Well, I did buy that swimsuit. I guess I am now Frank. Frank is an extra large Chinese woman, FYI.
I’m trying. Really. A friend of mine says that the world tears you down when you’ve got a blessing coming. The more tribulations, the bigger the blessing. If she’s right, something pretty good must be coming after today.
The alarm went off this morning. I was confused as to why until I realized that it is in fact Friday, not Saturday. Not that I could have stayed in bed much longer anyway because it had sprung a leak. Yes, the EvylRobot household contains a waterbed. Well, currently it’s a vinyl bag of foam in a frame, but there is generally water inside of it. So here we are at 6 in the morning attempting to start a siphon so we can throw the garden hose out the bedroom window. Yes, we’ve got a couple of those drain fill thingies and an adapter that goes from the garden hose fitting to male pipe threads to connect to bathroom sinks. Guess what our sinks have? The male end. And unfortunately, despite the end of the Defense of Marriage act, you cannot marry the male threads of the adapter to male threads in the sink. I know, the household plumbing is not very progressive.
Not to worry, the master bedroom window is just above the hose faucet in the back yard. Heh. Remember what happened last time we turned that one on? (checking archives) Oh! Maybe I didn’t tell you! Yeah, it started spraying water in the master bathroom. Good times.
So we ran a hose out the front door to the front faucet to start the siphon. But, of course, we can’t very well just leave the front door open, so we kinked the hose and I threw it out the window to drain in the back yard. And with that, I left for work.
You know how this system is supposed to do this thing? Yeah, it doesn’t. Oh and this fix that you swore to me in yesterday’s meeting that kept me at the office late. It didn’t really fix the problem and in fact broke something else. Of course I can go ahead and work a miracle on a system I don’t manage since the customer is on the phone right now.
So I got parts of that delegated out and hey! I’m only 7 minutes late to the daily mile walk. Surely I can catch my co-workers. The brisk cool air will clear my head, right? Hack. Cough. Spit. Ah well, one sub 14 minute mile for the kids.
Pour out cold coffee, pour fresh cup, and straight into a conference call. Guess whose phone decided to cut out? You’re an excellent guesser. Not to worry, the guy in the next office is on same call, I’ll just slide over and sit in with him.
Did I mention that my office is adjacent to my director’s office? He’s cool and didn’t mind at all, but then I had to rehash all the morning’s issues to him. Hopefully I didn’t smell too bad after the speed walking.
Pour out more cold coffee. Pour fresh cup.
Now to go educate another department about the broken system that they just assured me was fixed yesterday. Then assure someone else that the problem does actually exist. Then show them. Again. Then show the boss of that group an hour later.
Oh look! Instant message! ‘Hey Jennifer, I know this isn’t really your job/responsibility/skill set, but would you mind pulling this rabbit out of your hat?” Oh sure, why not. It’s not like I have any deadlines looming.
And now it’s 3:30 and I haven’t had lunch. There’s some beef jerky in my desk drawer. I suppose that will have to do. Customers are happy, so there is that.
I have not yet gone to hide in the basement, but I’m tempted. It is happy hour yet?
…with signs? on Twitter? For the love of…
Oh! You came back. I can’t really add anything here, but that’s never stopped me from trying before.
Seriously folks? Signs and hashtags and selfies? Really? I’m sure those big bad kidnappers that had no problem abducting innocent girls with the plan to sell them are kicking themselves now. I mean, their evilness is totally trending. They’re never going to bring up their Klout score now. #unfriend #unfollow #uncool
I bet they are totes going to give those girls back now. And they’re going to film it so it goes viral on YouTube. #winning
Dance Monkey makes pouty face, changes world. #filmat11 #firstworldsolutions
Because that’s exactly how brutal warlords do things. They make sure they are in consensus with popular opinion and act accordingly so as not to be shamed. #howitworks
#eyeroll #facepalm #sarcasm
Fun fact: This post contains more hashtags than every other entry combined #uselesstrivia
I spelled it for her like a first-grader would recite her home phone number. “I-c-e-s-s. You know, like the goddess, but spelled like ice,” I explained. “What?” she asked again.
Methinks perhaps she should be upset with her ‘clever’ parents that saddled her with such a moniker.
Yes, a name is not only who we are but also what we represent or hope to represent. They’re more personal than blood types and as intimate as a kiss. In my case, the name Icess involved the 1978 eastern seaboard blizzard and two immigrant parents who thought they were clever. They were, though it took me nearly a lifetime to acknowledge it.
Such a poor, delicate thing. How hard life must be. If only your parents had been as dull as mine and given you a name that can be shortened to a ‘proper pronoun’.
In fairness to Starbucks, it’s not just baristas who are at fault but any restaurant or eatery requiring a name to add a personal touch to its service. Over the years I’ve been Jessica, Jenny, Alison and She-Ra, Princess of Power. Yes, there came a time, after a lifetime of having my name misspelled and mispronounced by teachers, servers and sometimes bosses, where becoming She-Ra was easier than being myself. Angela could get coffee at Starbucks with ease while Icess was still spelling her name out. Jessica was a staple at my local Chinese place even though Icess paid. And even Microsoft Word recognized Jenny as a proper pronoun, a proper person, over me; the red squiggle line was a constant reminder. [Emphasis mine. For the record, I spell it ‘Jenni’, which also earns the squiggly line. I prefer not to be a female ass.]
Of course, who am I to protest? I don’t have a name at all! I should write my own op-ed about what a burden it is to be so labeled. A name so common that I can’t even use it to reliably identify my own coffee. Why, there may be as many as four ‘Jennifer’s’ in a Starbucks on any given day!
But alas, I have not been educated by anyone so talented as Icess. Oh to be such an amazing writer as to craft a word picture of someone giving birth to piglets from her brow.
Silence and a farrowed eyebrow.
Hmm, what an interesting visual.
far·row 1 (fr)
n.A litter of pigs.v.far·rowed, far·row·ing, far·rows
v.tr.To give birth to (a litter of pigs).
v.intr.To produce a litter of pigs.
fur·row (fûr, fr)
n.1. A long, narrow, shallow trench made in the ground by a plow.2. A rut, groove, or narrow depression: snow drifting in furrows.3. A deep wrinkle in the skin, as on the forehead.v.fur·rowed, fur·row·ing, fur·rows
v.tr.1. To make long, narrow, shallow trenches in; plow.2. To form grooves or deep wrinkles in.
v.intr.To become furrowed or wrinkled.