Not-So-Deep Thoughts by WordNerd
Random talk for a quiet Friday . . .
1) Remember how I said that IP’s intern (lovingly nicknamed Monica by yours truly) would cause him trouble? Well, fate rebounded that crack on me. My agency also has interns floating around, and one has clearly taken a shine to me. There are weird drop-ins at my desk, shy smiles sent my way in the hallways, questions as to why I didn’t attend one function or another (usually it’s because I’m not invited—I’m evil incarnate, after all, stealing jobs from qualified government workers) lots of greetings throughout the day. IP is of course the primary reason for any rejection speech that might have to happen, but seriously? This guy is teeny-tiny. I could put him in my backpack. All the interns look like they’re 12.
2) On the Great DC Flip Flop Debate (not involving John Kerry, by the way): Enough already. I don’t wear flip flops, but that’s because I am a great fan of what my co-worker called “the Jesus sandal“. However, if someone chooses to wear flip flops before they climb into a horribly uncomfortable pair of heels (I don’t care what anyone says—heels are not comfortable, not even with insoles or as Aerosoles, and only Jesus sandals and New Balance 857s are fit for me), let her. And if someone wants to squish her toes on the Metro as punishment for her fashion choices, that bug of a person deserves corns and bunions in return. Footwear choices and what feet look like on the Metro are not my business, so I don’t judge. And if I choose to wear flip flops one of these days and you happen to find my feet not so attractive? Kindly, bite me. Can you run 26.2 miles? This is what can happen to your feet when you run for a decade—and have to wear heels for a conference three days straight. Ouch. All the moisturizer, top-notch running shoes and care in the world can still wilt under the glare of a long run and 10 hours standing.
3) Speaking of conferences, and less in defense of my gender, why are all-female conferences so difficult to work? Why do the women attendees feel the need to do the “kiss up, kick down” routine to those of us ensuring that they’re getting a deal on their hotel room and are eating top quality food and troubleshooting their PowerPoint presentations? Why? I am here to help you, yes. But you don’t need to report the same problem to me in the span of two minutes as I’m in the middle of providing a solution (yes, the same person, not multiple attendees). I heard you the first time; you don’t have to treat me like a dimwit. I do my best for you; please recognize that and realize that I will react when I can and that not everything is within my control in less then two minutes.
4) Dear tow truck drivers of DC and Maryland: Me wearing workout shorts on my way to my boyfriend’s apartment is not an invitation on my part for you to whistle and honk at me. I am dressed in Prospirit Target wear and am theoretically on my way to run a good three miles. No, I am not going to find your gesture of appreciation charming, nor is it going to make my heart flutter, and it will definitely not make me reconsider my choice in boyfriend. It will only make me realize that, once again, from flip flops to shorts, you guys seem to think of us as eye candy who should dress for your viewing pleasure.
5) Proof that IP listens to me even when he pretends not to: When casually mentioning that, should we decide to take the plunge and marry, he maybe shouldn’t get me an engagement ring, IP immediately protested to my reasons for not wanting a ring (to boot: diamonds are evil, rings are insanely expensive, I don’t like jewelry all that much, and engagement rings are a little, well, sexist). He cited societal pressures on him to buy me a ring, and this gem (pun intended): “You want an emerald,” he said authoritatively, shutting me up effectively. Okay, so I’m not completely against the ring, but something on the quiet (and personal, as the emerald is my birthstone) side would be much more preferable to a honking rock and people seizing my left hand in order to squeal over excessive shininess. I do not want any fingers on my left hand accidentally dislocated—how will I flick off the tow truck drivers?
6) It’s Friday! Bring on the beer!
