#11: Atonement

Do not project own emotions/mental state into others' stories without consulting them first.

Check.

Do not try to amuse others with crackpot theories and gross generalities about geographic locations and the ethnic/religious groups who live there.

Check, check.

Stick to telling embarrassing stories about self.

Check.

Sorry all. Megs isn't really mad at me, if you were concerned (and I know you were all on the edge of your seat). She and I learned some very important lessons from Column #10, which she listed best:

1.) Lutherans are great

2.) Scandanavians are a gentle people

3.) Employment is better than unemployment (overall--there are many exceptions to this, I'm sure. "She Works Hard for the Money" audio in the background here)

4.) Going apeshit is cathartic, but make sure security isn't present

5.) Hair nets must be really itchy

6.) Dickwad is a funny word

So everything is okay. Except that I think I'm being punished for making fun of Minnesotans.

A remarkable number of things went wrong last weekend. More Column fodder, lucky you. Having to deal with the things going wrong, unlucky me.

It's just a weird coincidence, that's all I'm sayin'.

Last Friday I couldn't do anything right at the office. It seems I misread a contract with a hotel for an event that I was in charge of and sent it off with the wrong times approved. The onsite company representative called and very nicely asked that I "make sure it never happens again." I was mortified. I get blamed for a lot of stuff here, but usually it's not my fault. This was. Fabulous way to start my day.

Still shaken from screwing up big time with the hotel, I was called and accosted by another hotel I had dealt with in December. Turns out they hadn't been paid yet. Well, crap. I'm not the accounting department, but seeing as how my name is on that contract, I suppose I'm responsible for payment, too.

Crap, crap, crap.

So I had to track down our accountant (who was conviently away from his desk between the hours of 9am and 2pm) just for him to tell me to put it on the company credit card. Okay. Fine. Could have done that myself five hours ago. Thanks.

I also had to make an unpleasant call to a very unpleasant woman to inform her that we hadn't received her payment. (Again, still not the accounting department.)

"Well, you must have lost it in the mail."

Please tell me how I could have lost it in the mail when you were sending it to me. And don't #^%@ with me. It's been a long day.

"I just don't know what happened. I had it sent out last week."

I understand that, but we still haven't received payment and we'd really like to, because, well, my colleagues and I kind of enjoy being able to buy groceries every week.

"You'll have to call my accounting department and work this out with them, I have no control over it."

But I... [dial tone] ... super.

I also had to deal with normal last minute event set-up issues such as finalizing head counts (which seem to change minute by minute) catering flub-ups and shipment details.

All in all a very unpleasant way to start my weekend. So is it really a big surprise that I didn't make to the gym Friday night?

Guiltily feeling the pounds pack onto my thighs I resolved to wake up at the ungodly Saturday morning hour of 8am and head to a yoga class. Now I haven't done yoga in a while, but I'm pretty damn sure you're supposed to be able to move after you do it. Unfortunately, our yoga instructor graduated from Satan's school of Physical Torture.

Not only did she make us hold such terrible poses as Crocodile and One-legged Chair (sure they sound hokey, but you try holding your contorted body in one place for hours - okay minutes - while relying on one leg or your weak-ass triceps and then come talk to me), but she didn't even bother to stretch us out after class. My bunched up muscles still hurt Monday, albeit less than they did Sunday. I was very aware of each and every teeny tiny muscle in my body on Sunday. I had no idea that I used my inner thighs so many times every day.

So it was with great pain that I wedged myself into the car and out again to go grocery/Target shopping. I love SuperTarget. The perfect combination of groceries and plain old Target goodness, SuperTarget can not be beat. That's why they call it super. AND I managed to hit it on sample day - go me!

So I was gnashing a very tasty apple dipped in chocolate caramel (that's right it was both chocolate AND caramel at the same time. Genius I tell you! Genius!) trying to pick out a bunch of bananas that wasn't totally green when a chunk of apple went down my wind pipe. I didn't choke (thank goodness) but I did do that whole coughing, eyes-watering, can't breathe, I'll-be-okay-in-a-second-I-swear thing.

My roommate, Maverick, was very helpfully standing 10 steps away, laughing. I managed to gag my way through the apple bit. I caught my breath, smoothed my hair and moved on to the bakery section. Nothing to see here, nothing at all. Of course Mav was still laughing. I was tempted to leave her in the store.

Besides going to see the Ice Palace with Sir (one word can describe that experience: cold) that was pretty much my weekend.

So, what do you think Universe? Have I been through enough yet?

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Technical @^#$&ing difficulties

ARGH. The computer and I are about to have words again. You may want to turn your head away from the screen. This could get ugly.

If you are looking for Column #10: We don't get mad (or do we?), I'm working on it. For some reason it doesn't want to show up on the main page.

(Re-publish site about 6,285 times to try and fix error. Give up. Try one more time.)

Oh sure. Fine. Work now. Piece of @#^*%!

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#10: We don't get mad (or do we?)

Ha, ha, ha. Good old Minnesota weather.

I sit with my back to the window in my office (yes, yes, I am a lucky girl with an office and a window) and I just turned around. The sunny 26-degree day has suddenly turned into a near white-out blizzard, complete with unfortunate students from across the road leaning at 45 degree angles to keep from being toppled by the howling wind. I'm not sure if snow is actually coming down or if it is just being blown around. Gives me chills just to look at it.

Turn up the space heater. Ahhh. All better. And now the sun is coming out again. Tsk. That Mother Nature sure has a sense of humor for us here up north. You southerners and your "consistent" weather patterns. You have not experienced real weather until you wear shorts and your winter coat on the same day (and not because you are trying to make a fashion statement. Good Midwesterners don't make fashion statements).

I'm not a native Minnesotan. There are times when I don't even like to admit that I've become a Minnesotan. All that "hot dish" instead of "casserole" nonsense. But I think it's past denying at this point. I've lived here for 18 years. I say "pop" instead of "soda." I go to "the laaayke" (you know THE lake in Minnesota) to ride in the "beau-at" (boat, for you non-Minnesotans out there). I wear a winter coat under or over my Halloween costume every year. And I know the answer when posed with the following tricky question:

"What's a muskie?"

It is a very large fish with big teeth that apparently no one knows exists except Minnesotans, several Wisconsinites and a few other people living in midwestern states. Google came up with a bunch of fishing sites (which I didn't care enough to post here) but dictionary.com and encyclopedia.com both failed to tell me what exactly a muskie (or musky) is. They did tell me, however, that Edward Sixtus Muskie was a Democratic U.S. senator from Maine from 1958 to 1980 and served as U.S. secretary of state from 1980-1981.

Now aren't we all feeling a little smarter for knowing that?

I also know that there is no such thing as Minnesota nice. Oh sure, you may think so the first time you visit here. But really, Minnesotans are just highly accomplished at repression. I don't know if it has something to do with Scandinavian heritage, the abundance of Lutherans or the freezing cold weather (quick message to people on the East coast: Buck up! I do not pity you one little bit.), but everyone here is really, really good at putting on a happy face even when they are seething inside.

A quick example from my buddy Megs... (that's always the best way to start a story: dot dot dot ...)

"Was walking through the lunchroom with a large styrofoam cup I grabbed from near the pop machines, as I've done countless times before--we get free milk, so I was gonna use this big one to get some milk for my cereal instead of using the tiny dixie cup glasses they provide.

As I was walking past the cashiers, I was stopped and told I would have to pay 10 cents for the cup. Mind you, I wasn't purchasing anything; I was merely grabbing a cup and walking to the milk machines outside the cafeteria. Unbelieving, I said, 'Well, I guess I don't want the cup, because I didn't bring any money.'

So the lady took the cup back! The cup that I had been holding and fiddling with. I'm sure she was going to put it back in the stack. If I was someone else, I don't think I'd want to grab the cup that had already been man-handled.

Seriously, I've taken the cups from there for 2 years...what the hell? I've decided that those with very little authority (like cashiers) tend to lord what miniscule amount they have over others. It's these times that I wish I had no morals or boundaries and could go completely apeshit and scream, 'Are you [expletive] insane?! It's a [expletive] styrofoam cup, for [expletive] sake. Get a [expletive] life, [expletive]!!!!' ah, if only...."

Thus ends Megs' sad, sad tale. See, she couldn't even tell off an old lady (who was probably wearing a hair net) who was clearly in the wrong. Megs probably smiled sickly back at the lunch lady, got her two dixie cups and walked back to her cubicle to email me about how upset she was. Which is fine. Better to blow off steam one way or another than to let it sit and boil (which, unfortunately, I am pretty guilty of). We Minnesotans get all worked up and then refuse to express it. And because we never publicly react poorly to situations, it comes off as "nice" to everyone else.

Not very healthy sounding, is it? However, that repressive art form is one of the main reasons you are enjoying a Column right now. If I complained about all the things that bothered me directly to the people responsible for the bothering, then you wouldn't have anything to read about! And then where would we be? In a very, very sad place, I know.

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#9: Death of a Tiara

Friends, family and other devoted Column readers: I write to you today from the depths of grief. It is with intense sorrow that I must inform you that on Saturday, January 10, 2004, due to an inexplicable and horrible accident, my beloved silver plastic tiara was irrevocably mauled and (sob) broken.

I was wearing it only moments before, as I always do when cleaning my room. The tiara makes me feel less common by reminding me that I am the Princess of Quite a Lot and that if I really wanted to, I could have someone clean for me. But that is not the type of behavior a role model and member of royalty, such as myself, should exhibit, so I clean up after myself. (Shut up, I do. When the mood strikes.)

For some unknown reason, I took off the tiara and put it on the floor. (I know, I know! Never put a tiara on the floor!) I grabbed something off of my bed, took a step backward and heard a sickening crunch. I looked down and there was the tiara, snapped in two, still sparkling up at me, unaware that I had just ended its short life.

I stood above it in shock and managed to say aloud to the empty house, "I think I'm going to cry." I know it is only a $5.00 plastic tiara that I bought in Disneyland. But it was my tiara.

All of you who are making fun of me in your heads right now obviously just don't understand the power a tiara has to change your mood. Whenever I felt bad about something, I'd put the tiara on and it always, always made me feel better. I would bet you a large sum of money that there is some study out there somewhere that proves wearing sparkly crowns produces endorphins that make you happy. Or maybe it is the way wearing the tiara made me hold my head a little higher, made me stand a little straighter ...

...sob...hiccup...

... Okay. I'm a little better now. I need to move on. Introduce a new tiara into my life. Where does one buy a reasonably priced tiara in the Midwest? (Seriously, I need a new one.)

Saturday wasn't a total bust however. I went out to eat and had a lively conversation about the semantics of the phrase "sub par." Which means (ahemSirahem): "Not measuring up to traditional standards of performance, value, or production." (A little advice guys, most girls do not enjoy being told, "You look cute when you're agitated." Especially in response to the girl saying, "You haven't listened to a word I've said.")

Again, I could not seem to get the food from my plate to my mouth, but I didn't stain anything! Go me! And I found out some very important information regarding The Column. It appears that I may have misrepresented Sir Not Appearing in This Column. (Note the use of the word "may." I am in no way whatsoever admitting any wrongdoing on my part.) It seems that he does not mind being written about. In fact he told me he was "honored" to appear here. "Feel free to write whatever you want about me," he said. Dangerous words, my friend, dangerous words.

Therefore a proclamation will be... proclaimed (unfortunately without the ceremonial tiara) that henceforth Sir Not Appearing in This Column will be known as Sir Now Appearing in This Column even though most of us will still refer to him as just plain old Sir because the title is still too long to type more than once.

Later that night I went out dancing and I was pleasantly surprised that after an eight-month hiatus, I still know how. In fact, I out-danced everyone I went with. They were huffing and puffing and I was still going strong. In three inch heels. My grief must have fueled me.

Of course there was that one guy who makes going to bars annoying for girls. You know That Guy who follows you around, trying very hard not to appear drunk and/or desperate to the point of Just Plain Sad. My friend Little J and I were heading back to the dance floor with waters for everyone and That Guy kept pawing at her so, being taller and slightly scary when I wear my black boots, I made her walk in front of me. That Guy then took the liberty to shower my back with his attention. And his hands.

That Guy is lucky I had my hands full and that it was too crowded to kick him squarely where he needed to be kicked. Instead all he got was a very nasty stare and a "Don't even think about it," from me. Just Plain Sad or not, That Guy really makes me mad. Does any girl enjoy that kind of attention from a stranger at a bar? Especially when she has already yanked her friend away from him and turned her back?

Fortunately That Guy left us alone for the rest of the night and I was able to enjoy myself until everyone else's energy pooped out. I had enjoyed myself so thoroughly that it wasn't until I got home and looked beside my bed that I remembered my poor little tiara. It's sitting next to my bed right now, broken and unwearable. I can't bring myself to throw it out.

Sniffle...

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#8: I choose Resolution D

First things first: Happy New Year!

Second things second: Sorry I sent you all the Happy Holidays card approximately 7,000 times a piece. I kept getting an error message when I hit the send button so I clicked it until it said it had sent the message. Apparently you only get the confirmation notice on the eighth time the greeting is sent. But don't you worry. The computer and I, we had words.

So has everyone made the requisite resolution to a) lose weight b) spend less money c) spend more time with the family or d) screw New Year's resolutions and have another beer?

I, myself (as opposed to the other "I" here), have decided to become less needy. No longer will I need others' approval and/or affection. I am my own woman and can make my choices and goals based on my own opinion and not worry about what others will think.

Right.

Good.

Oh, who am I kidding? Love me! Praise me! Tell me I'm wonderful! But, of course, tell me the truth. (Legal disclaimer: The previous statements are a slight rip off of a Shel Silverstein poem. No profits will be made by the writer by using said slight rip off. Nor does the writer intend any ill will toward the real author nor the real author's fans. The writer just does not currently have access to the proper book to properly quote the proper poem. Properly.)

I took down our fake Christmas tree on New Year's day as sort of a cleansing, out with the old, I'm sick of looking at it, sort of thing. And this year I was bound and determined, no matter what my mom said, that I would get the damn lights off the damn tree before I put it back in the damn box.

Now, this may sound like an easy task to the uninformed reader. "Why, I take my lights off the tree every year you silly goose, it shouldn't be that hard," you would say to me. I would then glare at you and probably give you the finger as I explained that this tree was bought ten years ago straight off the floor at Bachmann's After Christmas Sale. Not only did they not have the right box for the tree, but they had also "professionally" strung the lights. If someone tells you that they have "professionally" strung lights on a tree, beware. It means they are Satan and they wrapped lights around every single branch twenty times, so tightly that the green plastic covering on the wires has stretched to white and you have no hope of ever (I said EVER) getting them off again. Especially if they go out.

So every year when I take the tree down, I look at it and think, gee I wish I could reposition or replace that strand. And then I sigh and put the tree away because I know it is useless.

I don't know what got into me this year. Most likely my mom telling me I'd never get the lights off. Well, I thought, I'll be damned if I don't try.

So three hours, hundreds of cuss words and stripped fake pine needles later, I had taken the damn lights off the damn tree. My hands were covered in an unusual rash (seriously, what kind of chemicals are they putting on fake trees that can still cause rashes 10 years after you buy it?) and I stepped on several lights in stocking feet, but the damn tree is bare damn it!

I think next year I'll buy a real tree.

My company is hiring a new girl. I met her briefly last week. I am sure she is a very nice person. She recently graduated from my college. She is younger than me. And much cuter.

Bitch.

(Prepare for immature, whiney rant)

I like being the youngest, cutest girl here! I like that everyone always compliments me on my clothes and how nice my hair looks! Now she's coming in with her better clothes and nicer hair and screwing it all up!

(This concludes the immature, whiney ranting. Thank you for your patience.)

Of course the introduction of another young, cute girl meant that I had to dress my best today. Which is how I ended up wearing a skirt and high heels on a day when it is 10 degrees below zero. I had to bring a blanket in the car to wrap around my bare legs.

You think this would make me realize I'm being an idiot and chastise myself for letting my vanity supersede my sanity. But I guess I haven't learned my lesson yet. Because I look cute.

Even though the new girl apparently doesn't start until next week.

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