Hey remember how I used to update this blog? Yeah, me neither.
Oh shoot, that was my opening line LAST time I posted... over two weeks ago. Unfortunately the brain farm is fresh out of creativity juice so it looks like I'll have to resort to recycling material.
Wow that was a terrible metaphor. But not even close to terrible enough for me to expend the energy required to come up with a replacement.
I'm tired, like really tired. Was the above paragraph at all an indication of that? My job is extremely busy right now, and my days are something like: go to work and run what feels like the clerical equivalent of a marathon, hit the gym and/or attend designated evening activity, come home and work until I go to bed. I realize that this is often the norm for other professions like teaching or law but in my defense, I don't get summers off nor do I pull down a six-figure salary.
But I'm not complaining, honestly- just wishing that it wasn't Lent so that I could unwind with a glass or six of wine at night. I'll be over the hump of a huge project in the next two weeks, and besides, I've discovered the secret to making it through the day in the office. Around mid-afternoon when I can feel my brain cells begin to melt out my ears, I turn my music down to 'soft white noise' level, cross my arms on my desk, and put my head down like I'm about to play a rousing game of 'Heads Up, Seven Up' with a classroom full of second-graders during indoor recess. Which is what I wish I did for a living. But ten minutes of that and I feel like a brand new person.
I know it might seem unprofessional to take a little 'rest' like that on the job, but if you want to talk unprofessional let's discuss what I've done the couple times I've been extremely sick at work or running on a couple hours sleep, which is to go downstairs into the production studio (essentially a cave), turn out all the lights, and lie down until my extremities regain feeling. That, my friends, is unprofessional. Though, I honestly don't think my boss would be fazed if he walked in and found me that way. Very little fazes him.
But, like I said, a couple more weeks and my professional life should return to its regular programming and by then, March will have kick-started into high gear with what I'm afraid is more goodness than I can handle. Next week is BRAD PAISLEY in concert, followed by a trip to Raleigh for work and a stop to see an old friend on the way, and then Holy week I say ASTA LA VISTA baby to the southland and head for greener (whiter?) pastures up north.
So forget the wine. I will relax with the promise of deep-dish Chicago pizza coming my way in just one month. I wish I were joking when I say that the cheesy deliciousness of a Giordano's masterpiece was a major part of the decision-making process when I chose my vacation destination...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Signs that I Might have been Lying about my College Degree
Remember how once upon a time I updated this blog? Yeah, me neither. Apparently I'm only capable of consistent blogging when the busyness of my life falls at some specific point in the spectrum between doing nothing but watching HGTV all day every day and being too busy to breathe.
Life right now is leaning toward the latter. Work is busy, play is busy, future planning is busy, and as a result, my brain frequently take vacations.
Last week I turned the wrong way down a one-way street. In downtown Greenville. During rush hour. I wasn't even talking on the phone or putting on make-up, the two activities which constitute roughly 85% of my drive time, so I have no idea what prompted such an indiotic traffic maneuver at an intersection I drive through/past/around several times a week. I can at least blame part of it on genetics- my dad once drove the wrong way down 5th Avenue in New York City. But the other part? Totally the fault of my absent brain cells. Luckily there's a parking garage right on the corner, which I immediately turned into. Of course, then I was lost, as parking garages are not my spiritual gift and for the life of me I cannot find my way around them.
I once spent thirty minutes looking for my car in a garage in Charlotte. I kept hitting the 'lock' button, and I could hear my car beeping above me, so I'd go up a floor, search, and hit the button again, only to hear the beep below me. And so it continued. The worst part was, there was a middle-aged woman in the same predicament, and we kept awkwardly crossing paths as we circled back and forth around the same three floors for the better part of an hour.
Was I saying something about my brain being scattered? As they say, the proof is in the pudding- or, in this case, the incessant babble about parking garages.
But, like I said, despite work being stressful, I've been playing hard, too. V held our first annual Dip-Off a few weekends ago, in honor of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss one of life's bigegst questions: Why can't dip be a meal? The answer, it turns out, was that party. I consumed my body weight in cream cheese-based spreadables and woke up the next morning with a dip hangover far worse than any caused by alcohol. That, boys and girls, is why dip can't be a meal.
Not only did I eat myself into a food coma that night, but in another stunning display of mental aptitude, I made a complete fool of myself during a rousing game of Catch Phrase, in which I threw out such guesses as "Scandanavia!" for the clues "Sweden, the Netherlands, Britain" and "Whigs! Torries!" for the clues "Red coats, traitors, communism". In my defense, I didn't hear the communism bit- and how does your mind not jump straight to the Revolutionary War when you hear "redcoats?"
The whole thing was reminiscent of the infamous Outburst game of sophomore year when Kristen and I were given the topic "Battle of the Bulge" and started listing off diet fads like South Beach and Atkins, not realizing they were talking about the historic war battle. Oops.
I topped the week off by trying to buy wine at the store on Saturday and realizing I didn't have my ID when the cashier asked for it. I'm pretty sure she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, especially since (as I realized later) my hair was in pigtails. Awesome. So I left wine-less and full of anxiety, as I had no clue where my license could be, until hours later, when I remembered that I had taken it out of my wallet and into my jeans pocket the previous Wednesday when Alycia and I went line dancing at the Blind Horse. I'm just glad I was discovered by the teenager at Aldi rather than a cop- probably pulling me over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
Life right now is leaning toward the latter. Work is busy, play is busy, future planning is busy, and as a result, my brain frequently take vacations.
Last week I turned the wrong way down a one-way street. In downtown Greenville. During rush hour. I wasn't even talking on the phone or putting on make-up, the two activities which constitute roughly 85% of my drive time, so I have no idea what prompted such an indiotic traffic maneuver at an intersection I drive through/past/around several times a week. I can at least blame part of it on genetics- my dad once drove the wrong way down 5th Avenue in New York City. But the other part? Totally the fault of my absent brain cells. Luckily there's a parking garage right on the corner, which I immediately turned into. Of course, then I was lost, as parking garages are not my spiritual gift and for the life of me I cannot find my way around them.
I once spent thirty minutes looking for my car in a garage in Charlotte. I kept hitting the 'lock' button, and I could hear my car beeping above me, so I'd go up a floor, search, and hit the button again, only to hear the beep below me. And so it continued. The worst part was, there was a middle-aged woman in the same predicament, and we kept awkwardly crossing paths as we circled back and forth around the same three floors for the better part of an hour.
Was I saying something about my brain being scattered? As they say, the proof is in the pudding- or, in this case, the incessant babble about parking garages.
But, like I said, despite work being stressful, I've been playing hard, too. V held our first annual Dip-Off a few weekends ago, in honor of the Seinfeld episode where they discuss one of life's bigegst questions: Why can't dip be a meal? The answer, it turns out, was that party. I consumed my body weight in cream cheese-based spreadables and woke up the next morning with a dip hangover far worse than any caused by alcohol. That, boys and girls, is why dip can't be a meal.
Not only did I eat myself into a food coma that night, but in another stunning display of mental aptitude, I made a complete fool of myself during a rousing game of Catch Phrase, in which I threw out such guesses as "Scandanavia!" for the clues "Sweden, the Netherlands, Britain" and "Whigs! Torries!" for the clues "Red coats, traitors, communism". In my defense, I didn't hear the communism bit- and how does your mind not jump straight to the Revolutionary War when you hear "redcoats?"
The whole thing was reminiscent of the infamous Outburst game of sophomore year when Kristen and I were given the topic "Battle of the Bulge" and started listing off diet fads like South Beach and Atkins, not realizing they were talking about the historic war battle. Oops.
I topped the week off by trying to buy wine at the store on Saturday and realizing I didn't have my ID when the cashier asked for it. I'm pretty sure she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, especially since (as I realized later) my hair was in pigtails. Awesome. So I left wine-less and full of anxiety, as I had no clue where my license could be, until hours later, when I remembered that I had taken it out of my wallet and into my jeans pocket the previous Wednesday when Alycia and I went line dancing at the Blind Horse. I'm just glad I was discovered by the teenager at Aldi rather than a cop- probably pulling me over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
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