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.

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.

Rewelcoming Home Ownership

So, this isn't really a kvetch. Though I have much to kvetch about (low flying planes for photo opps! Swine flu frenzy!). HK and I bought a house (with all the awesomeness and scarededness and work that entails). Once we move in, we will be sans-Congressional representation (I will tell you what it's like, JL! I bet it's AWESOME). We are also moving to an area that borders a really nice neighborhood on three sides and . . .another neighborhood on the other side. HK calls it "real" and "urban." I call it "crack-heads" and "boarded-up buildings" and "Murray's is not that far away!." But anyway, we are excited. I can metro to work (red line, baby) and Brian can metro or drive. And it won't take him hours to get home anymore. So he can come home and see how many Gilmore Girls repeats I can watch in a row and question his love for me.

It's a 100-year-old row house. To suburban dwellers, would be considered small. To those people, houses with rooms aren't a big deal. And yards? The only question is SHOULD I GET A RIDING MOWER? To us, the pseudo-city-dwelling-wannabes, though, these things are new and shiny to us. To us, this tiny row house is palatial. I might have made references to Bill Gates when we looked at it. Because it has ROOMS and STAIRS and a YARD! Even a driveway for the complainers that don't like walking the 500 ft from the parking garage to our condo (whatever, just because you are carrying boxes and have small children who are running into the street and have a broken leg and our condo is a MAZE of despair, I still judge) (just kidding) (sort of). The inspection found nothing major, so we can feel assured that the house will not fall down around us while we sleep.

A word about the previous owners. They have a WALL of degrees. They both graduated from the AF Academy, they both have more than one masters (including things like electrical engineering and finance - that's just the husband) and the wife is now a doctor. I am hoping that the high achievement and intelligence genes infuse future children so that they can support us in our old age. Otherwise I am looking into hiring Future Children out as chimney sweeps and possibly give them a Cockney accent so I can retire.

Settlement is in a month and then we shall officially shed our state residencies and become residents of our constitutionally-appointed district of taxation and the only representation being strongly worded oppositions that are summarily dismissed. But we are less than two miles from where we are not represented. We can also welcome repairs that we both didn't miss at all from previous homeowning - shoveling, raking, cutting grass (well, we could do it with big scissors at this place, but still), gutters and all the rest.

Just talking about paint colors is stressing me out. But the house must be painted. The highly educated people we bought the house from have painted it in what I call "festive" and what HK calls "ow my EYES! the searing PAIN! SOB." Once this is accomplished, we may have more than two people over at a time! And be social!

Random Annoyances

So we've all kind of slacked on the kvetching lately.  In my case, it's not because I'm not angry about things, I guess I just haven't had anything frustrating enough happen to me.  

Apparently I Have the Worst Taste in Music in ALL THE LAND

So, every time I find a music station I like anywhere, it gets discontinued.

Yeah. 99.1, gone. WAVA, LONG GONE. (anyone else remember when it was all awesome and played rockin' 80's hits, way back in the day? Am I dating myself?) Hell, even the "crappic rock" stations are gone. 94.7 just turned into more lame pop hits.

FRED, GONE. Turned into 1st Wave, which is LAME LAME LAME. Seriously, why can't they just go back to the "All Depeche Mode, all the time, and when we grow weary of that, we'll taunt your ears with the Cure, or maybe some Joy Division" station that I HEART? Oh, 1st Wave, with your chatty, personable DJs, how I loathe thee. I want bitter, and I want it now.

The other day I was cruising through the music channels on my television, and found Retro Active, which was yet another 80's alternative station. Fabulous. Just enough of the cheesy retro hits for me, and no Taylor Dane or Debbie Gibson earworms. Perfect.

Today, when I turn on my television, what do I find? Some lame Alt Rock station. With PEARL JAM. Where is my Joy Division, I ask? Or my Flock of Seagulls? Flannel shirts and unwashed hair are a far cry from boys in eyeliner and an entire can of Aqua Net. Dag, yo. At the rate this is going, satellite radio will be cancelled entirely by the end of the year or something.

Sigh. Off to "Singers and Swingers" for me. At least the soothing tones of big band music can keep me from poking my eyes out. Of course, it HAS led to me Charleston-ing around the cat, by myself at various points. Not so condusive to a productive day.

Why must I have the worst taste in music in all the land? Oh wait, maybe it's because I'm TONE DEAF.

SWIM. FAIL. GO HOME.

I am taking swimming lessons in an attempt to become intermediate. I aspire to mediocrity. And while I knew how to swim, I wanted to refine the strokes that I knew so that I could not freak out the lifeguards with my flailing. Except the lifeguard at my gym who wears a big fur lined parka with the hood pulled up and totally deals drugs out of there (allegedly) - he wouldn't notice. Hence, swim classes at the local Y. Some definitions:

My swim instructor: blond, Johnny from The Karate Kid (who was not the guy in One Crazy Summer, nor is he the guy in Revenge of the Nerds. . .there are a lot of '80's movies rife with evil blond men - I thought it was all the same guy. . .who knew). Anyway, he says "bro" (pronounced br-AH), possibly has popped collars when not swimming, and is about 16.

Me: old, tired, crotchety, has the soul of a 93-year-old, manages to fall over in pool.

Johnny is under some sort of delusion that I am Michael Phelps. First, he makes me swim lots and lots of laps. In a row. Without a rest. Which is HARD. And makes me do my strokes right, which gives my brain mini-aneurisms because I have to change my rhythm and start inhaling under water in my confusion. But these things are to be expected, because I need to learn. And get some stamina and endurance so that the old lady with the flower swim cap doing sidestroke will not school me. So these are not the reasons why Johnny is so very evil. For this, he is only a little evil. Like Emilio Estevez in Breakfast Club. A sort of boring tool with the potential for evil.

But the evil escalated last class, because next on the agenda? Butterfly. What is up with that? Am I going to the Olympics? Well, in my head, I am (also am hilarious, a novelist and have won a Grammy). But in real life where it requires work, talent and determination? I have not these things, Sensei.

But he says no worries, after Butterfly, I will learn flip turns. Apparently he wants me to die.

Contract THIS

There are many wonderful things about owning a home.  You know, there's that "every man's home is his castle" shit.  It's cool to have a castle.  But what they don't tell you is that castles need work.  And since "you" were raised by a laywer and a psychologist (and a wicked stepmother- it's a wonder "you" are even remotely sane), you don't have a fucking clue about home improvement.   Sure, you learn little things, like how to paint, and how to replace a dimmer switch, but for the real stuff- drywall, windows, insulation- you have to hire someone.

But hiring someone is a gigantic pain in the ass.  First, who do you trust?  How do you know that this smelly guy is telling you the truth, when the other smelly guy (why does EVERY contractor smoke?) tells you something different?  Second, why does the guy you want to give an estimate for attic insulation insist on trying to sell you windows?  When he can't even fit his gigantic ass through the attic access to give you an accurate quote for the insulation?  And why the FUCK does one guy NOT EVEN SHOW UP without a even PHONE CALL?

On top of all of that, this shit costs MONEY.  Serious cash.  Where does one come up with said moola?  Ah, one "works."  Or more accurately, one sits all day in a littler, shittier box, and similarly fumes about other perceived slights.  All to own his own "castle."  I don't remember the castle needing attic insulation, do you?  Fuck cliches too.  Contract THIS.