Just a thought...

If Black Boxes are designed to survive a plane crash, who dont they just make the planes the same way? Anyone??

Lazy Monday

Monday was my day off from work and naturally, I spent the afternoon playing classic 1980's sleepover games with a friend of mine. After arguing about what to play first, be it Mall Madness, Dateline Girl Talk (very different from Dateline: Predator), Dream Phone, etc, we decided on Hearthrob, my personal favorite.


The object of the game is to decide correctly which fellow the other girls would choose as their date, initially based on looks (photos are included) and then later on personality traits (printed on handy playing cards) that are attributed to the three guys being fought over. The pictures say it all. Spandex, big hair and sultry cold war era smiles abound. My personal favorites are Woody, Skip, and Rex. Unfortunately, these men quickly lose their appeal when you learn about their not so sparkling personalities. At first, many of them seem fine. One of the boys may be editor of the school paper, or nicknamed "Einstein" by his classmates for his brilliant mind. However, the tide quickly turns when you learn that Rex for instance, likes to "pass inappropriate notes in Algebra class." Or that Woody, would like to "own a hog farm when he grows up." And that Skip wants to marry his half sister Lorna.


This game is clearly sending a message to an entire generation of girls that a man who "eats bugs to gross out girls" is the best we can hope for. Oh and another thing Milton Bradley... all the boys in the game are white. Anyway, it was a fun way to pass a chilly and gray afternoon.

The High Kick

I have an extremely high kick. In fact, I may have been a Rockette in a former life (though in this life, due to my slightly stout stature it would be an impossibility)… the kick is so high it has a name, The Waa-cha! Kick. I have only ever used it for good, such as breaking up dueling gangs, fighting terrorism, and assisting in the demise of communism around the world. However, the altruistic nature of my acrobatic feat ended abruptly last week.


While attempting to display my jungle cat-like prowess to my 6'5 colleague, I lost my balance, resulting in a tragic misfiring. Instead of my foot swinging inches from his face, so close he should have felt the breeze, I thrust my foot with all of my force into his stomach. He sprawled backwards as everyone looked on, eyes wide and hiding chuckles, as I froze in horror. I had physically harmed another human being, and in the most inappropriate of settings. I mean sure, I played rugby in college, but I was always the lamb on the field, never the lion. And though I do have many memories of biting, kicking, and pulling out my sister's hair until she shrieked for mercy (or for mom), that was ages ago. Ok well, months.


Anyway, the boy I Waa-cha! Kicked is apparently heartier than he looks and while a footprint remains just above his lower intestine and appendix, there appears to be no internal damage. At least with him. I, however, am traumatized. I was so tense about it that I had a dream last night that my teeth fell out. MY TEETH! Yikes! Not a good sign. However, I am slowly getting over it, though have been told I am no longer allowed to display my stunts. I keep telling people that it only backfired because my friend moved just before my takeoff, causing me to lose my balance, but apparently that is not the lesson I was supposed to learn...

A Hairy Situation

I love a good head of hair. Long, short, shaggy or shaved. Red, blond, black or brunette. In fact, I have an inappropriate tendency to ask various individuals if I may run my hands through their locks. Professors, bagpipers, politicians, no one is off limits. Amazingly, every man I have ever propositioned has agreed to let me fulfill my wish. I simply have an insatiable appetite. I just see men and want to get my paws on their scalp. Is this normal? This fixation may be related to my Panda Bear complex, a strong desire that compels me to nuzzle my face in a Panda’s belly when I come across one. And living in DC, in close proximity to the Zoo, that happens more than one would think...


Anyway, my own hair has become a bit of an issue for me over the past few years. The last haircut I received was about a week before I graduated from college, several years ago. The reason I have abstained for so long is due to the horrific hair butchering I received, forever captured in my cap and gown photographs. I have extremely curly hair and I believe the person who snipped my locks had never encountered such a thing. By the time she finished her assault on my head of hair, the damage was done. It was sheared so short the hair could barely curl. The remaining strands clung to my skull like frightened children grasping their mother at crazy Aunt Ida's house. The woman then began to blow dry my hair, giving me an Elvis-like pompadour. Except Elvis looked more feminine than I did. If only I owned a white rhinestone jumpsuit. I looked in the mirror and wiped away the tears, concurrently rubbing every lamp I came in to contact with, hoping a Genie would grant me a wish and my hair would be restored. No such luck. My hair was a disaster. It was the worse fate for a girl to be bestowed. I...looked...like...like..like...a...BOY!!!!!!


All these memories of my childhood came flooding into my consciousness, all of the haircuts that had brought me to tears, the trips to the hair dresser that resulted in me looking like a dark haired "Annie." When I was in sixth grade, I was finally allowed to grow my hair out (after a long fought campaign of "my body my choice," a pretty sophisticated argument for a 12 year old I like to think), and was thrilled with my semi mullet that I proudly pulled into a tiny little pony (OK...rat) tail in the back. The sides puffed out, similar to that of a powdered wig. Though the resemblance was apparent, I was a bit taken a back when a particularly mean boy, who had often tormented me,screamed "you look like George Washington!!!" in his most taunting and bullying manner. "Well," I said, "there are worst things to be called then one of our Founding Fathers!" That shut him up...


The horror of my last hair cut lasted though my college commencement ceremony, my summer backpacking trip through Europe, and my time in graduate school, in which my student ID photo portrayed me as a jaundiced five year old, the result of the Shirley Temple cut and poor lighting. In spite of that previous trauma, I have decided that the time has come to get my hair cut once more. I am a grown up now and have much better perspective. I know a bad haircut is not the end of the world. I mean, just because I remember being dressed up in blue corduroy overalls as a child and people complimenting my mother(who, rather than correcting anyone and risking them feeling uncomfortable, disregarding and negative gender identity issues), on what a cute little boy she had, does not mean I cannot handle getting a haircut, right??? Hmm...Well, maybe I'll just get a trim.

What's a Phone Booth?

Hmmm...I think it's one of those things that Superman used to change his clothes ...Or what Bill and Ted traveled through time with in order to pick up the deliciously handsome Billy the Kid...Or are phone booths those strange glass enclosed street rooms that people used to stuff with Popes to see how many could fit? No wait...those were Volkswagen's...




AT&T hanging up on pay phones after 129 years
11:03 PM CST on Monday, December 3, 2007
By ANDREW D. SMITH / The Dallas Morning News



America's shrinking pay phone population suffered another blow Monday, when AT&T Inc. announced plans to turn loose its herd of 65,000. As recently as 1998, the U.S. supported 2.6 million pay phones, but with cellphones reducing pay phone use and vandals preying on units in vulnerable locations, pay phone numbers have plummeted to just 1 million today.


If independent pay phone operators do not take over the phones that AT&T abandons, service may decline further in U.S. prisons and across the 13-state footprint where Southwestern Bell once provided telephone service.

The first pay phone appeared back in 1878. To assuage [privacy] concerns, phone companies built elaborate and comfortable phone booths, which were virtually sound tight. These mostly wooden structures were expensive and attracted vandals, but they also attracted enough business to pay for new equipment. Eventually, phone booths became icons of modern life.

Perhaps we can go back to tin can and string.

Job Interviews: An Awkward 30 Minutes of Babble

I live in D.C. and therefore am looking for a job. Since completing my education, I have come to the conclusion that Finishing School would have been way more helpful than my graduate degree. I find now that my expertise is no longer the area of research that I studied in school but the long strained exercise known as the interview, or more precisely, the art of not getting hired. Here are some simple tips to follow to ensure that the job you want will most definitely not be yours.*

Arrive to the interview sweaty

• During one particularly hot July afternoon, I interviewed with the staff director of a congressional committee. I was running late and forced to run the 4 blocks from the train station, resulting in huffing, puffing, minor nausea, and a case of sudden onset stupidity... They hired the girl who used proper subject verb agreement during conversation.
  

Share with the group that you pee(d) your pants

• To be fair, I only shared that in response to one interviewer asking me about the that last movie I saw. I mentioned the title and said it was so funny I almost peed my pants. Whether or not the"almost" is true or not is neither here nor there, but the point is that I did not believe my comment was out of bounds. However, looking back, I suppose I tend to cross barriers before other's normally feel comfortable to do the same...They hired the girl who did not mention urine in the interview.
  

Be sure to highlight your faults

• During an interview with a older gentleman at the headquarters of one of our national political parties, I mentioned that technology was not my "forte." Now, this does not mean I attempt to start blogs with a typewriter or use my computer as a cat warmer. I mentioned my slight aversion to technology in the interview to make it clear that I do not know C++ or how to write in HTML. However, my comment was obviously taken to mean something much deeper...They hired the girl who could surf the World Wide Web (have you heard of that?? I mean what is this Internet or "Information Super Highway" I hear people talkin' about????).
  

When asked, always lie about your favorite book

• Actually, I have never lied about this, my failures come from telling the truth. No office wants to hire someone whose favorite book is authored by Beverly Cleary. That’s a darn shame because her books have all the workings of any great piece of literature. There is hardship (all Ramona gets for her first day of school is a pink erasure, while the other girls all have shiny new shoes). There are complex relationships, hence the series titles; Ramona and her Mother, Ramona and her Father, Beezus and Ramona, etc. And most importantly, there is a passionate love triangle, between Yard Ape (Ramona’s onetime nemesis) and Howie Kemp, her neighbor. Wow, OK so maybe I know a little too much about Quimby life, but still, that is no reason not to hire someone. Needless to say, they hired the girl who read War and Peace. Twice.
  

*The following advice has been formatted as a formal outline so one may easily refer to it during interviews. It is recommended however that one not waste the anxious minutes of waiting in the reception area, scouring crumpled editions of People, tapping ones foot and making useless small talk with the other chumps waiting for their meetings and instead use that time to peruse this advice before meeting with the potential, future boss.

Ode to Green Bean Casserole*

Green bean casserole
How I love you so

Just add some French’s Onions
And it’s ready to go

One can of mushroom soup
Only Campbell’s will do

Green bean casserole, such a tasty treat
I want to marry you

And have your green bean babies
Inside that casserole dish

I had you once on Thursday
And enjoyed the leftovers since

I look forward to you every fall
Awaiting our annual tryst

Oh green bean, green bean casserole
Nothing can compare

Well, except for maybe the pumpkin pie
Not that I would dare

I will always be true to you
Green bean casserole

This is now the end of my ode
For I have bared my greenbean soul



*No green beans were harmed in the making of this poem.

The Bus Boyfriend

As an avid rider of Metrobus, the classiest way in town to get to work, I have noticed a certain phenomenon at play, known hereafter as the Bus Boyfriend. A BB (or BG depending on your preference) is an individual you see on a regular basis either at your bus stop or on your actual bus.* You may notice where he works, goes to school or what apartment building he lives in. Perhaps you even sit next to him, though it is a certainty you make eye contact. However, the catch is that you never speak. NEVER. The cardinal rule of the BB relationship is that eye contact is the only method with which the relationship may be maintained. An entire romance of passion, betrayal,and heartbreak may take place within several blocks, the storyline broken only by the nefarious dings of passengers requesting the next stop. The most difficult part of the relationship is of course, when it's over. Several days pass and you don't see him. Oh he must be ill, or out of town (the nerve not to call!!) you think. But then you realize sadly, he just must have just switched lines.


*I write only of a BB as opposed to a Subway Boyfriend (and I don't mean the man who makes your sandwiches) because the same level of intimacy is just not present on the commuter rail. You never meet the conductor, nor are you able to say good morning. You do not see the same people everyday, and the entire idea of gathering underground in what seems to be Dr. Evil's lair (at least in D.C.) is totally immune to the stewardship that a proper relationship requires.