again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Then it was the weekend. Monday rolls around...
The sweatshirt returned.
Now I am more than a little curious. What exactly is going on here? Thus far in my time under the employ of X Company, Seth has been, yes, extremely annoying and in no sense normal, but he did have normal hygiene. He always appeared clean and well-dressed in a casual way, and always rotated through his choice of tops.
Speaking of which, I knew it had nothing to do with a lack of options, as he frequently made online purchases from Aeoropostale ("They have free delivery!") and would tell me about them, then show his new and exciting items to me when they were delivered to the office.
So I know he's got options. Lots.
I have kept the issue to myself until this point. Maybe he's stressed preparing for his trip to his Dad's over Christmas. But when Christmas passes, and Seth returns to the office, so does the sweatshirt.
By now, the insanity of the situation is driving me, well, insane! Seth is exhibiting no displays of anything being out of the normal, and this is the guy who freely discusses his Crohns disease, his former experiences with AA(thereby defeating the "Anonymous" part of that abbreviation), getting up in the middle of the night to pee, and all of his deeply personal family drama. So if something weren't right at home, I'd know.
My time at my desk (The Corner of Despair) is now spent pondering the Sweatshirt Situation. Solving this particular mystery is all-consuming. I begin discussing the issue with my co-workers (NO help) and friends who have never even met the guy.
But nothing. There is simply no explanation. Desperation takes hold as I sit and think, "I just need to know WHY?!?!"
Gil tries to suggest ways I might just ask him about it.
"Say, 'I've noticed you've been wearing that sweatshirt a lot lately. It must be really comfortable!' Or, 'Is that your new favorite? I've noticed you wearing it a lot'."
But there is no way I can do that. Far too awkward. So I silently stew, going crazier by the minute.
On the Tuesday of the third week of this, I realize what the only logical next step for me is. It's time to place some bets.
Sitting in The Corner of Despair, I text my co-worker Carlos offering a friendly wager on the sweatshirt. He agrees, but only if he can bet that Seth WILL be wearing the sweatshirt. This is obviously where the odds lie, and I am hesitant to accept. As I will explain later, Carlos is not the type you want to have anything over you.
But a part of me thinks, he's worn the sweatshirt for 11 days in a row (that I know about; 15 if he's wearing it on weekends also). This can't go on forever, maybe today will be the day he makes a change! I accept.
And so, I am very anxious when Seth finally arrives in the office at his usual time (15-20 minutes late), and takes off his coat to reveal....
.....to be continued.
But it would be hard for anyone not to notice that Seth had been wearing the same bright red Aeoropostale sweatshirt to work everyday for about two weeks.
Seth is my boss. When the temp agency told me that the man I would be interviewing with was more interested in personality than resume/actual work experience, I was overjoyed! I had been a College Grad for almost an entire year, had sent out around 9,600 resumes and was at a point of desperation. As my friend Gil continued to encourage me to consider the sex industry, I was ready to accept anything that did not involve nudity. Or worse, Lucite heels.
What I should have taken as foreshadowing, I instead saw as my great, Big Break. I now know, that if a company has minimal interest in your work experience, the job is probably something an untrained chimpanzee could accomplish.
Anyway, the details of how I got here are a story for another day. Back to Seth and his sweatshirt.
I'll admit I noticed immediately when he wore the sweatshirt two days in a row. But I didn't think too much of it, it's a common enough occurrence. Maybe he had woken up late and grabbed the first thing he saw. Maybe he (shudder) had a booty call the night before, I don't know! The point is, it didn't affect me much.
But then he wore it again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Then it was the weekend. Monday rolls around...
The sweatshirt returned.
Now I am more than a little curious. What exactly is going on here? Thus far in my time under the employ of X Company, Seth has been, yes, extremely annoying and in no sense normal, but he did have normal hygiene. He always appeared clean and well-dressed in a casual way, and always rotated through his choice of tops.
Speaking of which, I knew it had nothing to do with a lack of options, as he frequently made online purchases from Aeoropostale ("They have free delivery!") and would tell me about them, then show his new and exciting items to me when they were delivered to the office.
So I know he's got options. Lots.
I have kept the issue to myself until this point. Maybe he's stressed preparing for his trip to his Dad's over Christmas. But when Christmas passes, and Seth returns to the office, so does the sweatshirt.
By now, the insanity of the situation is driving me, well, insane! Seth is exhibiting no displays of anything being out of the normal, and this is the guy who freely discusses his Crohns disease, his former experiences with AA(thereby defeating the "Anonymous" part of that abbreviation), getting up in the middle of the night to pee, and all of his deeply personal family drama. So if something weren't right at home, I'd know.
My time at my desk (The Corner of Despair) is now spent pondering the Sweatshirt Situation. Solving this particular mystery is all-consuming. I begin discussing the issue with my co-workers (NO help) and friends who have never even met the guy.
But nothing. There is simply no explanation. Desperation takes hold as I sit and think, "I just need to know WHY?!?!"
Gil tries to suggest ways I might just ask him about it.
"Say, 'I've noticed you've been wearing that sweatshirt a lot lately. It must be really comfortable!' Or, 'Is that your new favorite? I've noticed you wearing it a lot'."
But there is no way I can do that. Far too awkward. So I silently stew, going crazier by the minute.
On the Tuesday of the third week of this, I realize what the only logical next step for me is. It's time to place some bets.
Sitting in The Corner of Despair, I text my co-worker Carlos offering a friendly wager on the sweatshirt. He agrees, but only if he can bet that Seth WILL be wearing the sweatshirt. This is obviously where the odds lie, and I am hesitant to accept. As I will explain later, Carlos is not the type you want to have anything over you.
But a part of me thinks, he's worn the sweatshirt for 11 days in a row (that I know about; 15 if he's wearing it on weekends also). This can't go on forever, maybe today will be the day he makes a change! I accept.
And so, I am very anxious when Seth finally arrives in the office at his usual time (15-20 minutes late), and takes off his coat to reveal....
.....to be continued.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Why you should never Facebook your family...
Scrolling down the feed this morning, I come across my Uncle's post. Oh, it seems he's taken one of those quizzes that tell you extremely useful information about yourself, like, what breed of dog you most resemble. Let's have a look!
"What Sex Position Fits Your Style? Lizard Lock!"
It then goes on to explain what a "Lizard Lock" is, but I wasn't able to read it, as I had run to the bathroom to vomit.
No one wants to see an erotic photo of a man and woman right next to a photo of their jolly, old Uncle who has recently started dating a nice lady...
In actuality, NO ONE should be posting results to a quiz like that publicly on facebook. But especially not my Uncle.
"What Sex Position Fits Your Style? Lizard Lock!"
It then goes on to explain what a "Lizard Lock" is, but I wasn't able to read it, as I had run to the bathroom to vomit.
No one wants to see an erotic photo of a man and woman right next to a photo of their jolly, old Uncle who has recently started dating a nice lady...
In actuality, NO ONE should be posting results to a quiz like that publicly on facebook. But especially not my Uncle.
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