Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Hijacked Lunch

I generally like my coworkers. Some are more annoying than others, but I get along well with them all. Although for the most part, these are not individuals that I would choose to hang out with after work…or during work… or ever….

One woman today tried to cross that line. I was sitting in the break room waiting for my yummy leftovers (fetuucine alfredo) to finish their circular journey inside the microwave when my coworker sat down across the table from me. This was my own fault as I had not prepared myself for an enjoyable lunch hour by spreading out my purse and water bottle and book across the table, marking my territory as I typically do. In fact my book was still in my purse, and once she sat down I felt like too big of a jerk to pull it out and start reading (although I’m not sure she’d get the hint even at that point that I would prefer to be left alone).

Now I am not so anti-social as to never want to eat lunch with anyone, but my lunch hour only lasts 60 precious minutes. Minutes which go by at least three times faster than regular minutes, so really I only have a 20 minute lunch, so I’d rather have it planned out before hand that we are going to eat lunch together. Actually, its not so much the fact that I have no time to prepare for this type of social situation, as it is the fact that the conversation (a word I am using VERY loosely here) was centered solely on her. In fact she just told me stories of her past, with me nodding and “hmming” every once in a while. As she relayed her past without ever once asking me anything about myself, I was nearly to my breaking point, and considered stabbing myself with my fork (which would have been less painful than hearing all of her stories).

Fortunately I didn't have to impale myself with a fork to get her to stop. My unwanted tour down her Memory Lane ended abruptly when she had to get back to work, having started her lunch a half hour earlier than me.

I'm generally a nice person and I will willingly listen to your (probably stupid) stories, for hours on end, but it would be nice if people at least pretended to take some interest in hearing some of of my (most definitely stupid) stories as well. I feel like conversation is about give and take, but most people just focus on the giving (and this is the one case in which giving is not a selfless act). In my coworker's case she not only focused on the giving part by relaying her past experiences , but decided to bestow this gift on me repeatedly by retelling the same stories within the same half hour period in which she hijacked my lunch break.

The art of conversation has truly become a lost art. A fact which I attribute to texting and the rise in narcissitic behavior in society.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Sleep is Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I like soft beds and warm blankets, I like nighttime with stars peeking out from a dark sky. I like sleeping in. I like naps. I like the contented, restful feeling I have after a good night’s sleep.

With that said, I have a confession to make: I resent the fact that I have to sleep.

Fun fact: Humans sleep away a third of their lives. Not so fun fact: Humans sleep away a THIRD of their lives. That means that the typical 90 year old will have slept away 30 years of his life! I resent that 1/3 of my time that I could be doing anything else has to be devoted to sleeping. That’s why I delay going to sleep. I love to stay up late, and while I'm typically not the kind of girl who bounces out of bed at 4 am, I also refuse to sleep in too late in the mornings, because I hate wasting my day sleeping.

Its weird that I resent sleep because its not like I have anything pressing or exciting that I need or should be doing during my night time hours, but in a way I guess I feel like having to sleep is making me miss out on something, even if it is probably only late night infomercials (which can be very entertaining…I think I’ve seen the Magic Bullet infomercial about a thousand times and I still find it hilarious).

Chivalry isn’t dead…its just never directed at me

I love it when guys open doors for me. I think its very respectful and classy. I am not exaggerating when I say that it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and puts a smile on my face. I do have some exceptions though for when I don’t fully appreciate guys opening the door for me.

Some guys are extra chivalrous and if they spot me, even if I am 20 yards away, they will patiently hold the door open while I cross that distance. I appreciate the effort, but I don’t want them to have to wait for me to walk to the door, and so in this situation, I’d prefer it if they would just let me open the door myself.

In high school as I was walking into the building, one young “gentlemen” was walking a few steps ahead of me. I’m not the kind of girl who insists on having the door held open for her, and I certainly don’t expect it (because there are so many guys who don’t even bother) but I was watching this guy to see if he would hold the door open for me. He didn’t disappoint—but not because he opened the door for me, rather because what he did do was so off-putting that it was entertaining. He walked through the door, kicked it, so that it would stay open a little longer and continued on his way without pause. I have never forgotten that. I thought it was funny and wondered why he even bothered. Holding the door open for a girl is a sign of respect and his way of holding the door open was certainly not respectful, so I’m wondering why he even bothered to expend the energy he did to kick open the door for me.

The most common door opening mistakes that I’ve noticed are centered around the car door. I love when guys hold the car door open for me to get into the car—but I hate when guys want to open the car door open for me to get out. Waiting inside the car is just awkward, mmkay?

Speaking of car door opening etiquette (Allison’s version, which means that it is the CORRECT AND ONLY VERSION TO BE FOLLOWED!!), the other day I inadvertently became the third wheel to my roommate and her boyfriend. Usually I am extremely crafty and can avoid and get out of these situations. This particular situation was particularly sticky and I was unable to extricate myself. I survived (barely) and also came away with fodder for this blog (lovely). My roommate’s boyfriend opened the car door for my roommate, walked past me, around the back of the car and got in the driver’s side door. Opening the door should apply to ALL women—not just the ones you are dating or are interested in dating. If I’d been on the other side of the car I probably wouldn’t have cared as much because I could have gotten into the vehicle sooner than having to wait for him to come open the driver’s side passenger door for me, but he was RIGHT THERE by my door and should have opened it for me. I know that I would have been impressed with him, and if I had been in my roommate’s shoes I definitely would have liked my boyfriend to have done that for my friend.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


I hate hair. Let me specify. I hate that I can’t do hair and I am jealous of pretty much every other girl’s hair. Usually I can tolerate my hair, so that’s actually not quite what I am going to write about. I have been losing an exhorbitant amount of hair lately. Unfortunately, I am not kidding. All day long I am pulling stray strands off of my clothing, and when I brush through my hair with either my fingers or my brush there are literally handfuls of my not-so-golden locks (by the by, I just watched Tangled in the park tonight, it was fun, but I hate how they portray Brown hair as unmagical. I told that to my cousin the first time we watched it, because although I had really enjoyed the movie I was a little put out by the whole brown hair is not magical or special. My cousin told me that only I would ever think of something like that. I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not…I was slightly pleased with myself at the time, but now I just feel slightly crazy for overanalyzing everything.)

Anyway, if there is anything that I can tolerate LESS than my treacherously messy and uncontrollable locks is when they are no longer attached to my head. Hair grosses me out. Ugh. I think that I’ll have to come up with a new number one thing on my list of qualities my future husband must have. I need someone who is not afraid to snake the drain—because, let’s be honest, I am too afraid and grossed out to do it, and at the current rate I am losing hair I really need a guy who will have the courage to stand up to the sludgy grossness clogging up my tub.

Hair on my head: fine. Hair off my head: gross, hair off of other people’s head: I need to vomit.

I don’t know why hair grosses me out so much but it really does. I also have issues with facial hair. Obviously I dislike it on me, but I am really opposed to almost all facial hair on almost all men. Obviously there are exceptions, but I think that we can all agree on doing away with the full beard. Not attractive on anyone, and I had a psychology professor who shared the horrific tale of how he grew a beard, maintained it really well, but had to shave it off soon after because it had an ODOR. SICK!!!

On the other hand, I find it creepy when people shave EVERYTHING. Exhibit A: Swimmers, more specifically male swimmers (Men should not have smoother legs than me!). Apparently there is a fine line between having too much hair and not having enough, but it’s an issue that is troubling enough for me to write a blog post about it, so obviously it is a fine line that everyone needs to learn how to walk. So I expect all two* of my readers to go out and either get a razor or Rogaine and attempt to walk that line.

*Although the incidents portrayed in this post are 100 percent accurate and truthful, I cannot determine for sure how many readers I have , but would guess that the true number lies at about 0ne, unless it is considered acceptable to count my various personalities, who are all as fastidiously groomed as I am and are as freaked out by hair as me, because we are in fact the same person.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Silent Treatment

If I was technologically savvy I would have had a seemingly blank post with a link at the end that would lead you to the text of this post, but alas I am technologically impaired and so my cute little joke to go along with the title of this post will not come to pass.

The silent treatment is great in theory. And actually works quite well for some people, who can convey years’ worth of anger and resentment into literally nothing at all (well maybe some glares and other petty behavior). When I was younger I would get really angry over really important issues like global warming and scumbaggy politicians, NOT over minor, unimportant things such as somebody sitting in my spot on the couch after I had specifically proclaimed, before going to the kitchen, “I get my spot back!” My attempts at the silent treatment seem ridiculous now for several reasons including the fact that apparently my sisters are DEAF as my spot was almost always occupied when I returned, as well as for the fact that it is almost impossible for me not to talk. And it’s not that I have that much to say, and I truly do believe that sometimes silence is golden, rather it’s like when you’re told not to think of something and you can’t stop thinking of that particular thing (don’t think of a purple elephant). The same thing happens to me when I attempt to give someone the silent treatment—I suddenly have so much to say to them.

Anyways the reason that I’m writing this is that I’m pretty sure my sister is gi ving me the silent treatment, although its hard to tell for sure since we live in different places and her not responding to my text could just be because she didn’t hear the phone, which is ALWAYS on her person. But I just kind of feel like it’s petty and lame and really stupid if she IS giving me the silent treatment.

I’ve discovered that my compulsive need to talk to someone while I am giving them silent treatment also works in reverse: I really feel the need to talk to her, and mainly just because I believe she is indeed giving me the silent treatment. Ugh. I really am insane.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Driving Miss Roommate

I am certifiably insane and have no spine. These facts have not been verified by any sort of medical or psychological professional, but as far as self-diagnoses go this one is far more accurate than the diagnoses that hypochondriacs discover through the aid of Web MD. I know that this self diagnosis is accurate because I constantly find myself volunteering to do various things which I don’t actually want to do and then get stuck doing things I’d rather not be doing. And I know that this is a symptom of my insanity because I KEEP DOING IT! And I can’t stop, even as the words spill from my lips I’m thinking, “Wow, that was a really stupid thing to offer to do. I hope that they don’t take me up on that offer.” And yet I continue to make offers to help people. (Don’t get me wrong, I love to help people and service is great, but my offers go over and beyond the call of duty when it comes to helping people, getting me into awkward, sticky situations). The spineless part is because I can never say no (ok I can say no to really bad stuff like drugs and other stupid things like that, but I am a roommate pushover and I avoid confrontation with people like the plague.)

So, I am insane and spineless which is how I came to teach my roommate how to drive. My roommates drive me crazy, so it makes sense for me to return the favor and teach them how to drive….a car. My roommate is from India and never learned how to drive. I’ve lived with her for about a week, and we are still getting to know each other. She was talking about how she had her learner’s permit and how hard it was to get people to take her out driving, which is apparently like crack to her: she loves to drive. She told me that her boyfriend and sister refuse to take her out driving (um, excuse me, but that’s a major red flag that you need to ditch that guy who won’t take you out driving because he “likes his car .”) and so she’s been asking pretty much everyone she knows to take her out driving. There was an awkward pause in the conversation at this point, and her not-asking me to take her driving was extremely loud in that silence, so I squeaked out an offer to take her out driving, while at the same time praying silently that she wouldn’t take me up on the offer. Which is how I found myself out on the busy streets around sundown the next night mentally and physically bracing myself as I let this near-stranger and extremely new driver behind the wheel of my car.

Actually, it went very well. My car received no damage, and my nerves will eventually repair themselves (right?). The experience wasn’t too bad. I only “pushed" my imaginary brake pedal three times, attempting to stop the car as I sat petrified in the passenger seat. It was actually kind of fun and a good bonding experience. While it obviously wasn’t a good opportunity to talk, the many near-death experiences which we survived together helped me to feel more comfortable being around her and I feel more optimistic about this new roommate situation.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Surrounded by Crazy

I heard a bit by a comedian on Comedy Central where he asked the audience something to the effect of, “Have you ever felt like you’ve met enough people?” My daily answer to this joking inquiry is a resounding ‘yes!” I definitely feel like I have met enough people.

In the past when I have discussed this with some individuals they have responded with, “but you haven’t met your husband yet.” To which I’ve replied that I’ll just have to sort back through all the jerks in my life and hope “the one” has changed (or hope that I am acquainted with this hypothetical future husband only in passing…because really there are so few people in the recesses of my memory that could even qualify as somewhat acceptable husband material).

To these somewhat (by which I mean totally) negative responses to my complaining about how I am sick of people and never ever ever ever want to meet another human being, I’ve decided to clarify that I am sick of meeting CRAZY people (although experience shows that crazy people make up approximately 99.99999999999% of this world’s population so this correction is really not all that helpful.).

Inarguably, I definitely have my own brand of crazy. Unfortunately my brand of crazy appears to be petty and jealous and doesn’t get along well with most other types of crazy. My crazy, thus, would rather be a hermit than deal with all the other types of crazy out there. Since that’s kind of Unabomber-ish, and unrealistic, (at least until I can save up enough to buy a mountain cabin … whatever, if I was going to survive as a hermit there would definitely have to be some sort of Caribbean beach involved.) I’ve decided to create this blog to document my various run-ins with crazy (my own as well as the craziness of other people and events). Mostly this blog will be about documenting my random thoughts and venting about my strange encounters with human kind… because let’s be honest I am surrounded by crazy.