It's Saturday.
But where am I? At work.
Yes, I know, I'm doing too much.
But I must finish this article. It has too much potential for me to just let it lay in mediocrity.
- theCallowQueen
- In the down-hill tumble of life, I'm okay with the scratches and bruises; it's the broken bones that I'm trying to avoid.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
breaking the mood
"How can you live with such a tiny purse?" a co-worker, asked as she held up my new little pink purse, which, for the record, is larger than what I was previously using.
As she held it my cell phone began to ring. I cringed. I’d left it on loud, and we have almost a dozen outside visitors in the office today. Not the professional atmosphere that we try to fake when we have guests.
I grabbed the purse, and pressed the silent button on the phone.
It’s 9:30 a.m., who'd be calling my cell?
I didn't recognize the number; had telemarketers finally found me?
"Hello?" I whispered.
"Hello, this is officer so-and-so," said the voice from the unknown line.
Officer? What had happened? Had my car been stolen? Had I done something wrong? I may have technically run a red light on the way to work, no, that couldn't be it …
"Your apartment manager contacted me," he continued. My apartment manager? What’s going on? Then slowly it dawned on me.
I called my apartment manager this morning to let her know that there was a substantial amount of broken glass from beer bottles in our parking lot (substantial as in the parking lot was covered in glass).
At 2 a.m. I woke to the loud crash of breaking glass. I jumped out of bed and peeked through my blinds. The cars in the parking lot looked unharmed. I didn't see any signs of tampering. My car was fine.
Since I was wide awake, I went to the balcony off of the living room for a better view. Again, I didn't see any one in the parking lot, but I did see a large group of people on the balcony of the complex next to mine.
I’ve watched the boys that live in that apartment. In that fancy "we have garages and pay lots in rent" complex, I usually only see people leaving or returning in their cars. But these boys are about the only ones who I’ve really ever seen in their apartment. They keep the balcony shades fully open and are often on the balcony. Some one's always there.
All that to say, I wasn't surprised by the mass of people. One of the guys must have thrown down a bottle, I assume, and went back to bed.
According to officer so-and-so, the rear car window of the couple that lives above me was shattered. Yikes. I told him what I knew. In my mind I saw the clear trajectory of a dark beer bottle flying from the balcony across the parking lot and heard the loud shattering of glass.
Funny that the trouble came from the swank apartment complex and not mine. There’s that perception that the nicer the complex is, the safer it is. Bullshit. You only pay more money.
As she held it my cell phone began to ring. I cringed. I’d left it on loud, and we have almost a dozen outside visitors in the office today. Not the professional atmosphere that we try to fake when we have guests.
I grabbed the purse, and pressed the silent button on the phone.
It’s 9:30 a.m., who'd be calling my cell?
I didn't recognize the number; had telemarketers finally found me?
"Hello?" I whispered.
"Hello, this is officer so-and-so," said the voice from the unknown line.
Officer? What had happened? Had my car been stolen? Had I done something wrong? I may have technically run a red light on the way to work, no, that couldn't be it …
"Your apartment manager contacted me," he continued. My apartment manager? What’s going on? Then slowly it dawned on me.
I called my apartment manager this morning to let her know that there was a substantial amount of broken glass from beer bottles in our parking lot (substantial as in the parking lot was covered in glass).
At 2 a.m. I woke to the loud crash of breaking glass. I jumped out of bed and peeked through my blinds. The cars in the parking lot looked unharmed. I didn't see any signs of tampering. My car was fine.
Since I was wide awake, I went to the balcony off of the living room for a better view. Again, I didn't see any one in the parking lot, but I did see a large group of people on the balcony of the complex next to mine.
I’ve watched the boys that live in that apartment. In that fancy "we have garages and pay lots in rent" complex, I usually only see people leaving or returning in their cars. But these boys are about the only ones who I’ve really ever seen in their apartment. They keep the balcony shades fully open and are often on the balcony. Some one's always there.
All that to say, I wasn't surprised by the mass of people. One of the guys must have thrown down a bottle, I assume, and went back to bed.
According to officer so-and-so, the rear car window of the couple that lives above me was shattered. Yikes. I told him what I knew. In my mind I saw the clear trajectory of a dark beer bottle flying from the balcony across the parking lot and heard the loud shattering of glass.
Funny that the trouble came from the swank apartment complex and not mine. There’s that perception that the nicer the complex is, the safer it is. Bullshit. You only pay more money.
Monday, September 20, 2004
well, well, well
I am back at work.
I am back to life.
I am back to me.
I am well!!!!
My horrible sickness has almost left my ears, nose, and throat.
(We’ll see if we can encourage it's full exit today.)
To those of you who've had to put up with the complaining, picky little snot that I was last week, thanks.
I had an ass-spankin' good weekend, mostly thanks to lizzylou and co. thanks for playing host over the weekend. Oreos, milk, 12 kingdoms, and you girls make for a great Friday night.
Okay, this is the big week.
I’m going to have to talk with my boss this week about the future.
I’m going to finish my resume and portfolio.
I’m going to search for "associate editor wanted" lines.
I’m going to kick butt at work.
I am back to life.
I am back to me.
I am well!!!!
My horrible sickness has almost left my ears, nose, and throat.
(We’ll see if we can encourage it's full exit today.)
To those of you who've had to put up with the complaining, picky little snot that I was last week, thanks.
I had an ass-spankin' good weekend, mostly thanks to lizzylou and co. thanks for playing host over the weekend. Oreos, milk, 12 kingdoms, and you girls make for a great Friday night.
Okay, this is the big week.
I’m going to have to talk with my boss this week about the future.
I’m going to finish my resume and portfolio.
I’m going to search for "associate editor wanted" lines.
I’m going to kick butt at work.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
hair pulling frustration
so i have this job that i've been doing for a while.
and the girl in the position just above mine won't be returning after her maternity leave ends next week.
and i want this teeny little thing called a promotion.
and i think my boss was beginning to come round to the idea that i was ready.
that i was capable. that this could work.
then i found out two other more experienced editors may be vying for the same job.
don't they know this is my job?
and then i got this edit back.
too much red.
not good.
and i'm in a rut on my news blurbs.
and ugh.
i reeeaaaalllly want this.
my fear is that if my boss hires someone else, then my chances of being promoted on this mag are zero until someone leaves again.
then my only option would be to try for a job in another department or at another company.
ugh. ugh. ugh.
and the girl in the position just above mine won't be returning after her maternity leave ends next week.
and i want this teeny little thing called a promotion.
and i think my boss was beginning to come round to the idea that i was ready.
that i was capable. that this could work.
then i found out two other more experienced editors may be vying for the same job.
don't they know this is my job?
and then i got this edit back.
too much red.
not good.
and i'm in a rut on my news blurbs.
and ugh.
i reeeaaaalllly want this.
my fear is that if my boss hires someone else, then my chances of being promoted on this mag are zero until someone leaves again.
then my only option would be to try for a job in another department or at another company.
ugh. ugh. ugh.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
news bites
A scientific study of 12 men and 12 women who fell in love (we never knew that science was involved), found that the men had lower than normal levels—and the women had higher levels—of testosterone. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: See, women really do love girlie men.
A recent report from Express Scripts, which runs pharmacy programs for managed care companies, says that antidepressant use among 2 million patients under age 18 went from 1.6% in 1998 to 2.4% in 2002—and that the rate of increase in antidepressants was highest among kids under five. That’s f-i-v-e. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: My 5 year old is smarter than your 5 year old. Oh yeah? Well my 5 year old can beat up your 5 year old.
Following the trail …
Christopher Pittman said he remembered everything about that night … when he killed his grandparents: the blood, the shotgun blasts, the voices urging him on, even the smoke detectors that screamed as he drove away from their rural South Carolina home after setting it on fire.
Now, Christopher … faces charges of first-degree murder. The decision by a local prosecutor to try him as an adult could send him to prison for life. While prosecutors portray him as a troubled killer, his defenders say the killings occurred for a reason beyond the boy's control—a reaction to the antidepressant Zoloft, a drug he had started taking for depression not long before the slayings.
In recent months … the federal Food and Drug Administration has been examining data from clinical trials indicating that some depressed children and adolescents taking antidepressants think more about suicide and attempt it more often than patients given placebos. The findings varied between drugs. …
Pfizer, the maker of Zoloft, has helped the county solicitor who is prosecuting Christopher Pittman. Plaintiffs' lawyers from Houston and Los Angeles, who between them have brought numerous civil lawsuits against Pfizer and other antidepressant makers, have signed onto the defense team. (Source: The New York Times)
COMMENTARY: My 12 year old is smarter than your 12 year old. Oh yeah? Well my 12 year old is on enough antidepressants to kill you 12 year old.
Pulp fiction: What does it mean when the orange juice carton says “Some Pulp.” How much is that, exactly? The box doesn’t say. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: And how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know.
COMMENTARY: See, women really do love girlie men.
A recent report from Express Scripts, which runs pharmacy programs for managed care companies, says that antidepressant use among 2 million patients under age 18 went from 1.6% in 1998 to 2.4% in 2002—and that the rate of increase in antidepressants was highest among kids under five. That’s f-i-v-e. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: My 5 year old is smarter than your 5 year old. Oh yeah? Well my 5 year old can beat up your 5 year old.
Following the trail …
Christopher Pittman said he remembered everything about that night … when he killed his grandparents: the blood, the shotgun blasts, the voices urging him on, even the smoke detectors that screamed as he drove away from their rural South Carolina home after setting it on fire.
Now, Christopher … faces charges of first-degree murder. The decision by a local prosecutor to try him as an adult could send him to prison for life. While prosecutors portray him as a troubled killer, his defenders say the killings occurred for a reason beyond the boy's control—a reaction to the antidepressant Zoloft, a drug he had started taking for depression not long before the slayings.
In recent months … the federal Food and Drug Administration has been examining data from clinical trials indicating that some depressed children and adolescents taking antidepressants think more about suicide and attempt it more often than patients given placebos. The findings varied between drugs. …
Pfizer, the maker of Zoloft, has helped the county solicitor who is prosecuting Christopher Pittman. Plaintiffs' lawyers from Houston and Los Angeles, who between them have brought numerous civil lawsuits against Pfizer and other antidepressant makers, have signed onto the defense team. (Source: The New York Times)
COMMENTARY: My 12 year old is smarter than your 12 year old. Oh yeah? Well my 12 year old is on enough antidepressants to kill you 12 year old.
Pulp fiction: What does it mean when the orange juice carton says “Some Pulp.” How much is that, exactly? The box doesn’t say. (Source: WHIP)
COMMENTARY: And how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know.
Friday, September 03, 2004
latin stories
conferencing in latin
written by theCallowQueen
I was talking with this cute redheaded guy at a conference. I wanted him to see how intelligent I was, so I thought I’d show off my Latin.
“Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre,” I asked him
He mumbled something that sounded like, “Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure.” But I doubt that I had heard him correctly. (I asked him: Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me? He may have mumbled: I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.)
It was at this moment that a woman rushed up to me, pushing the redhead out of the way.
“Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem (stand aside, little people! I’m here on official business),” she demanded.
Her hair few in wild directions. I wanted to ask her, “Quomodo cogis comas tuas sic videri (how do you get your hair to do that)?” But I decided to hold my tongue.
“Who’s responsible for this?” she said gesturing with a wave of her arm to the entire exhibit hall.
I gave her a questioning look.
“It’s hot in here. This is unacceptable. I paid good money to be here. Do something,” she demanded.
I tried to explain to her that non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat (it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity), and that I had no control over the situation. It seemed that telling her, “Ita erat quando hic adveni (it was that way when I got here),” didn’t help the situation.
“Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert (frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn),” she replied. Then she leaned toward me and said in a hoarse whisper, “Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem (in the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).”
That’s when the redheaded man steped in, turned to the Medusa-like woman, and said, “Vacca Foeda! Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris (stupid Cow! If Caesar were alive, you’d be chained to an oar.)”
She gave him a vicious look before turning on her heal and stomping off toward the restroom.
Just when I though I could get back to my discussion with the cute redheaded guy, I noticed old man staring at me. I asked the old man if he had any questions or was looking for something in particular.
“Neutiquam erro (I am not lost),” he replied. “You are.”
I told him that I knew exactly where I was.
“No, you are lost. You are ignorant,” the old man insisted.
I was beginning to get a little irritated.
“Answer me this,” he said, “Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari? (How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?)”
“I haven’t a clue,” I responded truthfully.
“Ahh, I will show you the way. Come with me and learn the truth,” the old man said reaching out a long bony hand to me.
I stepped back and firmly said, “Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione (I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult).”
Security finally dragged the old man away. I turned back to the cute guy just in time to see the Medusa woman fling a cat in his direction. He ducked, and the cat landed on the counter behind him. I picked up the cat, and it dug it’s claws into my arm.
“Feles mala (bad kitty)!” I exclaimed and shoved the viscous cat into a nearby cage.
I then called security to take the crazy woman away.
“Is it always like this?” the redheaded guy asked me.
“No, this year has been a little more taxing,” I explained. “Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare (I think some people in togas are plotting against me),” I said with a wink. “You want to get out of here?”
“Tuis pugis pignore! (You bet your bippy!)” he smiled.
~Finis~
(Here's where I found these Handy Latin Phrases.)
driving in latin
written by he intern who’s cubicle is next to mine. It’s kind of a prequel to my story.
I was heading downtown, 14th and Broadway to be exact. Cars were whipping past my white Jeep Cherokee. Suddenly a lone veterinarian making his way to Bartle Hall for the annual CVC shouted “Sona si latine loqueris! (Honk if you speak Latin!)” A million honks screamed from Broadway street and I was frightened. Who were these people?
“Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione! (I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult!) “ I cried. No one listened and the honking continued. It drove me crazy making me miss my turn for the the Barney Allis Parking Plaza. I tossed my Mapquest directions aside and looked around to figure out where the garage was located.
Just then a homeless man approached. His B.O. burned my eyes and made them tear, but to my surprise the man wasn’t homeless. It was Dr. Swift wearing purple balloon pants.
“Are you lost, my dear?” he asked.
“Neutiquam erro. (I am not lost.) But you forgot to give MC Hammer back his pants,” I said driving off.
“Eureka! (I found it! but that isn’t Latin.)” I cried pulling into a dark, underground parking garage. I pulled my car into a stall next to a maroon Pontiac. A perky editor stepped out.
“Whew, it’s a hot one today,” Spring said.
“Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat. (It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.),” I said. “Just look at what it’s doing to my hair! Di! Ecce hora! (God, look at the time!) Peggy will kill us if we don’t get inside!”
Just then commotion broke out a few stalls away ...
“Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem. (Stand aside, little people! I’m here on official business.)” Greg said, his head skimming the ceiling of the garage.
“Well, shall we join the merry CVC goers?” I asked.
“Tuis pugis pignore! (You bet your bippy!),” Spring exclaimed.
And we set off towards the sun!
~Finis~
written by theCallowQueen
I was talking with this cute redheaded guy at a conference. I wanted him to see how intelligent I was, so I thought I’d show off my Latin.
“Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre,” I asked him
He mumbled something that sounded like, “Te audire no possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure.” But I doubt that I had heard him correctly. (I asked him: Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me? He may have mumbled: I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.)
It was at this moment that a woman rushed up to me, pushing the redhead out of the way.
“Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem (stand aside, little people! I’m here on official business),” she demanded.
Her hair few in wild directions. I wanted to ask her, “Quomodo cogis comas tuas sic videri (how do you get your hair to do that)?” But I decided to hold my tongue.
“Who’s responsible for this?” she said gesturing with a wave of her arm to the entire exhibit hall.
I gave her a questioning look.
“It’s hot in here. This is unacceptable. I paid good money to be here. Do something,” she demanded.
I tried to explain to her that non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat (it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity), and that I had no control over the situation. It seemed that telling her, “Ita erat quando hic adveni (it was that way when I got here),” didn’t help the situation.
“Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert (frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn),” she replied. Then she leaned toward me and said in a hoarse whisper, “Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem (in the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).”
That’s when the redheaded man steped in, turned to the Medusa-like woman, and said, “Vacca Foeda! Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris (stupid Cow! If Caesar were alive, you’d be chained to an oar.)”
She gave him a vicious look before turning on her heal and stomping off toward the restroom.
Just when I though I could get back to my discussion with the cute redheaded guy, I noticed old man staring at me. I asked the old man if he had any questions or was looking for something in particular.
“Neutiquam erro (I am not lost),” he replied. “You are.”
I told him that I knew exactly where I was.
“No, you are lost. You are ignorant,” the old man insisted.
I was beginning to get a little irritated.
“Answer me this,” he said, “Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari? (How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?)”
“I haven’t a clue,” I responded truthfully.
“Ahh, I will show you the way. Come with me and learn the truth,” the old man said reaching out a long bony hand to me.
I stepped back and firmly said, “Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione (I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult).”
Security finally dragged the old man away. I turned back to the cute guy just in time to see the Medusa woman fling a cat in his direction. He ducked, and the cat landed on the counter behind him. I picked up the cat, and it dug it’s claws into my arm.
“Feles mala (bad kitty)!” I exclaimed and shoved the viscous cat into a nearby cage.
I then called security to take the crazy woman away.
“Is it always like this?” the redheaded guy asked me.
“No, this year has been a little more taxing,” I explained. “Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare (I think some people in togas are plotting against me),” I said with a wink. “You want to get out of here?”
“Tuis pugis pignore! (You bet your bippy!)” he smiled.
~Finis~
(Here's where I found these Handy Latin Phrases.)
driving in latin
written by he intern who’s cubicle is next to mine. It’s kind of a prequel to my story.
I was heading downtown, 14th and Broadway to be exact. Cars were whipping past my white Jeep Cherokee. Suddenly a lone veterinarian making his way to Bartle Hall for the annual CVC shouted “Sona si latine loqueris! (Honk if you speak Latin!)” A million honks screamed from Broadway street and I was frightened. Who were these people?
“Nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione! (I’m not interested in your dopey religious cult!) “ I cried. No one listened and the honking continued. It drove me crazy making me miss my turn for the the Barney Allis Parking Plaza. I tossed my Mapquest directions aside and looked around to figure out where the garage was located.
Just then a homeless man approached. His B.O. burned my eyes and made them tear, but to my surprise the man wasn’t homeless. It was Dr. Swift wearing purple balloon pants.
“Are you lost, my dear?” he asked.
“Neutiquam erro. (I am not lost.) But you forgot to give MC Hammer back his pants,” I said driving off.
“Eureka! (I found it! but that isn’t Latin.)” I cried pulling into a dark, underground parking garage. I pulled my car into a stall next to a maroon Pontiac. A perky editor stepped out.
“Whew, it’s a hot one today,” Spring said.
“Non calor sed umor est qui nobis incommodat. (It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.),” I said. “Just look at what it’s doing to my hair! Di! Ecce hora! (God, look at the time!) Peggy will kill us if we don’t get inside!”
Just then commotion broke out a few stalls away ...
“Recedite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem. (Stand aside, little people! I’m here on official business.)” Greg said, his head skimming the ceiling of the garage.
“Well, shall we join the merry CVC goers?” I asked.
“Tuis pugis pignore! (You bet your bippy!),” Spring exclaimed.
And we set off towards the sun!
~Finis~
Thursday, September 02, 2004
news bites
BARTLE HALL--On Monday, CVC registration volunteers (or more accurately, forced laborers) saw a sharp decline in the number of retarded monkeys (attendees) asking stupid questions. The decline was a welcome relief to the volunteers, who had spent the last two days fielding a bunch of stupid questions from attendees who could not, for the life of them, form a single-file line in the booth clearly marked "On-site registration, slash information."
BY: FORCED LABORER #32 (one of my co-workers)
SOMEWHERE IN LENEXA, KS--Recently released hostages from the Central Veterinary Crisis were taken to a nearby Sonic for treatment. After a revitalizing meal of fried cheese and jalapenos, former hostage Po Stewart remarked, "Gee, that wasn't so bad." Fellow inmate Sally Golden promptly hit her with a 200-lb ream of copy paper. Stewart is in critical condition at Johnson County Mental Health Inpatient Unit, but doctors expect a full recovery.
BY: RELEASED HOSTAGE #3 (another co-worker)
AVHC, LENEXA, KS--Murmurs of a possible revolt by prisoners at a small publishing jail fell silent after hearing from their warden. With her words, "Thanks everyone for your hard work. You all did a great job," the jailed primarily female population seemed to forget their rage and demand for less strenuous work and better living conditions and went calmly to eat their gruel and mush.
"This happens every year," the warden says. "But they seem to calm down when they hear a bit of reason. So don't fear, this jail and it's iron bars haven't been broken yet."
BY: PRISONER #14 (theCallowQueen)
BY: FORCED LABORER #32 (one of my co-workers)
SOMEWHERE IN LENEXA, KS--Recently released hostages from the Central Veterinary Crisis were taken to a nearby Sonic for treatment. After a revitalizing meal of fried cheese and jalapenos, former hostage Po Stewart remarked, "Gee, that wasn't so bad." Fellow inmate Sally Golden promptly hit her with a 200-lb ream of copy paper. Stewart is in critical condition at Johnson County Mental Health Inpatient Unit, but doctors expect a full recovery.
BY: RELEASED HOSTAGE #3 (another co-worker)
AVHC, LENEXA, KS--Murmurs of a possible revolt by prisoners at a small publishing jail fell silent after hearing from their warden. With her words, "Thanks everyone for your hard work. You all did a great job," the jailed primarily female population seemed to forget their rage and demand for less strenuous work and better living conditions and went calmly to eat their gruel and mush.
"This happens every year," the warden says. "But they seem to calm down when they hear a bit of reason. So don't fear, this jail and it's iron bars haven't been broken yet."
BY: PRISONER #14 (theCallowQueen)
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