A Working Life

So, I have a job. A real one. With benefits. And a desk. No computer, (yet) but on my desk, there is a place for a computer, so when I get one, it will go there.

Also at my desk: a picture of me and my not-so-significant other. He is so not-significant, in fact, that he has been demoted to the role of "friend who I take to formal events and talk to on the phone, but also secretly pine for and wish I could still sleep with, without having to have deep meaningful conversations about our relationship."

Also, on my desk: lamp, mug o'pens, sticky notes. I love office supplies, so this is FUN!

In my desk, the essentials: pita chips, m'n'ms, popcorn. I love eating, so this is also FUN!

But this job? The real one? The one I've been telling you about? I have to go there EVERY DAY.

That part, is not so fun.

Overheard at work today

"We were driving behind someone today when they stopped in the middle of the road, just stopped!"

"Why did they stop?"

"I don't know, but we honked, and when they didn't move, we went around them, and then..they fingered us!"

The Quick and Dirty

.Back at work again. Love: the discount, working with fabulous friends, having something to do. Do not love: 8 hour days in 5 inch stiletto heels. My bad.

.The Embargo is being fiercely enforced. I was asked on a date by a med student at the Mercury Cafe Friday night and I said "No thank you, good sir!" I proceeded to explain to him about the Embargo and how NAFTA might even be involved, that's how serious it was, and how...- then he walked away. I'm pretty sure telling guys about the Embargo ensures its effictiveness in and of itself.

.Going to Vail on Wednesday for Thanksgiving - hooray! I will either kill my family or greatly enjoy spending time with them. Jury is still out on that on. I'll let you know.

Hair today, embarassed five minutes from now

I went to the bank to deposit my paycheck yesterday. The bank is a respectable place: people wear suits, make disapproving glances, and handle money. The bank is a place where you should be somber and professional. The bank is not a place to make an idiot out of yourself.

However, if you are me and you are well acquainted with idiocy, especially in inappropriate places, you will sympathize with me and what occurred in the 1st National Bank yesterday.

I got off work at 5:30, so I was cutting it a little close when I waltzed in at 5:45. I knew the bank closed at 6:00, but I also knew I could be a speedy depositer, so I went in anyway. I propped my sunglasses up over my ponytail and was quick like bunny filling out the paperwork.

I went up to the desk and the lady gave me a strange look, which I assumed was because it was so close to the end of their day, so I apologized profusely about being late. Then, several other women stood around while she deposited my money, which I thought was weird, but maybe bank people are really cliquey or they work in small herds, I don't know, I'm bad at math, which is why I'm a writer.

Several minutes later, I finally left, feeling more self-concious than anyone should feel walking out of a bank. It's not like I was turned down for a loan or told my house was being reposessed - how dare those mean, suited bank ladies make me feel like this!

Only when I got to the car did I realize what they were staring at: it was a stage five twanger. And it was bad.

If you are not well-versed in hair lingo (as I so clearly am) let me tell you, a twanger is about the worst thing you can have (aside from a mullet). Imagine Alfalfa from "Little Rascals" and you kind of get the idea. However, a twanger doesn't have to stick straight up, no. A twanger is pretty much a rogue lock of hair that does whatever it chooses, in whichever direction it chooses, which is not only embarassing, it is also quite dangerous. And on this particular day, when I had so nonchalantly propped those sunglasses up on my head, the bangs that are growing out had been pushed up and to the side in such a way that a lock of my hair was sticking out above my ear, perpendicular to my head.

I had a 90 degree angle hair twanger.

I am never going to the bank again.

Corporate retail whoredom as birth control

I work in corporate retail. Just for the summer, because as much fun as it is to fold pants and pick up after grown people in fitting rooms, I have bigger and better things to do, like get married and become a trophy wife.

But some trophy wives should really employ nannies, or quit with all the sex, because my new number one gripe about working as a retail whore is the children. Which is strange, because I work in a store that sells adult clothing. Yes, there is a kids section, but why are all the children in MY section? Why are all the children pulling the magnetic appendages off the mannequins, hitting themselves in the face, and then blaming me? Why are some people even allowed to procreate at all?

I think every adult should have to take a parenting class, and then do a trial run with some test children (never mind where these children will come from, we'll cross that bridge later) and if they don't pass, they should be sterilized. Or at least, have to shadow some gold-star parents until they know what to do. Because I have seen some very unruly rugrats, and if the children whose parents shop in my store are any indication, the apocolypse should be coming any day now. And when that day comes, America is definitely going to have to develop it's own, non-British version of "Super Nanny" with more spanking.

And if you think I'm kidding about any of this, the next time your kid smacks himself in the face with a plastic leg, you remember this and start planning that vasectomy!

Gluttony in the worst way

I realized that this blog is sometimes all about what I eat, which I'm cool with, but I don't know if people really want to read about that. But when you eat like I do, it's hard not to want to talk about it because a) it just tasted so good, I want to share, or b) it tasted so good, and it probably shouldn't - is that normal?

An example: yesterday, while at work, I was really busy testing the fax machine and talking to my coworker when we realized that there was ice-cream and toppings in the back freezer. And not just toppings, but toppings, the good stuff, like multi-colored sprinkles, maraschino cherries, caramel sauce and all.

However, I then had realization number two: I already made a date with LP to go to Cold Stone later that night. So clearly, I couldn't eat a whole bowl of ice-cream at work, go shopping and then go to Cold Stone and eat more ice-cream with a clear conscious. I mean, shopping for hot shirts is a little bit of cardio, but not enough for even me to delude myself.

But wait, what's that rule about ice-cream...? Ah yes, I remember now.... If you eat it out of the tub it doesn't count...? Yep, that is definitely the rule. Thank goodness I remembered!

If you scoop up some ice-cream, dip the spoon into the jar of caramel sauce, and then roll it in sprinkles, well, it's pretty much better than sex, amaretto sours and the shoe section at Barney's combined.

Five spoonfulls of better than sexsourshoes later, I felt energized enough to go back to working. Or something.

And yes, I did go to Cold Stone.

That's MS. Carrie Bradshaw, to you

It's official. I am a real writer. I have a real column. In a real newspaper. A real column, in a real newspaper, that is read by more than 12,000 people each day. Wow.

If you are a reader of this blog, then THANK YOU, first of all, for reading. All of the positive feedback I've gotten has been amazing, and knowing that there are people out there who enjoy my writing was actually what led me to apply for the columnist position to begin with. So to my friends, my family members, and the anonymous people that I've never met that have responded to my writing - thank you. I appreciate you.

With this new medium (which is strange, because only in 2006 could a person publish first on the internet, THEN in the newspaper...) I have decided on a new site design. Feedback much appreciated, as I am very new to the whole HTML thing.

If you're interested, my very first column appears in the Rocky Mountain Collegian tomorrow, along with an article I wrote about the SAFER Initiative. It will be my only column for the year, as school is almost out, but I'll be writing weekly in the Fall of 2006. If you're curious, please pick up a copy of the Collegian tomorrow, or follow this link to read it online.

Get Excited!

-Hilary!

Implement THE HOOK

"Man, I wish I had a real hook...hands are just so overrated."

We found a plastic pirate hook at my place of employment yesterday.

Work has become exponentially more fun since then.

I love my job.

We're so busy and productive here

Here was my day at the office today:

Cori: "There were two peanuts walking down a scary street at night. One was assaulted..."
Me: "A salted? Assaulted? I get it! But wait, what if he had been honey roasted? This would not have been nearly as funny..."
Cori: "Don't take this away from me, it's all I have! Have I told you the one about the pants?"
Me: "Why is Lindsay wearing antennae?"

I fully realize that this is only funny to me, Cori, and possibly Linds. Such is life at OCSS. I'd probably get more done if we didn't have two fire drills IN ONE DAY! I can't work like this.

photo of the day: "I'm nonchalantly going to wear these antennae to see if anyone notices..." c. Hilary Davis