Wednesday, February 20, 2008

I am an idiot.

I found this article entitled, How Much Will Your Baby Be Like You? The first page of the article discussed how your baby could inherit you or your spouse's physical traits (like a cleft chin) or personality traits (like a hot temper). Once I read the first page, I emailed it to my co-worker who just had a baby girl a month ago and is on maternity leave now. I called it a "cute article" and told her how it reminded me of her and her hubby.

Once I emailed it, I clicked on to read the second page, where it talked about inherited health problems. My heart dropped. I remember vividly how my co-worker's husband had just overcome an extensive battle with lung cancer. He almost died from the chemotherapy.

So, basically, by sending the article to her and saying it reminded me of her and her husband, I was telling her that her baby girl was going to get cancer. I am such an IDIOT.

Monday, February 18, 2008

No mercy

There was a game that I used to play when I was a child. It was called "Mercy." The rules were simple: one individual faced her opponent, and interlaced both her left and right hands with the other individual's right and left hands, respectively. Then someone said "Start!" Immediately, the two individuals gripped, twisted, and bent the other's fingers, wrists and/or hand back until one individual was in so much pain and agony that she had no choice but to yell "Mercy!" At that moment, the victor would release his victim's hands.

I never won this game.

Maybe it was because I always played boys or older girls. Or maybe it was because I was a weakling. Okay it probably was because I was a weakling. But the case remained: I never won.

So I can't help but liken the game to life. Not in terms of winning or losing. But being able to say "Mercy!" when the moment arises. When it crystallizes in your mind that you can't win, you won't win, and the pain is so unbearable that you have no choice but to say mercy.

I think the only life lesson you can glean from the game is that there will sometimes be a moment when you know you have to walk away. Whether it be with a job, a relationship, or a Jehovah's witness. Hope springs eternal, and I think some people hope that the neighborhood bully's hands will somehow buckle via divine intervention and the 5'2 pipsqueak will win. In the history of humankind, it has happened -- examples include David v. Goliath, New York Giants v. New England Patriots.

But maybe there's a reason that such events are historical.

Another thing is that, sometimes even when you realize that Mercy moment, you don't get it--mercy. It's not as simple as a kid releasing his grip on your hands. Sometimes the situation won't let go. It's something you can't just walk away from. Or it still hurts even after you walk away. Life is interesting like that.

Anyway, I have a habit of waiting until things get really really bad before I say "Mercy." It's only until I'm buckled-over in pain that I realize it might be time to throw in the towel. And until then, I wait and hope that things will get better. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. Either way, life has a random habit of showing people no mercy.

Thursday, February 07, 2008


I have a calendar in my office. It functions perfectly as a calendar. It tells the onlooker the date, the day of the week, the month, and the year. It is normal in every respect except one: It has cats on it. Not just cats, but a lot of cats.

I love furry animals, both cats and dogs. And the boyf got me a silly cat calendar at my request. Little did I know that this particular cat calendar is INSANE.

A normal cat calendar would probably have one large photograph for every month with a cat lying in repose on a fence or in a basket or sniffing a daffodil. Not so in my case. My cat calendar has a thousand pictures for every month. Okay, in actuality, one photograph for every date of every month. Each date has a "zany" photograph with an even "zanier" caption. There are cats wearing boas, cats inside fish bowls, cats wearing scarves, cats wearing ear muffs, cats wearing football helmets, cats wearing other cats. I wish I were kidding. But I'm not. The captions are even worse.

Beneath a picture of a cat inside a hamster gym: "Don't be afraid, Jellybean. It's a hamster spa and I'm going to give you a massage."

Was that even a joke?

Beneath a photograph of a cat next to a Scrabble board: "Cheated at Scrabble with neighbor's pug."

I don't get it.

This calendar is so painfully bad and kitschy, it's funny. Except I always get the distinct feeling that when people walk into my office, they expect to find a 45-year-old woman with a peroxide-bleached-mullet, a pink and yellow sweater vest, and canvass shoes from Wal-Mart.

Then I think about the cats. Did any of these cats have any idea that they would be memorialized in a horribly tacky cat calendar? Did that one cat sitting next to the Scrabble board have an inkling that its decision to sit on a chair that happened to be next to a piece of cardboard would forever link it to a word game and an imaginary canine? I wonder where that cat is right now, and if it has any idea what its owner did to it, or if it will ever know.

At any rate, I feel like it's my duty to keep this calendar posted on my wall. A weaker person would put the calendar down and burn it. But I'll keep it posted and be forever tortured by earmuff-wearing cats.

10.6 months to go.

Drinking some haterade

I know someone who has a blog. I won't say who she is, as her blog is not anonymous. She posted her full name, first and last, her occupation, and even where she works. She also posted her picture.

I find this amusing. I know exactly what she looks like and so I find it entertaining that she selectively chooses photographs of her that wildly flatter her features, almost to the point of making her look attractive. The woman is not attractive. The best word to describe her is "hag."

OKOKOK, I realize that this observation of mine is slightly petty. I mean, who the f cares what picture you post of yourself on your blog? If you look like a troll and decide to take the time and effort to airbrush your photograph to mimic the beauty of Jessica Alba, that's your prerogative.

Fair enough. I'm just saying that I find it amusing that a number of guys -- guys who don't know what she looks like in person, mind you -- post comments on how beautiful she is. Seriously folks, she is a hag. (Can the reader tell that I don't like this woman at all?) And so it cracks me up that she posts still photos of herself where she is literally modeling in front of cityscapes or lilies. I wonder if she set up a tripod to photograph herself, if she has Photoshop, or if she had a friend doctor her photos. Whatever the special effects may be, I admit she did an amazing job of turning "hag" into "hot."

Another thing I will admit is that I'm being a hypocrite. I personally will not post any photo on myspace, facebook, or whatevs where I look fat, old and/or otherwise ugly. I will only post photos where I am smiling at the right angle and my arm fat is minimalized by the position of my arm. And what normal human being wouldn't pick photos of herself looking her most stunning?

I suppose it rubs me the wrong way how orchestrated all of her photo shoots are and how much of a discrepancy there is between the real her and the photographed her. Why should this bother me? I don't know, it has absolutely no bearing on my life.

Just remember this, folks: beauty is in the eye of the Photoshop airbrusher.
Site Meter