28 August 2006
17 August 2006
Catchy
Most mornings, it seems, I wake up with a song wedged in my brain. Sometimes it's a song that I listened to during the weekend prior, or heard in a cafe or out a car window. But much (if not most) of the time, the song is seemingly a completely random pop selection that I don't even own a recording of.
This morning, for example, it was that creepy Michael Jackson "Somebody's Watching Me" song. On Tuesday, it was "Once In a Lifetime" by the Talking Heads - one of those weekend listenings that resurfaces in my head a few days later. Earlier this week, it was "Holiday" by Madonna. I only know one or two lines from each of these songs, but that doesn't stop their catchy hooks from spending the morning running laps in my brain.
My latest theory is that Sutter implanted an XM radio in my head, which he now uses to tune into the Casey Kasem American Top 40 reruns while I sleep.
This morning, for example, it was that creepy Michael Jackson "Somebody's Watching Me" song. On Tuesday, it was "Once In a Lifetime" by the Talking Heads - one of those weekend listenings that resurfaces in my head a few days later. Earlier this week, it was "Holiday" by Madonna. I only know one or two lines from each of these songs, but that doesn't stop their catchy hooks from spending the morning running laps in my brain.
My latest theory is that Sutter implanted an XM radio in my head, which he now uses to tune into the Casey Kasem American Top 40 reruns while I sleep.
14 August 2006
It should be said aloud
To say it directly, rather than the dancing around the issue as I've been doing for months, Jason and I are moving to New Zealand. I couldn't discuss it openly while we were still in the planning stages, because I didn't want the people at my current place of employment to somehow find out on the internet. As of Friday, however, the appropriate people have been notified, and I can therefore blog about it all I want.
I'm moving to New Zealand.
I'm moving to New Zealand?
I'M MOVING TO NEW ZEALAND!
...Next month. The target date is September 28th, but we haven't purchased the plane tickets as of yet. Currently we are in the stages of gathering the required assessments, clearances and paperwork. There's also a lot of figuring out to do when it comes to the logistics of the move, such as what we're taking with us and how the hell we're going to get it across the Pacific Ocean.
You can check out our New Zealand Bound blog, geared towards our friends and family, for more specific details about the whole process.
I'm moving to New Zealand.
I'm moving to New Zealand?
I'M MOVING TO NEW ZEALAND!
...Next month. The target date is September 28th, but we haven't purchased the plane tickets as of yet. Currently we are in the stages of gathering the required assessments, clearances and paperwork. There's also a lot of figuring out to do when it comes to the logistics of the move, such as what we're taking with us and how the hell we're going to get it across the Pacific Ocean.
You can check out our New Zealand Bound blog, geared towards our friends and family, for more specific details about the whole process.
07 August 2006
05 August 2006
Pardon my French, but go motherfucking fish
One of the many duties of my current job involves phone support for the web. This is ridiculous in any number of ways, but one of the worst things I encounter on a weekly, if not daily, basis is the disturbing chill sent through my body each time an old man on the other end of the line starts to call me pet names. It strikes some kind of innate feminist funny bone and I immediately start to scan my office, searching for some kind of fantastic go-go-gadget that could cover the distance to Arkansas or wherever-the-hell to knock this dude square in the nuts.
I mean, you're the one who doesn't know your own e-mail address. You don't understand what "logging in" means, or so much as know which web browser you're using, or why I'm asking about cookies and are they chocolate chip or oatmeal? Isn't it amazing the way the internet is made of tubes?
Don't pull out your dust-laden personal library of pet names, or talk to me like you've just rented me out for an hour and want to start right in with the daddy complex, or tell me how you're going to come all the way out to California to kiss my neck no matter how big and bad my husband or boyfriend is, after I've helped your backwoods, wrinkled, computer illiterate ass. I don't get paid to answer phones so you can patronize me. This isn't a 900 number. Motherfucker.
On the other hand, I occasionally get delightful people on the other end of the line. Today, for example, I was helping a nice man whose 5-year-old was begging him to play cards. As I was working on his membership issue, I got to listen in on a very intense game of Go Fish.
"Do you have any twoooooos?"
I mean, you're the one who doesn't know your own e-mail address. You don't understand what "logging in" means, or so much as know which web browser you're using, or why I'm asking about cookies and are they chocolate chip or oatmeal? Isn't it amazing the way the internet is made of tubes?
Don't pull out your dust-laden personal library of pet names, or talk to me like you've just rented me out for an hour and want to start right in with the daddy complex, or tell me how you're going to come all the way out to California to kiss my neck no matter how big and bad my husband or boyfriend is, after I've helped your backwoods, wrinkled, computer illiterate ass. I don't get paid to answer phones so you can patronize me. This isn't a 900 number. Motherfucker.
On the other hand, I occasionally get delightful people on the other end of the line. Today, for example, I was helping a nice man whose 5-year-old was begging him to play cards. As I was working on his membership issue, I got to listen in on a very intense game of Go Fish.
"Do you have any twoooooos?"
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