Monday, May 31, 2004

therapy

Quite possibly, due to a residual post-wedding hang-over, feelings of loneliness have set up shop on my psyche. The same thing happened a few years back when my little brother got married, then, the very next day, my kid sister got engaged. A whole whirlwind of feelings led me to my first, and only, trip to a therapist.

I went in for the hour session, told Dr. Harvey why I was there, and he began reminiscing about his failed marriage with his first wife. Why they got married. Why it went wrong. The way he felt when it went wrong. Why he felt that he felt the way he felt when it went wrong and how he imagined his wife felt about the way he felt. As I sat there, I began wondering who, exactly, was the person in therapy and if he really shouldn't have been paying me.

As we entered into the third year of Dr. Harvey's marriage, I interrupted and asked, "Isn't this session supposed to be about me?"

"Of course it is," Harvey responded, "I'm just providing you with some background so you can understand that your problem is one shared by many people." He then proceeded to talk for the remainder of the hour.

With the final minutes of my session ticking down, Dr. Harvey told me he really thought that I needed to see him again...quite an insight considering I barely got a word in during the tale of his failed marriage.

I told him I really didn't think it was necessary.

He told me I was depressed.

I told him that, I really didn't feel depressed. In truth, after listening to his story for the past hour, I felt quite relieved that I wasn't him. His life was much more of a mess than mine.

He told me that I wasn't the doctor...he was. And who could better identify depression than a trained professional? He told me that I really was depressed and needed to see him again the very next week. I told him that I'd call his secretary and schedule an appointment, then quickly left.

I never did call. I figured that regardless of whether he wanted to talk more about his ex-wife, or whether he had another payment due on his Porsche, Dr. Harvey was going to have to get along without me.

One result of all this, though, was the need to start fresh somewhere new, which led to a sudden move south to DC. And now, that 'new start' itch has started itching again. I moved back because Pittsburgh is where my family is. Pittsburgh is where I want to stay...right?

But then again, Boston has always seemed like a pretty interesting place...

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Sunday, May 30, 2004

my date with jack

Two weddings in the past month have led me to realize something. I hate weddings. I hate the bouquet, and the cutesy little place cards, and the fancy center pieces on each table, and the candle light accompanied by your standard variety disco mix and line dances that every DJ seems to have on stock for these occasions. Because when you get right down to it, weddings are strictly meant for couples. Married couples relive their own weddings. Engaged couples fantasize about their upcoming weddings. Even couples who are dating, despite the fact that they may have no intention of ever committing to their date, get caught up in the moment, swept away by all those swooning eyes being shot all around the room.

And when they called for all the single guys to come out and catch the garter belt, I could be found firmly entrenched at the bar, with my hands all over a nice smooth glass of Jack Daniels. I caught word that my cousin is very likely going to propose to his girlfriend soon, which will mean another wedding next year.

I have a hunch that, once again, Jack will be my date for the evening.

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Saturday, May 29, 2004

proper i.d. required

Last night, I headed out with Randy and Craig to a bar/restaurant called 'The Clubhouse'. Basically, if you took a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant, added alcohol, and then touted yourself as a 'family' restaurant where single folks could still come to drink and try out their latest pick-up lines, you'd have a decent description of The Clubhouse. Also included here were some games in various states of disrepair, such as Skee-ball, pool tables, dart boards, and a few video games.

The Clubhouse, which doesn't seem to know which crowd they want to target, allow kids, teens, adults, senior citizens...and everybody, entrance into their establishment. But only those people over 21 have access to the bar and the skee-ball/pool hall/dart board area.

We arrived and, to gain access to the little bar area, I.D.s were required, which Randy and I had. Craig, however, had decided not to have his drivers' license renewed once it had expired. "I'm not going to let 'The Man' dictate what I need in order to drive," he told us.

So, the small, beefy bouncer refused to let Craig up to the bar. Craig pulled out his social security card. The bouncer said, with a smirk, 'no picture on it. You're not getting in.'

Now, Craig is not one of these 30 year olds that look 18. Rather, he pretty much looks 30. Still, for whatever reason, be it abuse in a former life or just the need to jerk someone around, the bouncer wasn't budging. Randy bought drinks, and Craig walked around the side of the bar to the skee-ball/pool hall/dart board area, clearly violating the little sign that read 'no one under 21 beyond this point'.

We had just started playing darts when suddenly Mr. Bouncer reappears. He walks up to Craig and says, 'you can't be back here. Only people over 21 and you don't have I.D.' Craig asked to see the manager and, after the manager came over, Craig started pleading his case. The end compromise, he could stay and finish his dart game, then must retreat to the all-ages section.

The whole time this little scene was playing out, however, two young girls were right next to us playing skee-ball. Now, I'm no great whiz at guessing anybody's age, but there is no way that these girls were a day over 10. And not a word was said to them about being in the 'over 21 area', while Craig, who is clearly not a day under 28, was being forced out.

Doubtful that these ten year old girls had some killer fake I.D.s, Craig pointed out to the manager that not a word was said to them about their presence in the 'Over 21' area as Randy and I made comments about how cruel it was for Craig, this grumpy old man, to request that these poor girls be kicked off of their Skee-ball game. The manager, ignoring Randy and I, made the two girls leave.

We also left, and spent the rest of the night at a different bar. One that accepts social security cards as valid forms of I.D. and where grumpy old men can drink in peace, unfettered from the annoying noise of kids playing Skee-Ball.

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Wednesday, May 26, 2004

words of eloquence

While I don't fancy myself a good writer by any stretch of the imagination, I still feel that you can use words to eloquently convey any meaning, emotion, or mind set without the need to utilize clichés or certain four letter words (or certain twelve letter words if you count the word 'mother' before a certain four letter word and the letters 'er' at the end of that same four letter word.)

This being said, I am now fucked.

I went out to a bar with a few co-workers after work today. As the evening wore on, Nancy and I were the last in the bar. Now past happenings and little comments had me wondering if perhaps Nancy was interested in me as an 'after work' friend rather than just a 9 to 5 friend. Well, tonight I got my answer. And it's clearly more than work related business that she's interested in.

Which is good, because she really is incredibly sweet, funny, and quite attractive. Of course, there is still Lindsey, who I also work with and has also has shown an 'outside of the office' interest. And I think it is safe to say that I am now treading on some very thin ice which is sitting atop some very shark infested waters.

I like them both. And they both work with me in the same small office. So, clearly, this is a recipe for disaster. And even though no roles or rules have been set down and no firm commitments have been drawn up, I don't feel any better about the brick wall that I'm rapidly heading for.

So the road just became more treacherous. And, undoubtedly, I am bound to go careening over the edge sooner or later. And the minute I break through that guardrail and begin that little free fall into the valley below, I know exactly what thought will be crossing through my mind...
I am now fucked.

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Monday, May 24, 2004

what did i miss?

When you consider that I have a body which will never make it onto anyone's hot-list, anywhere in the world, I can say, quite positively, that my eyes are actually very sexy. The one, and only, thing about me that may provide even the slightest chance at nabbing Sarah Michelle Gellar. The problem with my gorgeous eyes is that they don't work nearly well enough. In truth, I can't see a thing with them. Granted, contacts help greatly, but once I pop those suckers out, the world becomes nothing but strangely colored blobs. Remove the contacts, and even on the off chance that Sarah Michelle would shoot me a 'come hither' glance from three feet away, I'd never see it. I'd never even know it was her. And worse, in my weakened state of eyesight, I'd end up going home with the likes of Rosie O'Donnell. Of course, even without the eyesight, my sense of touch isn't all that bad, so at least I'd figure out the quality of woman that I walked away with.

So the whole laser eye surgery has seemed very attractive for some time. And now, just this morning in fact, some woman who was legally blind went through this new 'amazing' surgery to restore her eyesight perfectly. As touted by Charlie Gibson, 'she'll be seeing her husband for the first time ever!' And I can't help but feel very sorry for that poor guy.

The way I see it, the whole point of marrying a blind girl is that she can't see you. Double chins, uni-brow, pimple rampant forehead...none of it matters. Gaining weight? She'll know, but she won't see the resulting doughy face. Pick lint out of your belly button, scratch your balls at that expensive restaurant, eat that pork chop that just fell on the kitchen floor...which you haven't swept since you've moved in...and you never once have to worry that she'll catch you in the act. But now, all of a sudden, she's going to see you for the first time. Every clogged pore. Every yellow tinted tooth. Every disgusting thing that you've done right in front of her and have never been caught. And now you're screwed buddy. Join the gym, toss the ratty, pit-stained clothes you've been wearing for the past fifteen years, and start picking up your underwear off the floor, because the minute she got her eyesight back, your party ended.

But for me, that surgery would be heaven. Because on that off chance that I wake up one morning to find a group of naked Playboy bunnies jogging down my street, I don't want to have to reach for my glasses before I run to the window to check out the parade.

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Sunday, May 23, 2004

a tank full of grandma

Last time I stopped at the gas station it cost me $30 to fill up my tank. The fact that I tend to wait until my car is running on fumes doesn't really help reduce the cost of this task, but it did get me thinking that the whole discussion of fossil fuels always came up in every elementary science class that I ever taught. And upon learning that fossil fuels, and gasoline, were actually made from the remains of prehistoric dead stuff ('stuff' being the accurate scientific term) meaning dinosaurs and plants...but mostly plants, always brought about the same reactions from the kids. The first always being, 'Ew, gross', the second, was almost always the exact same question...'so if gas is made from dead stuff, why can't we dig up all those dead people and use them for gas?'.

So of course I'd explain about the differing conditions of the Earth millions of years ago, extreme pressure from the Earth piling up on those poor dead dinos, and so on...but really, who's to say that in future years we won't all end up as some type of fossil fuel? Maybe not gasoline or coal exactly, but maybe we'll end up being the stuff that fuels those futuristic Jetson cars. All of those preservatives, and chemicals, and radiation that we've been absorbing for years and years...I bet we'd make one kick ass fuel someday!

And to think, someday the family may load up into the car and zoom off to the gas station all excited about filling their tank full of grandma!

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Saturday, May 22, 2004

time

I was watching the movie Tootsie tonight and was reminded ofI just how beautiful Teri Garr used to be. Gorgeous of the drop dead variety. And then I think of how she looks now. Top of the heap straight to the bottom in about 30 years. And it's depressing how cruel time can be. Teri Garr is the perfect example of why the invention of time was such a bad idea.

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Friday, May 21, 2004

i am that dog

Lindsey, of wonderful first date fame, continues to maintain my smitten-ness. After a lovely time with her last weekend, the feared awkwardness didn't appear this week at work, which was good.

Then enters Natalie, another girl I work with, who has fast been creating a soft spot in my otherwise gelatin-esque mind. Actually, I thought Natalie was cute right from the new job start, but Lindsey ended up taking center stage. Both pretty much get my burger to the sizzling phase, but personality-wise, they are very much a different breed of girl.

And here is where I have historically mucked things up. I'm consistently drawn to the wrong type of woman. Always. Without fail. It's a sickness, I realize, yet I do it, and do it again, and do it yet again. Much like the stupid little dog next door that always runs face first, smack into the storm door when you ring the doorbell. Every time. Always. Without fail. A lifetime of sore schnozzes, simply because the stupid mutt doesn't wise up. I am that dog.

So on one hand we have Lindsey. My glass plated storm door. Who will surely draw blood. She's loud, brash, wild, funny, spontaneous, and, possibly, a bit unstable. Then there's Natalie. She's demure, soft spoken, sweet, and undersells herself in that charming little way that cute girls do when they don't realize that they're cute.

And Lindsey has me hooked.

I always go for this type of girl. And I always end up getting tossed, beaten, flattened and finally stomped deep into the ground. I know this. It's the story of my whole dating existence. Yet that doorbell rings, and I just can't seem to stop. Lindsey suggested we get together on Sunday. I'll go, of this I'm sure. But, I've been spending lunch with Natalie everyday and she's asked me to go to a party with her in a few weeks. I'll be going. Perhaps she's just asking as a 'friend'. I'm hoping not. And, if Natalie's invitation is more than a 'friendly' party invitation, I'm also hoping that I'll choose correctly for once. But I'm dubious.

For me, though, Lindsey's type is like nicotine, caffeine, chocolate, and potato chips all rolled into one. I'm hooked, addicted and just can't stop myself from heading straight to that aisle of the grocery store. Yet perhaps with the right amount of self-hypnosis, rubbing of rabbits' feet, and a little bit of magic pixie dust, I'll kick the habit and pick the girl that just might make me happy for a good long while.

Now if I could only get my feet to stop before I hit that damn door again.

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Tuesday, May 18, 2004

honesty is my virtue

In an effort to be a better American, I am abiding by those crazy RIAA kids' rules. I mean, really, who are we to rip off these rich singers, filthy rich record producers, and disgustingly, gut busting fat cat label presidents. Don't they have to eat just like the rest of us? So, in support of all this file sharing that many of you law breakers are doing, I am vowing celibacy on the music sharing front. From now on, nothing but honest songs for me. With this in mind, I traveled to my local used CD store this past weekend and purchased a CD. I then made my 'legal' one copy for my computer hard drive...all in accordance with RIAA stipulations and international law. While the CD wasn't too bad, I'm not certain that it was worth the $8 that I paid for it. This being said, I plan on returning the CD for a full refund, and perhaps purchase another one that is more to my liking, and make my legal copy of that CD for my hard drive. Of course, by that time, I may have reconsidered this CD too, at which point I'll most likely return it.

Thank you RIAA for making an honest American out of me!

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Sunday, May 16, 2004

just as I feared

Well, this is what I was afraid of. It was a date.

And it was wonderful.

Pool, dinner, then off to see a co-worker's band play at a little bar. Along the way, casual brushes, hugs, and soft touches. Very promising signs.

After the band, we headed home and somehow got onto the highway headed in the wrong direction. About thirty minutes later, we realized that we had no idea where we were. 45 miles away from the city, lost at three o'clock in the morning, and tired, we decided that we would get a motel room. Yes, that's right, a motel room. Although it would be interesting to turn this into a penthouse-esque story at this point, I must say that it's not how it happened. Yes we got a room. And yes, we shared a bed. And yes, clothes stayed on...well, mostly. We shared a kiss. We fell asleep in each others arms. And held, caressed, dozed, and talked until noon.

And regardless of where things go from here and how the work situation will now develop, this, our first date which lasted about 18 hours, can be summed up this way;

Wonderful.

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Friday, May 14, 2004

about to step in it

Four weeks into the new job, and already I'm about to walk right into a mess. A huge, sticky, potentially pitfall plagued problem of a mess. Yet I can't seem to get my feet to stop.

It's a relatively small office. When I started, all of the people seemed nice enough...but what has ended up happening is that, in seeing these people everyday, some have started to grow on me. Especially some of the ladies in the office. Especially one lady, in particular. And I'll be damned if the sight of her doesn't brighten my mood a little. I find myself inventing reasons to walk by her desk and, by now, I'm pretty much smitten, and rapidly headed toward full-blown smite. This has happened to me before...and it never ends well. Office romances and me just don't mix.

None of this would matter, except for the fact that this girl who is spending more and more time in the back of my mind, has asked me out. And, knowing the risks, the mess that may very well result, and the likely office gossip, I made the only logical, rational response I knew that I could make.

I said yes.

I can't help but think that I'm walking right into the middle of the jungle wearing pants made of raw meat. And after a brief review of my past history with work related flings, this is quite an accurate depiction. I'm about to step in it. But is this stopping me? Nope, I'm pretty much running full steam ahead. Straight into that cow pasture.

On the other hand, this act of 'asking me out' may not be a date at all. She may end up having several friends along with her when I pick her up tomorrow night, making it very clear that a night alone with me is not what she had in mind at all. Relief? Not even close. If this turns out to be the case, I'm going to be extremely disappointed, dejected, and down-trodden. Because despite what I know will end up happening, I've already checked my logic at the door and am all already for the inevitable explosion and aftermath to follow. But I'm fully expecting to enjoy the show while it lasts.

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Thursday, May 13, 2004

works of fiction

A fruitless day at work...

10:00 am: I got Hal Willis' file and had to verify that he was currently working where he said he was. I called the company at the phone number he listed and was greeted with this message, 'Hi. This is Hal Willis, and I ain't home. Leave me a message. Later.' As I later found out, the company that Hal said he worked at was fictitious and the number was for his cell phone. Rule number one when lying on your resume: make sure that you change your answering machine to at least match your imaginary job.

1:43 pm: I had the pleasure of talking to Rosa. She listed on her application that she graduated with an associates degree back in 1977. One call to the school was all it took to find out that Rosa had been taking one class about every two years and then dropped out completely in 1985. She never got a degree. I called her to find out about her attendance in school (and to find out about her past three jobs that she had listed...two of which were mysteriously 'out of business' and the last one had no records of her ever having worked there). So I asked Rosa, 'the school can't seem to find your records...did you graduate in 1977?' After a long, quiet pause, Rosa said, 'yes. Look, I gotta go, I was about to mow the lawn.'

4:48 pm: Before I left for the day, Curtis, who I had called earlier because the high school that he went to claimed that he had never graduated, returned my call. I had phoned him last week and asked him to fax me a copy of his diploma so that I could forward it to the school so that they could verify it so that Curtis would be considered for the job opening. I answered the phone and Curtis told me, 'I already got that job. So, if you want to call the school, go ahead, but I'm not going bother looking to find my diploma for you.'

Ah yes, another worthy applicant back in the workforce.

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Monday, May 10, 2004

all the wonderful smells

Now that my little bout of self pity has past, I'm feeling quite refreshed. I came to terms with my birthday blues, by which I mean drank, and now I'm feeling much better.

A slight relapse did occur, however, during class this evening, due simply to the fact that I had to sit through three mind numbing hours. However, our professor totaled 188 uses of the word 'okay', tonight, which averages about 63 okays per hour. This, compared to the 50 okays per hour that she averaged last week...so she's obvious improving in this respect, if not in the actual 'teaching' respect. And you know when you start doing math to quell boredom, things must be bleak. Along these lines, I calculated that 1/209,664 of my life was wasted tonight by sitting in that class for three hours. In short, class stunk.

And speaking of stink, it was always around this time of the school year, that I had to give my annual 'deodorant' talk. Because, come spring, a classroom full of sixth graders can become quite funky. They always seemed to be on a fifth grade bathing schedule, but their bodies were producing a seventh grade stench. My ode to deodorant basically consisted of high praise for all the deodorant companies of the world...claiming that the likes of Sure and Right Guard were possibly the glue that held society together. If ever a person was more deserving of becoming the national deodorant spokesperson, this person was surely me. I pointed out the wide array of pretty colors and wonderful smells to choose from, in both the roll-on and spray varieties. Sadly, though, this speech of mine usually fell upon deaf ears, the typical sixth grade view point being that while 'the rest of the class stinks, surely he doesn't mean me'.

So while my brain cells are quickly dying out by taking classes, at least my nasal passages are more healthy since I no longer teach them.

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Saturday, May 08, 2004

once the candles are blown

32. This is now the official number of years that I have been breathing oxygen on this planet. Somewhere in the vicinity of your mid-twenties, birthdays just stop becoming an enjoyable event. Toward your late twenties, they start becoming tinged with depression. By now, that tinge has become quite vivid. A decade ago, I was just graduating from college. And entering grad school. Things looked pretty bright. Still a lot of time to find the love of my life, find a job I loved, and make some serious money while doing it. But, alas, life just don't seem to work out how you'd like most of the time.

So here I sit. 32. Alone. Making peanuts. Back in college working for a degree that won't help me get further along. And to top it all off, I'm just feeling so old lately.

I spent a subdued birthday with just family this year. My mom, who's an incredibly wonderful lady, insisted that I blow out the candles on my cake. (She insists on making me, my three brothers, and one sister a cake every year for our birthdays, age and waist-line be damned...and candles are considered to be law). So, because of the required wish prior to blowing, I made my standard and long running secret plea...that this year be 'my' year. The year that everything comes together, and comes up roses. The fact that this has been an oft repeated and, as of yet, unfulfilled wish, I'm not holding my breath.

Rather, I just stuffed myself full of cake.

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Friday, May 07, 2004

fun and games

I got out of the car today and noticed a bunch of kids playing with sticks and throwing some pinecones around in the yard across the street. One of their mothers' stepped out of the front door and yelled, 'put those sticks and pinecones down! It's all fun and games until someone pokes an eye out!"

Personally, I've never understood this. In my opinion, the fun and games don't really begin until somebody gets an eye poked out.

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Thursday, May 06, 2004

working for mom

Today, Ron's application stopped at my desk. Ron was looking for janitorial work at a local hospital. In checking over his application, I saw that he had listed his last place of employment as having 'closed down', but had given a number for Ms. Gray, his boss there. I dialed the number and got this message on someone's voice mail: 'hi, this is Betina Jackson, leave me a message'. Interestingly enough, Jackson was Ron's last name too. And, to make matters even more suspicious, Ron's home phone number was the same number for Ms. Gray. I decided I'd better call Ron to shed some light on what was going on here.

Me: 'Ron, I've got a question about your last job. It says here that your boss' name was Gray, but the phone number you gave us was for Betina Jackson.'
Ron: 'Yeah, she's my momma. She owned the place. Her maiden name was Gray, that's why I wrote that down.'
Me: 'Yes, but Ron, you can't list your mother as a reference. We need to talk to someone who isn't related to you because your mom can't really give us a fair assessment of the kind of work that you do.'
Ron: 'Okay, here's a number for Miss Riley. She was my boss too. You can call her.'

The number was busy when I called, but I have a strange feeling that I'm going to get to meet Ron's aunt real soon.

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Wednesday, May 05, 2004

wanda the waitress

For one of the background checks I did today, I had to call this little, locally owned Chinese restaurant in Arizona. A girl named Wanda had applied for a job at a hotel, and I was in the process of checking her past employment history. I asked for Julie, the owner, who turned out to be a Chinese woman with a tiny little voice, and asked her about Wanda.

"Wanda?" Julie said, "She work here many years ago, right? She a waitress? Oh my, she not very good...I remember that she always sick. She never come in because she say she was sick. She do this many times. I call her to see if she okay, and her family say she fine. Then, for while, she start coming in again. But her friends, they come when she at work and she just leave with them. It very terrible, because I have no one to wait on tables because she just leave. Then one day, she don't show up. I call her family, they say she sick. And I never see her again. Oh my, she was not very good. Sorry, but I don't want to hire her back again."

As I'm trying to explain to Julie that Wanda doesn't want to work for her again, but that she's applied to another company, Julie interrupts me and says, "But this was many years ago...I think it was Wanda, but it might be some other waitress back then. I can't remember which girl was Wanda."

I just wrote this one off as 'record retrieval inconsistencies' and went to lunch.

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Tuesday, May 04, 2004

mondays have just found a whole new way to suck

International Business is the new class I will be attending for the next eight Monday nights. Just another in the continuing saga of 'what the hell was I thinking?' I knew this new class was not going to rate on either the 'fun' or the 'interesting' list as soon as the professor walked in; namely because the temperature in the room dropped a good 15 degrees the minute this lady entered. She's like the Dr. Kevorkian of professors, killing off any interest, enthusiasm or excitement that existed before. Not that I possessed any of these before...so it was sort of like trying to kill the dead, but I digress.

She threw around her credentials a good bit, mentioned her thesis paper for her MBA about three or four times, and talked about how she worked in Mexico for a year before the company (or 'the bastards' as she referred to them) laid her off.

She also is quite fond of the word 'okay', which she says at least once a minute. I know this for a fact because I started tallying them when boredom threatened to put me into an imminent coma. So for the next seven weeks, this will be my Monday night excitement.

Excitement that may end up being very similar to having Rosie O'Donnell serenade me with show tunes while tossing lit matches at my kerosene soaked body.

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Monday, May 03, 2004

abandonment issues

Yes, today has brought about issues of abandonment for me. Several weeks ago, I stubbed my toe. Not just an average stub. This was a code red stub. My toe was severely sore. But I suffered through the pain with only a modicum of shed tears...because if there is one thing that I am, it's tough. And brave. But mostly tough. But, alas, my toenail proved not to be as tough as I am. And today, shortly after exiting the shower, my toenail departed from this world. Being that this is the first toenail I've lost, the whole ordeal was quite devastating. Unfortunately, I find even the healthiest of toenails to be rather disgusting, let only recently departed toenails, so the eulogy was brief, and then it was put to rest in the trash can. Right next to a stack of rejection letters.

Toenail, you've served me well and will be sorely missed. And your replacement, which is coming in quite nicely, by the way, will have some mighty big socks to fill.

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Sunday, May 02, 2004

rejection letter #899

So I have a job now and really shouldn't be complaining. But still, in the last week, I've gotten a slew of rejection letters from jobs that I had applied to before this one was offered. And despite my current 'employed' status, these letters are still taking a chunk of my ego with every envelope that I tear open. Truth is, I'm being rejected by jobs that I can't even remember having applied for!

Of all these rejections, though, the one that stung the most was from Crappy Calls, a company that I had applied to back in early February. I pretty much considered this job to be a lock because my brother-in-law works there. That, and they were very short handed having had someone quit back in January. And despite the fact that this was the job where one of the managers never showed up for my interview, I was secretly confident that the job would be mine.

Over the course of two interviews, I spent a total of 6 hours with these people...and while they were really dragging their feet in hiring someone, I was still quite sure that, eventually, the job would be mine.

And then a letter came in the mail a few days ago.

"Thank you for your interest in Crappy Calls. While we found your credentials to be impressive, we have decided to select a candidate that better suits our needs at this time."

A better candidate?!? To answer phones?! Because really, that's what the job was...a glorified operator! So in talking to my brother-in-law, it turns out that the owner of the company, this 80 year old guy, has decided that he is only going to hire people with engineering degrees. Because everyone knows that you major in engineering to answer phones for $24,000 a year.

I realize that I'm probably better off without this job, but I should have been the one who got to reject them! After almost three months of being strung along, I was so looking forward to that job offer so I could send them a letter which read:

"Thank you for your interest in me. While I find your company impressive, I have decided to go with one that better suits my needs. Good luck with your search, and you can all bite my ass."

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Saturday, May 01, 2004

just a voice

There's this lady DJ on a local station here in Pittsburgh, and her voice is just the sexiest, sultriest thing you've ever heard. Though, the main problem with being 'just a voice' is just that...it's only a voice. Needless to say, a mental image begins to form around this voice, such as with this DJ, who I imagined to be a very sexy lady to fit around her sexy voice. Sexy green eyes. Flaxen hair. Slim, svelte, curvy in all the right places. Just an all around yummy image.

Then I saw a picture of her in the newspaper and the image was long gone. Granted, there was no color, but those beautiful eyes? Small and beady. And the gorgeous hair? It resembled grandma's perm. And instead of slim, svelte and curvy she was droopy, dumpy, and bloated. And I realize that if you're on the radio, you're probably on it for a reason, and that reason isn't due to looks. Still, you can't help getting an image in your mind to match the voice...especially when that voice is oh, so enticing.

And this is my main problem with internet dating and being set up on blind dates, I'm introduced to the voice long before the person. Despite my inward groans and thoughts of 'why did I agree to this', that little sliver of expectation always pries its way into my mind. The thought that maybe she'll be the one...which is a first date expectation that nobody can live up to it.

It's a system that is set up for failure right from the outset. This first meeting, you're hoping for (even if you keep telling yourself that you're not really hoping for) instant chemistry...complete with butterflies in the stomach, tingling shivers, and sparks. Lots of sparks. Not many people can live up to this.

And those few people that can produce weak knees in people of the opposite sex? I'd bet that they're not looking to be set up with a friend of a friend, or looking for love on the internet. Me? I'm not a spark-inducing kind of guy. I'm much more of a very slow-burn kind of guy. It's takes awhile for me to get under someone's skin. Of course, it takes most girls awhile to get under my skin too, so I can live with my non-sparkiness.

With the pressure so high on this first 'date', everyone fails. I've been reduced to a dating pan-handler...asking people I know if they can spare a friend. And internet dating has rejection built into the system. Because if people were succeeding, would they keep paying $40 a month to browse singles on-line? Internet dating? It's really nothing more than high tech rejection paid for in monthly installments.

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