I'm taking entries into my contest for NAME THAT CYST!
As it turns out, that searing, burning pain in my right side? Holla! It the Three Amigos, my new pals, the ovarian cysts.
Since I'm going to be living with them, I'm taking entries into the contest. Winner and prize to be announced on July 1.
I'll update this thread with the names & entries, and yes, fellow bloggers, you are totally allowed to enter. People who have given me names outside of here are allowed as well, I'm tracking who gave me which names first.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Cookie O' Puke
The other day for my totally awesome roommate's birthday I purchased a Carvel cake. Sadly, not Cookie Puss. Or Fudgie the Whale. Giant is low rent, and only offers lame Carvel confections festooned with eleventy pounds of brightly colored confetti icing. Then again, CARVEL is low rent. Have you SEEN those commercials? Cookie O' Puss? Hug Me Bear? How much crack was that guy smoking? Anyhow, I digress...
However, it was still Carvel, and nothing says low-rent birthday like cheaply made ice cream cakes, no? Especially EXTRUDED ice cream cakes. Seriously. Go watch those commercials. The ice cream? It comes out of a TUBE. Like EAZY CHEEZ. After birthday festivities, and consumption of one shared piece (thanks Topamax!), cake sat in the freezer with only one shared piece consumed for about a week or so before it was deemed delicious enough to consume (a.k.a. all other gelatos and ice creams had been eaten and damn if we were going out for more).
Said cake was far too hard to slice up (because I am a wuss with no arm strength), so it was left out on the dining room table to soften. We all see where this is going, right? No. Actually, we DID manage to rescue it before Twinkie set his beady little eyes on it that time, and some cake was served onto plates. But Carvel cake is a bit much for any one person to actually manage an entire piece of, so perhaps the better portion of a slice of cake was left on a plate. And left on the table, while in an ADD fit, perhaps I wandered off to, you know, talk to myself. Or shop online. Or not pick my stuff up off the floor. Or do anything BUT put the cake away.
Yeah....with a cat. A large, CONSTANTLY HUNGRY cat. Who proceeded, the very SECOND that we turned our backs, to scarf down the better portion of a slice of chocolate and vanilla ice cream cake, purring in delight the ENTIRE TIME. Might I add that the cake was festooned with blue confetti icing? I think that added to his enjoyment. Did I try to stop this at the very end, once I realized what was going on? No, I was laughing too hard, and trying to find my camera, to perhaps film this for youtube. Because I am a GOOD CAT PARENT.
About fifteen minutes later, the fateful sound of retching. "TWINKIE, NO!" Roommate gagging as the carpet is now decorated with hot fish chunks and ice cream. Can I tell you? Is a PLEASURE, cleaning hot fish bits from the carpet (also, I must note that pink salmon bits with blue confettis, VERY distubring. and very tough to get out of pale green carpet). May have thrown up in my mouth a bit from this one. Oh, Twinkie.
This was a prelude of what was to come. 36 hours later, toilets for all! Luckily for me, I have the digestive tract of DOOM, and everything runs through me at roughly the speed of light. Whilst agonizing in nature (nothing like laying in the bathroom wishing you were dead), hella fast. My roommate, however: "pooping like a goose." HAHAHAHA.
Thanks, Carvel! You brought down two people and one cat with one cake. AWESOME.
However, it was still Carvel, and nothing says low-rent birthday like cheaply made ice cream cakes, no? Especially EXTRUDED ice cream cakes. Seriously. Go watch those commercials. The ice cream? It comes out of a TUBE. Like EAZY CHEEZ. After birthday festivities, and consumption of one shared piece (thanks Topamax!), cake sat in the freezer with only one shared piece consumed for about a week or so before it was deemed delicious enough to consume (a.k.a. all other gelatos and ice creams had been eaten and damn if we were going out for more).
Said cake was far too hard to slice up (because I am a wuss with no arm strength), so it was left out on the dining room table to soften. We all see where this is going, right? No. Actually, we DID manage to rescue it before Twinkie set his beady little eyes on it that time, and some cake was served onto plates. But Carvel cake is a bit much for any one person to actually manage an entire piece of, so perhaps the better portion of a slice of cake was left on a plate. And left on the table, while in an ADD fit, perhaps I wandered off to, you know, talk to myself. Or shop online. Or not pick my stuff up off the floor. Or do anything BUT put the cake away.
Yeah....with a cat. A large, CONSTANTLY HUNGRY cat. Who proceeded, the very SECOND that we turned our backs, to scarf down the better portion of a slice of chocolate and vanilla ice cream cake, purring in delight the ENTIRE TIME. Might I add that the cake was festooned with blue confetti icing? I think that added to his enjoyment. Did I try to stop this at the very end, once I realized what was going on? No, I was laughing too hard, and trying to find my camera, to perhaps film this for youtube. Because I am a GOOD CAT PARENT.
About fifteen minutes later, the fateful sound of retching. "TWINKIE, NO!" Roommate gagging as the carpet is now decorated with hot fish chunks and ice cream. Can I tell you? Is a PLEASURE, cleaning hot fish bits from the carpet (also, I must note that pink salmon bits with blue confettis, VERY distubring. and very tough to get out of pale green carpet). May have thrown up in my mouth a bit from this one. Oh, Twinkie.
This was a prelude of what was to come. 36 hours later, toilets for all! Luckily for me, I have the digestive tract of DOOM, and everything runs through me at roughly the speed of light. Whilst agonizing in nature (nothing like laying in the bathroom wishing you were dead), hella fast. My roommate, however: "pooping like a goose." HAHAHAHA.
Thanks, Carvel! You brought down two people and one cat with one cake. AWESOME.
So You Look Like You're 12
I'm in the middle of a two-week leadership class, where I'm learning all about how to sell a vision of your office to your employees, how to "encourage the heart", blah blah blah. I have picked up a few things that I can apply to my office, but for the most part it's been a bit more touchy-feely than I like. However, as has been the case with my career since I came out of college ten years ago, I'm the youngest person in the room. Not only that, but I look like I should still be in college, as a recent interaction with a trash-collector showed. I've always been sensitive to this, and have become known in the class as the guy who jumps on anyone who makes sweeping generalizations about these "young kids" coming in to our agency.
On Friday we had a discussion about generations at work. I think this is a crucial discussion to have, as there are great differences between the life experiences that have shaped different groups of people. For example, the "veteran" generation is strongly influenced by World War II, and we Xers are influenced by the roaring 80s and the rapid development of technology. OK, great. This stuff is good to know. But we were then presented with a list of how each generation likes to be treated. This is where I started to lose my cool. How can anyone make such gross generalizations about how individuals prefer to be treated? Gen Xers apparently love status symbols like first-class upgrades and going on fancy retreats. Really? And apparently, veterans don't like public recognition. So thanking them in public isn't appreciated? Aren't these rather broad categories? How on earth can they be lumping 20 years worth of births into one group with exactly the same preferences for rewards and motivations?
As the discussion concluded, I made my point that I didn't want to be typecast into any of these roles. There was actually appplause from the rest of the room (public validation! I like that! But wait, Gen Y needs public validation, not X! We just need fancy travel mugs!). But if much of the room felt the same way, how do we teach this sticky subject? I talked to the instructor after the discussion, and he said that they had tried four or five different ways of addressing this issue, none of which did they feel accurately depicts the problems. Of course, since I complained about it, he then asked for my advice. After doing a little research on the web... I've got nothing. Apparently this is the accepted way to teach generational differences. Ugh.
So I ask the readers of this forum, who I know from personal experience can also pass for a few years younger than they are- have you had issues with this sort of type-casting in the past? Any thoughts on how to better address this in the workplace? I'd love to have some suggestions to make this a better discussion in future classes. I don't want to be that guy who complains about everything and has no solutions. But all I can fall back on is, don't look at my baby-face, listen to what I say. Not much of a discussion. Man, trying to improve things is hard work.
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