People, particularly en masse, are stupid. At a bar last night, there was a vote on what to listen to, while on the TVs the Red Sox and the Celtics were on. The choices were: music, the Red Sox, or the Celtics. My vote, because I am not at all interested in the Celtics, and would like to be able to watch the Red Sox, but also listen to music, was music. Besides it being a more pleasant sound, you can't SEE music. To be fair to everyone, since two out of three choices possess the ability to be seen AND heard, music should have been the defaulted decision.
The vote was conducted by who could be the loudest. Music was first. I said, "Ooo ooooo!" and a few other people cheered. Red Sox were second. Not very many votes there. Celtics were last. Here's the thing: if you leave a choice for last in a noise-conducted poll, you are already giving it unfair advantage. Everyone knows how loud the first groups were, and therefor exactly how loud they need to be. They could even be fairly quiet, as long as the decibel level is greater than the groups before. Because of this, we will never really know if people liked Screech and Lisa's dance the best on "Saved by the Bell." Applause-o-meter? I think not.
Speaking of screech, the Celtics won the applause-o-meter vote in this case. The Celtics? Basketball? Really? THAT'S what you want to listen to? Music doesn't hurt anything-you can still SEE what's going on. Do you really need some old dudes to tell you what already happened, or read the stats to you off the screen? Most of the time, they're just gossiping or talking about inside jokes that only the two of them get. My second vote would be for baseball. You get the spring night-time sounds, the crowd, the crack of the bat, the umpire calling the pitches.
But, no, we're gonna listen to basketball. Screech-screech-dribble dribble-airhorn-whistle-screech screech-buzzer-screech, 7-foot dudes falling on the floor. The only good noise in basketball is a swish and I don't think you can even hear that on TV.
Big mistake.
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Karma's a bitch...a bigger bitch than you
I was at Dunkin' Donuts today. I have a love/hate relationship with Dunkin' Donuts. I love their coffee, but I don't like that I am addicted to it and it's expensive. Sometimes their service is not the best. In fact, there are certain Dunkin' Donuts where the service is consistently terrible. You have to know the good ones and the bad ones. I know the good and bad ones near anyplace I have ever lived, worked, or frequented.
Even so, I am always polite if there has been some kind of mistake with what I have ordered. And I don't act like my time is TOO important if the service is slow. If you're that important, go to Starbucks with the other wealthier, more uppety people.
There was a complete douche of a woman in Dunks today while I was there. They didn't have the bagel she wanted. So she demanded her money back, which is fine, but she did it very bitchily. Then her 3 fat daughters/daughters friends needed to use the bathroom. They harassed the woman to buzz the door open. They missed it because they are slow, fat, and stupid. Then while she was waiting on me, they kept harassing her to buzz the door. Then the fat woman's husband came in with the dog, who immediately went for her ankles, because dogs sense evil. She continuously kept complaining, asked for more ice and commented that she had to "make her own coffee." No, you had to put in 12 more sugars because you are a tubby, bitch and you need artificial sweetness. I think when I was leaving she was asking for a manager.
I left wanting her to be punished by karma. I actually have a desire to BE karma. Like a hero, or a force of nature, I want to be in charge of doling out karma both good and bad. Is it bad for me to wish something on her? I just want her to get what's coming to her for being a miserable bitch. Maybe she already got it. Maybe everywhere she goes, the poppy seed bagels will already be sold out and her coffee won't be sweet enough. Sure, she'll take it out on some poor girl behind the counter, but maybe they'll be rewarded by the next customer who leaves a decent tip, and she'll never get the bagel she wants. She's obviously not short on starchy food to keep her unpleasantly plump.
Even so, I am always polite if there has been some kind of mistake with what I have ordered. And I don't act like my time is TOO important if the service is slow. If you're that important, go to Starbucks with the other wealthier, more uppety people.
There was a complete douche of a woman in Dunks today while I was there. They didn't have the bagel she wanted. So she demanded her money back, which is fine, but she did it very bitchily. Then her 3 fat daughters/daughters friends needed to use the bathroom. They harassed the woman to buzz the door open. They missed it because they are slow, fat, and stupid. Then while she was waiting on me, they kept harassing her to buzz the door. Then the fat woman's husband came in with the dog, who immediately went for her ankles, because dogs sense evil. She continuously kept complaining, asked for more ice and commented that she had to "make her own coffee." No, you had to put in 12 more sugars because you are a tubby, bitch and you need artificial sweetness. I think when I was leaving she was asking for a manager.
I left wanting her to be punished by karma. I actually have a desire to BE karma. Like a hero, or a force of nature, I want to be in charge of doling out karma both good and bad. Is it bad for me to wish something on her? I just want her to get what's coming to her for being a miserable bitch. Maybe she already got it. Maybe everywhere she goes, the poppy seed bagels will already be sold out and her coffee won't be sweet enough. Sure, she'll take it out on some poor girl behind the counter, but maybe they'll be rewarded by the next customer who leaves a decent tip, and she'll never get the bagel she wants. She's obviously not short on starchy food to keep her unpleasantly plump.
Monday, November 23, 2009
I believe the children are our future...I don't want to go to there
On any given day, I receive a lot of dumb phone calls. Today I received a down-right frightening phone call. It was the 1,987th thing that has happened since I started working at the school that I makes me fear the future.
We sent out letters last week to all the students receiving an F at midterm. Out of about 1500 students, there are 500 students. There could be 1,500 actual Fs. Included with this letter are all of the resources that students should have been using all semester, but have not.
A father called in today to ask if he could speak to someone about the letter that came to his house about his son's failing grade. His wife opened it, even though it was addressed to his son. This man somehow made that sound like it was the school's fault. I had to explain to him three times that we sent the letter to the most recent address his son left with the school, and to his name. In some cases, students leave their parents addresses even though they live in the dorms or in apartments because that is a more permanent address. This student, however, still lived at home. Sooooo what is the issue?
The issue did not seem to be that the student is failing. His father asked why he was failing and I told him I don't know and until someone checks his FERPA, I couldn't tell him if I did know. No, the big question that this man had for me was, "How do I show him the letter without him know my wife open it?" That was not poor grammar on my part; that's how he asked, in a thick accent.
Why are you asking me, a single 27-year-old, how to run your household? I almost said "Just put it in another envelope" but that wasn't really the issue, and I'm not getting involved. I could tell you that it seems like you married an overbearing, intruding, distrusting woman back in the '80s, but that is not really helpful. I could tell you to stop paying for your son to go to school if he's wasting your money and everyone's time.
The thing that puts fear in me is the lack of fear for this kid. His father is concerned that he will be mad about the letter being opened. Understood, we used to get pissed if my mom opened mail, particularly admissions letters and report cards. Admissions letters should be opened by the children because it is their life and their dream. Usually, our report cards were given to us to bring home. Why? Because we could be trusted. And if our parents found out we were hiding anything, they would kill us.
This kid should be afraid that his mom is going to kill him and his dad is going to call him an idiot, and threaten to send him to the army. Instead his dad is afraid of him. Who is afraid of their kids? They were afraid of Macaulay Culkin in "The Good Son." His mom dropped him off a cliff.
No wonder kids today do whatever they want, go wherever they want, and talk to everyone however they want. They're not afraid of anyone. A lot of our students seem to be a little afraid of me. Why? Because I don't make idle threats, or buy into their excuses, or let them blame other people when they are the one with the problem.
All these parents need to say is "I brought you in this world, and I'll take you out!"
We sent out letters last week to all the students receiving an F at midterm. Out of about 1500 students, there are 500 students. There could be 1,500 actual Fs. Included with this letter are all of the resources that students should have been using all semester, but have not.
A father called in today to ask if he could speak to someone about the letter that came to his house about his son's failing grade. His wife opened it, even though it was addressed to his son. This man somehow made that sound like it was the school's fault. I had to explain to him three times that we sent the letter to the most recent address his son left with the school, and to his name. In some cases, students leave their parents addresses even though they live in the dorms or in apartments because that is a more permanent address. This student, however, still lived at home. Sooooo what is the issue?
The issue did not seem to be that the student is failing. His father asked why he was failing and I told him I don't know and until someone checks his FERPA, I couldn't tell him if I did know. No, the big question that this man had for me was, "How do I show him the letter without him know my wife open it?" That was not poor grammar on my part; that's how he asked, in a thick accent.
Why are you asking me, a single 27-year-old, how to run your household? I almost said "Just put it in another envelope" but that wasn't really the issue, and I'm not getting involved. I could tell you that it seems like you married an overbearing, intruding, distrusting woman back in the '80s, but that is not really helpful. I could tell you to stop paying for your son to go to school if he's wasting your money and everyone's time.
The thing that puts fear in me is the lack of fear for this kid. His father is concerned that he will be mad about the letter being opened. Understood, we used to get pissed if my mom opened mail, particularly admissions letters and report cards. Admissions letters should be opened by the children because it is their life and their dream. Usually, our report cards were given to us to bring home. Why? Because we could be trusted. And if our parents found out we were hiding anything, they would kill us.
This kid should be afraid that his mom is going to kill him and his dad is going to call him an idiot, and threaten to send him to the army. Instead his dad is afraid of him. Who is afraid of their kids? They were afraid of Macaulay Culkin in "The Good Son." His mom dropped him off a cliff.
No wonder kids today do whatever they want, go wherever they want, and talk to everyone however they want. They're not afraid of anyone. A lot of our students seem to be a little afraid of me. Why? Because I don't make idle threats, or buy into their excuses, or let them blame other people when they are the one with the problem.
All these parents need to say is "I brought you in this world, and I'll take you out!"
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Facilitate!
We have a student worker who can't be trusted to do even the simplest tasks in my office. Today I had a brainstorm and thought of something that needed to be done, would get her out of our hair for a while, and would give her something to do. This task was shredding old files, that are unnecessary and take up space we could use for other things. I'm kind of on a cleaning streak at work, in light of being twice restructured, and hopefully expanding my job scope and responsibilities.
On top of it getting things done, keeping her occupied, and taking a long time so I don't have to be bothered giving her something else to do, she wanted to do it. She was excited to use the shredder. I'll admit, it is kind of fun. I sent her off on her merry little way. She was happy. I was happy. My boss was happy. And brownie points for me for thinking of something so simple but that needs to be done.
About 20 minutes later, the student came back because there was a problem. The bin for the paper at the bottom of the shredder was full. In the past, facilities would come and empty the bins, because they make a ridiculous amount of mess, and dust, and we can't just throw them in with the regular recycling or trash. I knew before calling facilities that they were going to say this isn't their job.
I disagree. Facilities wears jeans and old raggedy clothing. Why? Because as the cleaning lady in my freshman dorm said, "You are here to clean, not for the social aspects of life!" I don't really ask much of them, but we wear different clothes to work for a reason. I have to follow a dress code because I work in an office. I must look neat, professional, and presentable. There are days when I get a little lax and wear sneakers. Sometimes on Wednesdays I wear jeans, just for scuz. Today, however, I was dressed particularly nice. And in my nice clothes, there are often times where I have to run up and down the stairs, climb under desks to move computers, rearrange furniture, sharpen pencils, and several times completely clean and overhaul an office or room.
Today, in my charcoal slacks and black button down, I emptied the bin into a plastic bag, so as to minimize the dust, even though it still caused the student worker to cough. This is probably not proper, but then, I'm not facilities.
What is my point? If I am supposed to dress pretty but do facilities-type jobs, then why do the people who don't do facilities type jobs get to dress like slobs and not speak English? I would love to do that. Someone could come in looking for a tutor and I could just say "No comprendo, bitches and then lift my paint-stained jean leg up and put my sneakers on the desk." Either they start dressing real pretty like me, or start doing the things that might actually make them messy. Otherwise, it's jeans and a ripped tee for me from now on.
On top of it getting things done, keeping her occupied, and taking a long time so I don't have to be bothered giving her something else to do, she wanted to do it. She was excited to use the shredder. I'll admit, it is kind of fun. I sent her off on her merry little way. She was happy. I was happy. My boss was happy. And brownie points for me for thinking of something so simple but that needs to be done.
About 20 minutes later, the student came back because there was a problem. The bin for the paper at the bottom of the shredder was full. In the past, facilities would come and empty the bins, because they make a ridiculous amount of mess, and dust, and we can't just throw them in with the regular recycling or trash. I knew before calling facilities that they were going to say this isn't their job.
I disagree. Facilities wears jeans and old raggedy clothing. Why? Because as the cleaning lady in my freshman dorm said, "You are here to clean, not for the social aspects of life!" I don't really ask much of them, but we wear different clothes to work for a reason. I have to follow a dress code because I work in an office. I must look neat, professional, and presentable. There are days when I get a little lax and wear sneakers. Sometimes on Wednesdays I wear jeans, just for scuz. Today, however, I was dressed particularly nice. And in my nice clothes, there are often times where I have to run up and down the stairs, climb under desks to move computers, rearrange furniture, sharpen pencils, and several times completely clean and overhaul an office or room.
Today, in my charcoal slacks and black button down, I emptied the bin into a plastic bag, so as to minimize the dust, even though it still caused the student worker to cough. This is probably not proper, but then, I'm not facilities.
What is my point? If I am supposed to dress pretty but do facilities-type jobs, then why do the people who don't do facilities type jobs get to dress like slobs and not speak English? I would love to do that. Someone could come in looking for a tutor and I could just say "No comprendo, bitches and then lift my paint-stained jean leg up and put my sneakers on the desk." Either they start dressing real pretty like me, or start doing the things that might actually make them messy. Otherwise, it's jeans and a ripped tee for me from now on.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
It's hip to be square
It annoys me sometimes what can be called news, or journalism, or interesting, or gossip. I will write about it here, because I promise to be none of those things.
The Yahoo! front page had this as their feature story:
Demi Demi Moore Demi Moore Demi Demi Moore...
Demi is old, and very pointy. At the same time, she is kind of hot. I think it's stupid and irresponsible for someone to try to create controversy- insinuating that W is trying to pull a fast one on everyone- without thinking about it. And also, someone got paid to put this on Yahoo! It is pointless for me to comment, but I ain't gettin' paid squat.
The Yahoo! front page had this as their feature story:
Demi Demi Moore Demi Moore Demi Demi Moore...
Basically, the article is saying that W photoshopped a huge chunk of Demi Moore's thigh off and then shows a closeup picture. I have taken the closeup and with my excellent Illustrator skills, have shown that there would be a clear path beneath the sarong from her thigh to her hip.
Demi is old, and very pointy. At the same time, she is kind of hot. I think it's stupid and irresponsible for someone to try to create controversy- insinuating that W is trying to pull a fast one on everyone- without thinking about it. And also, someone got paid to put this on Yahoo! It is pointless for me to comment, but I ain't gettin' paid squat.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Secrets, secrets, are no fun. Secrets, secrets, hurt someone
Lately, I've taken to checking out job listings on craigslist. The most fun ones to read are the ads for reality TV casting calls. One was for a spot on a hunter/gatherer tribe on an island where you can participate in polyamorous relationships and experience life as humans did back in the day when everything was wild and free. I'd post details here, but I'd like to keep this blog family friendly.
Then I found this one:
“Secrets," the CW's new documentary series, will follow the lives of professional woman ages 22-27 who cannot keep their rage under control.
For more information or to APPLY, check out www.cwsecrets.com.
I checked out the website and it is legit. Unfortunately, I don't actually qualify because I doubt my days spent wearing yesterday's pajamas scouring the internet for new and interesting craigslist posts qualifies as living a secret/double life. You all know that is what I am doing- it's no secret. I did have to think twice about the rage, though. I can call upon rage like it's my superpower. Things I have forgotten about for years, months, weeks, can quickly and easily come to the surface at a moment's notice.
One thing you shouldn't mention to me if you don't want to witness me fly off the handle is Comcast. Don't ask me the best way to return a cable box. I won't tell you how I was told 7 pieces of misinformation and sent through 5 different website links and talked to 8 different people and one online robot, only to find out that to return a piece of equipment would involve driving to Roxbury between the hours of noon and never on a weekday. Since you didn't ask, I wouldn't have to explain how ridiculous it is that if you cancel your Comcast service for no good reason, you can have someone stop by to pick it up (for free), ship it back to your payment center (for free), or drop it off at a local payment center (for free). However, if you have moved out of state last minute to an area where Comcast does not serve, your only option is to return it to your old location's payment center which is two hours away and keeps inconvenient hours. Fortunately, if you avoid mentioning Comcast to me, you will also avoid hearing about how much they suck, how much I hate them, and how even if I move back to an area that ONLY has Comcast as a cable option, I will personally install Dish Network on my apartment's rooftop or sign up for netflix or buy a new computer that would allow me to watch Hulu, instead of dealing with them again. F-ing Comcast.
Now that that hasn't been said, I am wondering if I should apply for that TV show.... if that happens, please be sure to watch me on the CW, Tuesdays, 10/9 Central, 2011.
Then I found this one:
“Secrets," the CW's new documentary series, will follow the lives of professional woman ages 22-27 who cannot keep their rage under control.
For more information or to APPLY, check out www.cwsecrets.com.
I checked out the website and it is legit. Unfortunately, I don't actually qualify because I doubt my days spent wearing yesterday's pajamas scouring the internet for new and interesting craigslist posts qualifies as living a secret/double life. You all know that is what I am doing- it's no secret. I did have to think twice about the rage, though. I can call upon rage like it's my superpower. Things I have forgotten about for years, months, weeks, can quickly and easily come to the surface at a moment's notice.
One thing you shouldn't mention to me if you don't want to witness me fly off the handle is Comcast. Don't ask me the best way to return a cable box. I won't tell you how I was told 7 pieces of misinformation and sent through 5 different website links and talked to 8 different people and one online robot, only to find out that to return a piece of equipment would involve driving to Roxbury between the hours of noon and never on a weekday. Since you didn't ask, I wouldn't have to explain how ridiculous it is that if you cancel your Comcast service for no good reason, you can have someone stop by to pick it up (for free), ship it back to your payment center (for free), or drop it off at a local payment center (for free). However, if you have moved out of state last minute to an area where Comcast does not serve, your only option is to return it to your old location's payment center which is two hours away and keeps inconvenient hours. Fortunately, if you avoid mentioning Comcast to me, you will also avoid hearing about how much they suck, how much I hate them, and how even if I move back to an area that ONLY has Comcast as a cable option, I will personally install Dish Network on my apartment's rooftop or sign up for netflix or buy a new computer that would allow me to watch Hulu, instead of dealing with them again. F-ing Comcast.
Now that that hasn't been said, I am wondering if I should apply for that TV show.... if that happens, please be sure to watch me on the CW, Tuesdays, 10/9 Central, 2011.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Raise your hand if you like moving. Anyone? Anyone? No. No one.
I think we can all agree that no one likes moving day. No matter what you do, it is impossible for it to be a happy, positive experience. Especially in Boston. In Boston, September 1 is the worst day in the world in the history of the world especially if you own more than just a toothbrush and a carpet bag worth of clothes. Here are my stories:
Last year, I decided to beat the whole moving crazy nonsense by hiring movers. I booked them months in advance, got a good deal, and felt quite proud of myself for not procrastinating for once. Kudos to me, a hundred pats on the back, and kudos again. The morning of Sept 1, 2008 the bubble I lived in where moving is easy and fun popped.
First, my movers didn't show. I called, they said, "Whooops!" and sent 3 guys over. I am pissed, but calm. Although my seemingly "easy" move was starting out 2 hours delayed, I would not let my feathers ruffle over such a minor detail. Instead, I put my energy into re-cleaning the kitchen floor with a toothbrush (we were told it was not quite clean enough and I was making a point).
Finally, the movers show up and so I show them into the house. In my mind, I imagined movers to be silent and efficient busy bees. My movers were no such thing. First, the complaint was issued that they weren't told there'd be stairs. My response: I was told you'd be here at 8 (as I looked at my wrist indicating it was now 10:30am, um humm). Then, they started loading everything into the truck. It's going well until they decide to head out but had missed about half a dozen boxes of my clothes and shoes-- I shout after them and they come back in mumbling obscenities under their breaths. Awesome. They zip off to Beacon Hill while I get reamed out by my landlady and then cry.
Eventually I make it to the Hill to find they have already started unloading. Lovely. We are back on track... Or are we? All of a sudden a fight breaks out between my head mover and the Boston Transport police. Great. Apparently the street occupency permit that I had to get by visiting 3 different offices on 3 different floors with 3 different checks made out to 3 different departments wasn't valid on my street. Thanks, City of Boston, for the heads-up that my street doesn't allow permits of that nature. I do not flip a lid and instead gently encourage the movers to "Please move your truck around the corner like the lady says" and then I look at the Boston Transport official and say, "I know this isn't your fault, but it is kind of ridiculous." She agreed and wandered off to find other violators.
Meanwhile, my movers are bringing my things inside my new apartment. Did I mention it was a 4th floor walk up? Did I also mention I have hundreds of books as well as a heavy couch. F-bombs are being thrown about with abandon and by the time I make it up to my apartment I discover that my movers have quit. Over the phone. To their supervisor, who we can refer to as Bob. Shouting ensues and if you could have slammed a cell phone, my head mover would have done so. He looks at me and says, "Nothing personal, but this isn't what we signed on for."
The other two movers make it up the stairs, huffing and puffing, sweating and swearing. They say "You've got a lot of stuff" and "Normally we don't move boxes like this." I said "Boxes like what? Boxes filled with stuff? Huh?" and they explain:
"Can you lift this?" they ask me, pointing to one of my 50/50 boxes (half books, half pillows). I lift it off the ground but admitted it was quite heavy.
"If you can't lift it, we don't normally move it," they explained.
Me, perplexed. "So, you are saying if I " (pointing to myself-- an under 5 foot female) "can't lift this, you won't move it? Hmm"
"Okay, chica," they say. "We get your point. Do you have a boyfriend?"
Me: "If I had a boyfriend he'd be here moving so I wouldn't have to deal with all of you. So have you quit or are you working for me today?"
They decided they liked my sass (who doesn't) and agreed to continuing moving my things. After about an hour of watching my stuff being tossed around like it was salad they were done. I counted the broken plates in my head as I calculated their tip.
This year, things were a little different. Originally I didn't plan to move, but circumstances changed and since I couldn't commit to a new location I decide to put my things in storage and spend some quality time in suburbia with the familia. I call around and find a company called Door-to-Door. They are going to drop off a pod-like storage unit, I will have 3 days to fill it up, they will pick it up and put it somewhere. When I want it, they will deliver it to my new address. Sounds like a dream come true and as close as I can get to the creme-de-la-creme of moving fantasies: when someone else packs your stuff up, delivers it, and unpacks it, all while you vacation in the Virgin Islands. (One day, my friends, one day).
Snag 1: the day they are supposed to deliver the storage unit I double check the space (Door-to-Door arranged the street occupancy permits so it all works out fine) and it is clear. Fab-u-lous (said like the Orbit gum lady). 5 minutes before they actually arrive, however, someone pulls into the spot and then disappears. True story. I walk around my neighborhood asking everyone and anyone if they are the owner(s) of the car in my spot. Even a friendly neighborhood mailman helps me out for a while. A woman and her daughter eventually emerge from another apartment building. After a couple of blank stares and one dresser loaded into her vehicle she moves the car across the street.
Snag 2: I hire 2 movers (labor only) to help me with the big stuff. 15 minutes late and I am like WTF. I call my friend to say "What do I do?" and then one shows up. He was called by the guy I arranged the labor with and then was told that guy was sending another guy over. That is one too many anonymous guys in the equation. This kid-- Jeremy- thinks he can move some of the stuff on his own. I say, "That's great, because I don't want to help and I will pay you double." He ponders calling a friend, but apparently has none. (Okay that's harsh, he does indeed have friends but this is a Saturday at 6 pm and they are otherwise preoccupied). As we go outside to open and scope out the storage unit, Dimitri shows up. We are saved.
Snag 3: The two guys do a great job getting all of the big stuff in there, but now I am left with an apartment full of trash/little stuff and a feeling of overwhelming panic. I call my friend Sara and go over there, eat Chinese food, and forget about it for the rest of the night. The next day, my parents show up. I think I have things under control and we start to load up their car with my essential stuff that I cannot live without aka seventeen hundred million bags of clothes, spare books (I do need some books on hand) and other things that are so amazing I can't even remember them. The truth quickly becomes realized: I have too much stuff.
Snag 4: Did I mention I live(d) in a 4th floor walk up? Seven or so hours later, I have walked up and down those stairs so many times I am practically crawling the final flight. I took quite a few 10 minute "lay on the floor and try to recuperate" breaks when no one was looking. My legs are so sore today I feel like Ozzy Osbourne walks.
---
Even though right now, I have half of my life in a storage unit (a ticking time bomb in the world of moving) and the other half of my life in garbage bags in my parents' spare room (another ticking time bomb waiting to explode into my childhood bedroom any second now), I breathe a sigh of relief that the September 1 moving experience is over for this year. Also, I have learned a few things from my Beacon Hill moves: (1) Don't live on the fourth floor (2) Don't live on the fourth floor (3) Don't live on the fourth floor. End Scene.
Last year, I decided to beat the whole moving crazy nonsense by hiring movers. I booked them months in advance, got a good deal, and felt quite proud of myself for not procrastinating for once. Kudos to me, a hundred pats on the back, and kudos again. The morning of Sept 1, 2008 the bubble I lived in where moving is easy and fun popped.
First, my movers didn't show. I called, they said, "Whooops!" and sent 3 guys over. I am pissed, but calm. Although my seemingly "easy" move was starting out 2 hours delayed, I would not let my feathers ruffle over such a minor detail. Instead, I put my energy into re-cleaning the kitchen floor with a toothbrush (we were told it was not quite clean enough and I was making a point).
Finally, the movers show up and so I show them into the house. In my mind, I imagined movers to be silent and efficient busy bees. My movers were no such thing. First, the complaint was issued that they weren't told there'd be stairs. My response: I was told you'd be here at 8 (as I looked at my wrist indicating it was now 10:30am, um humm). Then, they started loading everything into the truck. It's going well until they decide to head out but had missed about half a dozen boxes of my clothes and shoes-- I shout after them and they come back in mumbling obscenities under their breaths. Awesome. They zip off to Beacon Hill while I get reamed out by my landlady and then cry.
Eventually I make it to the Hill to find they have already started unloading. Lovely. We are back on track... Or are we? All of a sudden a fight breaks out between my head mover and the Boston Transport police. Great. Apparently the street occupency permit that I had to get by visiting 3 different offices on 3 different floors with 3 different checks made out to 3 different departments wasn't valid on my street. Thanks, City of Boston, for the heads-up that my street doesn't allow permits of that nature. I do not flip a lid and instead gently encourage the movers to "Please move your truck around the corner like the lady says" and then I look at the Boston Transport official and say, "I know this isn't your fault, but it is kind of ridiculous." She agreed and wandered off to find other violators.
Meanwhile, my movers are bringing my things inside my new apartment. Did I mention it was a 4th floor walk up? Did I also mention I have hundreds of books as well as a heavy couch. F-bombs are being thrown about with abandon and by the time I make it up to my apartment I discover that my movers have quit. Over the phone. To their supervisor, who we can refer to as Bob. Shouting ensues and if you could have slammed a cell phone, my head mover would have done so. He looks at me and says, "Nothing personal, but this isn't what we signed on for."
The other two movers make it up the stairs, huffing and puffing, sweating and swearing. They say "You've got a lot of stuff" and "Normally we don't move boxes like this." I said "Boxes like what? Boxes filled with stuff? Huh?" and they explain:
"Can you lift this?" they ask me, pointing to one of my 50/50 boxes (half books, half pillows). I lift it off the ground but admitted it was quite heavy.
"If you can't lift it, we don't normally move it," they explained.
Me, perplexed. "So, you are saying if I " (pointing to myself-- an under 5 foot female) "can't lift this, you won't move it? Hmm"
"Okay, chica," they say. "We get your point. Do you have a boyfriend?"
Me: "If I had a boyfriend he'd be here moving so I wouldn't have to deal with all of you. So have you quit or are you working for me today?"
They decided they liked my sass (who doesn't) and agreed to continuing moving my things. After about an hour of watching my stuff being tossed around like it was salad they were done. I counted the broken plates in my head as I calculated their tip.
This year, things were a little different. Originally I didn't plan to move, but circumstances changed and since I couldn't commit to a new location I decide to put my things in storage and spend some quality time in suburbia with the familia. I call around and find a company called Door-to-Door. They are going to drop off a pod-like storage unit, I will have 3 days to fill it up, they will pick it up and put it somewhere. When I want it, they will deliver it to my new address. Sounds like a dream come true and as close as I can get to the creme-de-la-creme of moving fantasies: when someone else packs your stuff up, delivers it, and unpacks it, all while you vacation in the Virgin Islands. (One day, my friends, one day).
Snag 1: the day they are supposed to deliver the storage unit I double check the space (Door-to-Door arranged the street occupancy permits so it all works out fine) and it is clear. Fab-u-lous (said like the Orbit gum lady). 5 minutes before they actually arrive, however, someone pulls into the spot and then disappears. True story. I walk around my neighborhood asking everyone and anyone if they are the owner(s) of the car in my spot. Even a friendly neighborhood mailman helps me out for a while. A woman and her daughter eventually emerge from another apartment building. After a couple of blank stares and one dresser loaded into her vehicle she moves the car across the street.
Snag 2: I hire 2 movers (labor only) to help me with the big stuff. 15 minutes late and I am like WTF. I call my friend to say "What do I do?" and then one shows up. He was called by the guy I arranged the labor with and then was told that guy was sending another guy over. That is one too many anonymous guys in the equation. This kid-- Jeremy- thinks he can move some of the stuff on his own. I say, "That's great, because I don't want to help and I will pay you double." He ponders calling a friend, but apparently has none. (Okay that's harsh, he does indeed have friends but this is a Saturday at 6 pm and they are otherwise preoccupied). As we go outside to open and scope out the storage unit, Dimitri shows up. We are saved.
Snag 3: The two guys do a great job getting all of the big stuff in there, but now I am left with an apartment full of trash/little stuff and a feeling of overwhelming panic. I call my friend Sara and go over there, eat Chinese food, and forget about it for the rest of the night. The next day, my parents show up. I think I have things under control and we start to load up their car with my essential stuff that I cannot live without aka seventeen hundred million bags of clothes, spare books (I do need some books on hand) and other things that are so amazing I can't even remember them. The truth quickly becomes realized: I have too much stuff.
Snag 4: Did I mention I live(d) in a 4th floor walk up? Seven or so hours later, I have walked up and down those stairs so many times I am practically crawling the final flight. I took quite a few 10 minute "lay on the floor and try to recuperate" breaks when no one was looking. My legs are so sore today I feel like Ozzy Osbourne walks.
---
Even though right now, I have half of my life in a storage unit (a ticking time bomb in the world of moving) and the other half of my life in garbage bags in my parents' spare room (another ticking time bomb waiting to explode into my childhood bedroom any second now), I breathe a sigh of relief that the September 1 moving experience is over for this year. Also, I have learned a few things from my Beacon Hill moves: (1) Don't live on the fourth floor (2) Don't live on the fourth floor (3) Don't live on the fourth floor. End Scene.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The things I carried
As I prepare to move in the next 24-48 hours, I wonder how I'm really going to pull it off. I say 24-48 hours because while my official move in date is September 1st, I may be able to move certain items into my building, but not my apartment, on the 31st, thanks to friends who will be moving into the same building.
The move is from Brighton to Allston, and only .4 miles so it should be fairly easy. Then again, the move is from BRIGHTON to ALLSTON on September 1st. I avoided this nightmare last year because I moved in around September 7th or so. An extra bonus challenge will be moving my full sized bed without the aid of a truck or movers.
Option 1 is walking it down the street, hopefully with help.
Option 2 is strapping that mother to my Altima and hoping for the best.
Option 3:
Except Allston St. instead of a surf-stairway and random homeless people and college kids instead of guards in purple suits. The billowy, hooded nightgown is a must though.
Other than that, everything should pretty much fit in my car in 2 trips. That was the number of trips I had to take last September when moving. Still I wonder, where did I get all this crap? And even still, I left a lot of belongings, personal and otherwise, at my parents' house. I didn't have room for them to come to my apartment and I may still not have room.
There are things that I wish I had here and others I brought with me that I don't even need, but I can't throw them away. I don't look at my yearbooks, but I thought I would like to have them around. Plus, I can't keep everything at my parents' forever. I think as I move to my second apartment, I must make a trip back and enact judgment day upon my belongings. Everything will either be moving on with me, or going to the firey pits of the garbage world.
No that's too harsh and Christian. Perhaps there will be some reincarnation as my trash becomes another man's treasure through goodwill.
I realized today this would all be solved if I could just keep everything with me, but not actually have to store it anywhere. This would be possible if my life were a video game. I walked by a box of matches that had been left on the street, and of course as a 27 year old man seeing trash, I thought I should pick it up. I have also recently been picking up loose change on the street that normally I would pass by. I want to see how much I can earn in a year just by picking up loose change. But, I digress.
In video games, at least the role playing kind, you get to walk around and look for items that you will need later. Kill someone- take his gun. Find a grenade- keep it for later when you need to blast through a brick wall. Magic potion-what? Who cares- you know you'll need it at some point. And this is what I think when I see something like a box of matches, hanging out all by itelf, practically with a pulsating glow around it. "I'll need these later." Why else would they be there?
Why don't I pick them up? Because it's street trash. No, that's not why- that wouldn't stop me. The reason is, I don't have room for this crap. In the video game world, you pick things up and you just "have" them. Somehow you can carry a rifle, a key card, 10 smoke bombs, a first aid pack, and a grappling hook on your person. And you can just bust them out at any point, at the appropriate time.
If I could just "have" all my belongings, but not have to keep them, I would be all set. Because although you don't need them on a regular basis- I mean do I really NEED my Spice World sticker book, with an unfinished collection of stickers, because I stopped being able to find the Chupa Chups Spice Girls lollipops? Of course not, but how else would I be able to prove how painfully uncool I am but how much uncooler I used to be. I think people believe me but having that evidence really drives the point home. Unfortunately, I have to keep that in a trunk, next to the comic books I used to draw for 4 years, and my 3 volumes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Watcher's Guide.
All of my music now fits on my ipod-something that is smaller than my wallet. I kind of miss having the actual CDs, but it's good to free up the space. Most of the information found in the books I have can be found online anytime. Maybe those I can learn to live without.
I don't have any other place to put old drawings, movie ticket stubs, letters and cards from family and friends. But I'm not getting rid of them. And so these are the things I carry with me, even though I probably won't use them.
So scientists and eggheads, could you get on that teleportion shit anytime soon? The Power Rangers did it all the time, and that show has been around for years!
PS Looking forward to this in 2 days:
PIVOT!!
The move is from Brighton to Allston, and only .4 miles so it should be fairly easy. Then again, the move is from BRIGHTON to ALLSTON on September 1st. I avoided this nightmare last year because I moved in around September 7th or so. An extra bonus challenge will be moving my full sized bed without the aid of a truck or movers.
Option 1 is walking it down the street, hopefully with help.
Option 2 is strapping that mother to my Altima and hoping for the best.
Option 3:
Except Allston St. instead of a surf-stairway and random homeless people and college kids instead of guards in purple suits. The billowy, hooded nightgown is a must though.
Other than that, everything should pretty much fit in my car in 2 trips. That was the number of trips I had to take last September when moving. Still I wonder, where did I get all this crap? And even still, I left a lot of belongings, personal and otherwise, at my parents' house. I didn't have room for them to come to my apartment and I may still not have room.
There are things that I wish I had here and others I brought with me that I don't even need, but I can't throw them away. I don't look at my yearbooks, but I thought I would like to have them around. Plus, I can't keep everything at my parents' forever. I think as I move to my second apartment, I must make a trip back and enact judgment day upon my belongings. Everything will either be moving on with me, or going to the firey pits of the garbage world.
No that's too harsh and Christian. Perhaps there will be some reincarnation as my trash becomes another man's treasure through goodwill.
I realized today this would all be solved if I could just keep everything with me, but not actually have to store it anywhere. This would be possible if my life were a video game. I walked by a box of matches that had been left on the street, and of course as a 27 year old man seeing trash, I thought I should pick it up. I have also recently been picking up loose change on the street that normally I would pass by. I want to see how much I can earn in a year just by picking up loose change. But, I digress.
In video games, at least the role playing kind, you get to walk around and look for items that you will need later. Kill someone- take his gun. Find a grenade- keep it for later when you need to blast through a brick wall. Magic potion-what? Who cares- you know you'll need it at some point. And this is what I think when I see something like a box of matches, hanging out all by itelf, practically with a pulsating glow around it. "I'll need these later." Why else would they be there?
Why don't I pick them up? Because it's street trash. No, that's not why- that wouldn't stop me. The reason is, I don't have room for this crap. In the video game world, you pick things up and you just "have" them. Somehow you can carry a rifle, a key card, 10 smoke bombs, a first aid pack, and a grappling hook on your person. And you can just bust them out at any point, at the appropriate time.
If I could just "have" all my belongings, but not have to keep them, I would be all set. Because although you don't need them on a regular basis- I mean do I really NEED my Spice World sticker book, with an unfinished collection of stickers, because I stopped being able to find the Chupa Chups Spice Girls lollipops? Of course not, but how else would I be able to prove how painfully uncool I am but how much uncooler I used to be. I think people believe me but having that evidence really drives the point home. Unfortunately, I have to keep that in a trunk, next to the comic books I used to draw for 4 years, and my 3 volumes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Watcher's Guide.
All of my music now fits on my ipod-something that is smaller than my wallet. I kind of miss having the actual CDs, but it's good to free up the space. Most of the information found in the books I have can be found online anytime. Maybe those I can learn to live without.
I don't have any other place to put old drawings, movie ticket stubs, letters and cards from family and friends. But I'm not getting rid of them. And so these are the things I carry with me, even though I probably won't use them.
So scientists and eggheads, could you get on that teleportion shit anytime soon? The Power Rangers did it all the time, and that show has been around for years!
PS Looking forward to this in 2 days:
PIVOT!!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Marathon morons
This past Monday, I watched most of the Boston Marathon from Washington Square in Brookline. I say most, because I didn't go to see the elite runners go by (I don't know anyone from Kenya) and occasionally I stepped away to grab a beer, which we were allowed to drink outside.
I haven't watched the Marathon live in a few years, since my older brother ran it. This time around, my little brother was running, and a friend of mine. I was tracking both of them via text alerts, and relaying the information to family and friends. I had everyone looking out for my brother, so we could cheer him on as he neared the finish line. I was excited and proud of all of these people in something for which the word "race" doesn't do justice. On top of that, I am running the Providence Marathon in less than two weeks. I was excited, and nervous watching.
And annoyed. There was an epidemic of people trying to cross the road during the event. The Boston Marathon is not exactly a surprise to anyone who lives in Boston, and it shouldn't even be a foreign idea to those outside the city, considering it is one of the "Big 5" marathons. I myself did have to cross the road at a point during the race, just once, to get to friends and beer. I am pretty quick and agile (I had better be if I'm supposed to run a marathon in 10 days). Even so, I waited until there was a lull in the race and the police officers on duty at the crosswalks.
The three runners up for top offender were: the Asian tourists with a heavy camera who scurried slowly across, holding hands; the two people who crashed into each other in the middle of the road; finally, the woman running across the street with a child in her arms.
The biggest idiot of the day, however, was the woman who tried to cross the street in the middle of a pack of runners, while pushing...a baby stroller. The police officer on that corner chewed her out and rightfully so.
What the ef is wrong with people?
There is a marathon going on. Thousands of people are running 26 miles. In a row! They are doing something that most people couldn't dream of doing. It takes physical fitness, stamina, mental strength, training, dedication, and perseverance that few people have. Show some respect and wait! Where are you and your baby going that is so damn important you can't wait a few minutes to let these people complete one of the most significant things they may ever do, without some idiot pushing a stroller through to throw off their time.
Beyond respect, show some common sense. People running the marathon- not slow. 50 Speedy Gonzales's are coming your way when you cross that street. If you don't get out of their way, the impact will be significant. What if while walking across the street, you caused injury to a runner? Also, worst parent ever! "Oh, I think I'll just take my baby across the street and-" oh your baby just got run over! Your baby's probably dead. These people have been running for 23 miles at this point. It has taken them over 2 and a half hours. Many of them have not stopped, and they're not going to do that easily.
As the stroller pusher, you have shown that you are a complete moron, waste of space, and probably shouldn't have kids. Under your supervision, given the care and decision making skills you've shown, they won't last long in this world anyways, especially considering what a daredevil you decide they will be on their behalf, playing chicken with a wall of elite runners.
I was glad to see that people booed the idiots for crossing the road whenever they felt like it. I am a fan of booing when people deserve it. The thing that sucks is that people running the marathon had to hear something so negative when all they should be hearing are cheers and well wishes and admiration.
Maybe instead of booing there should have been angry, but quiet, mob justice.
"Thank you, logic boy. Did I mention this is a rant? Sense really has no place in it."-BtVS
I haven't watched the Marathon live in a few years, since my older brother ran it. This time around, my little brother was running, and a friend of mine. I was tracking both of them via text alerts, and relaying the information to family and friends. I had everyone looking out for my brother, so we could cheer him on as he neared the finish line. I was excited and proud of all of these people in something for which the word "race" doesn't do justice. On top of that, I am running the Providence Marathon in less than two weeks. I was excited, and nervous watching.
And annoyed. There was an epidemic of people trying to cross the road during the event. The Boston Marathon is not exactly a surprise to anyone who lives in Boston, and it shouldn't even be a foreign idea to those outside the city, considering it is one of the "Big 5" marathons. I myself did have to cross the road at a point during the race, just once, to get to friends and beer. I am pretty quick and agile (I had better be if I'm supposed to run a marathon in 10 days). Even so, I waited until there was a lull in the race and the police officers on duty at the crosswalks.
The three runners up for top offender were: the Asian tourists with a heavy camera who scurried slowly across, holding hands; the two people who crashed into each other in the middle of the road; finally, the woman running across the street with a child in her arms.
The biggest idiot of the day, however, was the woman who tried to cross the street in the middle of a pack of runners, while pushing...a baby stroller. The police officer on that corner chewed her out and rightfully so.
What the ef is wrong with people?
There is a marathon going on. Thousands of people are running 26 miles. In a row! They are doing something that most people couldn't dream of doing. It takes physical fitness, stamina, mental strength, training, dedication, and perseverance that few people have. Show some respect and wait! Where are you and your baby going that is so damn important you can't wait a few minutes to let these people complete one of the most significant things they may ever do, without some idiot pushing a stroller through to throw off their time.
Beyond respect, show some common sense. People running the marathon- not slow. 50 Speedy Gonzales's are coming your way when you cross that street. If you don't get out of their way, the impact will be significant. What if while walking across the street, you caused injury to a runner? Also, worst parent ever! "Oh, I think I'll just take my baby across the street and-"
As the stroller pusher, you have shown that you are a complete moron, waste of space, and probably shouldn't have kids. Under your supervision, given the care and decision making skills you've shown, they won't last long in this world anyways, especially considering what a daredevil you decide they will be on their behalf, playing chicken with a wall of elite runners.
I was glad to see that people booed the idiots for crossing the road whenever they felt like it. I am a fan of booing when people deserve it. The thing that sucks is that people running the marathon had to hear something so negative when all they should be hearing are cheers and well wishes and admiration.
Maybe instead of booing there should have been angry, but quiet, mob justice.
"Thank you, logic boy. Did I mention this is a rant? Sense really has no place in it."-BtVS
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