I think winkers are sexy, confident, and collected. And being winked at is just about as good as getting proposed to... and almost as intimate. (I've never experienced this first had but I frequent Temple Square in Salt Lake City on my lunch break and thus have become very familiar with the process.) Oh... you're winking at me? You chose me out of this room full of humans to make such a personal connection with and to share a secret and a joke? I DO.
So as an ultimate goal to up my sex appeal I've been trying to transform myself into a winker lately. The cool thing I've learned about being a winker is that they are no respecter of persons. You can practice anywhere on anything... which can't be said about most intimate interactions. So I took this gig to work.
Except it was here that I learned trying to transform into a winker overnight is like trying to transform yourself into a habitual swearer overnight. You just end up mixing your words around and looking like an idiot. Son of a damn! Or you do this:
My married, sweet co-worker mentioned that he was overly warm in our office, and asked if I shared his discomfort. I didn't and told him... but then I felt bad for making him feel like the overweight "always warmer than the average worker" guy, so I tried to compensate by telling him that maybe it was because he was wearing pants, and I was wearing a skirt.
"You know, good ventilation."
I guess some part of me thought this was a good time to practice my wink (which by the way was still really slow and mechanical), when really what I should have been considering were the implications of my up-my-skirt reference alone was grounds for at least some form of sexual harassment fines. The wink could do nothing but lead to either some kind of soft lay-off or a restraining order.
So it may actually be the winking that is a result of the sexy, calm, and collectedness, instead of the other way around. But maybe now I can start winning friends and influencing people with my new habitual swearing I'm thinking about picking up.
Trick-or-Swag
The law firm I work for has been out of town at a business expo/trade show for the last few days. While there, I realized something horrifying about myself. On a horror scale it was a little more horrifying than when I found out (about a couple of months ago) that college degrees don't automatically qualify every American for an income of at least $40,000 a year; and a little less horrifying than the time I came home on break and realized that my brother's and my tooth brushes were the same color. The horror that has come to my attention is that I have not progressed in maturity or personality since pre-pubescence trick-or-treating and here's why.
The similarities between trick-or-treating and trade show swag grabbing are unparalleled. It starts with the child (me) visiting the home (booth next door), with the one sole purpose of scoring free anything.
"what do you do?"
"I'm a receptionist"
"Oh great, hey we have really good credit programs for low-income households"
"Thanks, can I have a tiny Snickers?"
"Sure, here's my card"
But as we know getting free things like Snickers doesn't satisfy that bug inside of all of us to get free stuff, it just wakes it up. So I move on, and get a little more swag savy the longer I'm there.
"Who are you with?"
"I'm a legal assistant with an IP firm, these stress relievers are free right? Thanks, see you around."
Business card: averted. Eye contact: avoided.
The next thing I know I'm an "IP Attorney" hula hooping my self-respect away in a contest in the middle of an aisle with professional businessmen trying to make their way around my over-zealous swivels. All for a tacky wind chime branded with "Corporate Alliance: Because Business is about Relationships."
So, just when I think I have grown up and reached adulthood, life takes me to a business expo to show me that I'm no better than an awkward stage nine-year-old on Halloween. Except I tell more lies.
Not a walker, not yet a shirtless jogger
Living near a park, I have come to find that there are two types of female runners in the world. Those who wear clothing when they run, and those who wear their sports bras. I won't ever be one of the just-bra girls, but who knows, maybe they are the ones confident enough to tell bosses to give them raises or men to marry them. Maybe I'm missing out. But I think I'll take my chances.
The other day I saw a girl running in a sports bra, but she didn't have a great body. It wasn't terrible, but it was pale and nonathletic, and my first response when I saw her was concern! It took me a while to figure out she was running for recreation, and then I realized something else about these shirtless joggers: there is a flawless math equation for determining the attractiveness of a woman by using the amount of time it takes an onlooker to realize that the girl is running by choice, and not out of danger.
It goes something a little like this: seconds it takes for recognition to set in + number of running indicator accessories (i.e. iPod, running shoes, numbered marathon tag, etc.) = attractiveness of lady.
So this pale girl I saw yesterday probably took me about 2 seconds to realize she wasn't in danger. She had on running shoes and an iPod, so she was probably a 4 on this average-girl scale of averageness. The scale starts somewhere at a 1, which isn't terrible but ends somewhere around 10, which does of course get a reaction somewhat close to "Someone call the police! This girl has just been raped, has barely escaped with her bra, and is running for her life!" And it's this response that has kept me from ever picking up this drafty habit. Until then, I'll keep envying zeros, offering rides to fives and up and in the mean time jog with my shirt on.
Old Man Winter: A Tribute
Old Man Winter was right about two things: His clock was broken and his days were numbered.
He died Thursday, December 18, 2008. I went to see him in the nursing home he had checked himself into a couple of days before. Luckily he only had to stay there for about a week because the place stank of menthol and Alzheimer’s. Old Man Winter is better than that. It was different from the stench of his house: sugarcoated bastard with a hint of lemon. I think the lemon because of his dusting solution, and the bastard because of his attitude.
I talked with him for a while and the last thing he ever said to me was: “Dear, I never said any one bad thing to you. Just remember that when ol’ Satan calls” I think it might have been a threat. Actually, this is a lie, the last thing he said to me was, “see if that old lady is still in my living room. She’s been in there all damn day,” but it was the last coherent thing he said to me.
On the day of the funeral I had the flu but I went anyway, infecting all his old, old friends I’m sure in all my Anna Nicole Smith glory. It wasn’t weird seeing him in his coffin. I had seen him look deader in his chair at home. The weirdest part was seeing his estranged brother at the funeral walking around. It wasold man winter. I realized it wasn’t Old Man first because the man was smiling, second because I remembered OMW was dead. His brother asked me if I was the girl Old Man had fallen in love with and I couldn’t help feeling one part sad, one part creeped out, but a larger part like one glamorous, not to mention successful, gold-digger.
The service was boring and missing a few key family members (like his only grandsons), but otherwise alright. If my body was capable of shedding tears, I might have even spent one on the day.
As I was leaving the building and before my mom asked if we should put my contact information in the guest book (for purpose of the will), I could have sworn I heard an old, crusty whisper tell me I have hands like a freak-midget for such a husky girl. But it must have just been the wind because like he said: Old Man Winter never did say one bad thing to me.
May he rest in peace, and may the clock shop not spend too much time fixing his clock.
Old Man Winter
Well I went to check in on Old Man Winter this afternoon. (Note *Old Man Winter is the name I have given to the 99+ year-old man I have been taking care of since my freshman year of college. We get along quite well).
After he gives me the standard, "hello's" and "you look like you've gained weight," he tells me almost simultaneously and definitely with equal severity that 1. his heart has given out and his days are numbered, and 2. his clock is broken and he needs me to call the clock shop and take it to get it fixed.
I've heard both of these before, and I have to say, time after time I am more shocked with the broken clock than the failing organs. Buy a new clock already! I suffered five minutes on the phone with the (probably just as old) clock technition, feeding lines directly from Old Man Winter's mouth. "I need this clock fixed. It doesn't matter that you are two months behind. I depend on this to tell time. I am disabled." (It is important to note here that I have considered my loss of dignity and self-respect during this job, but it pays tuition... or as I like to call it, my "body complex scholarship," and thus, so far, is somehow worth it).
So a note to all you 90 pluses out there. I feel your pain (besides the failing hearts and collapsed lungs). I know it must be hard to let go of things when everything else around you has died or doesn't care about you anymore, but embrace the 21st century! When something even looks like it might be breaking soon... buy another one! It's just the American way now, and besides, someone needs to urge the clock-tech to find a real job anyway.
Finding Jesus during Christmas
Yesterday my mom made me make a delivery to my grandma next door. My grandma wanted a nativity set for underneath their tree and my mom had an extra so I took it over. We set up the scene and saw that my mom had given my grandma everything but Jesus, Mary and Joseph. My mom couldn't find them but told me to tell my grandma it was fine.
It wasn't fine.
Of course I was immediately commissioned by my 74-pound grandma to find a baby Jesus and find him fast the next day. I walked past one, two, three complete nativity sets in our living room alone when I got back home. "She's not getting any of my baby Jesuses! Those are special to me!" --nothing like my mom's Christ hoarding to bring in the holiday cheer.
I went to department stores, thrift stores, and discount stores. I found Jesus in a snow globe. I found him in an ornament. I even found Jesus, Mary, and Joseph rotating in a clear, plastic bubble, but I couldn't find baby Jesus in his manger, with perhaps his mother and father by his side. There was no finding a full nativity this close to Christmas.
Where did I finally find Jesus? Where most people usually lose him: couched in the greedy arms of low-discount, conspicuously consumptive, super Wal-Mart. Yes there was just one baby Jesus, one Mary and one Joesph** just waiting for me to take them home.
**Shepherd with staff ripped out of his porcelain hand.