Remember me?

Hi. My name is Brooke, and I'm...an infrequent blogger. I understand that the first step is admitting you have a problem. Well, I have a problem. Surprisingly, it only took me two tries to get my password right. Perhaps if I logged in more than once every few months, I could even manage to get it on the first try. I won't make any promises. But it's definitely something to shoot for.

And speaking of nonsensical conditional language (such as "something to shoot for"), my old manager is history! Woohoo! You know, the annoying guy who couldn't ever answer a question with a yes or no (and who screwed me out of the position I deserved)? He left the company a couple of weeks ago to move to New York City and work on his "relationship." I didn't know robots could have relationships. I'm not so sure he knows it, either. Hence, the working on it part. The good news is that I never have to see his face (via that obnoxious webcam) ever again. Hooray!

Would you care to read an excerpt from my performance review last month? It was actually face-to-face. He made a special trip.

Scott: This is the portion of the review in which you can provide me with feedback on my performance as your manager. Is there anything you feel I could improve?

Me: Well, I often find that it's impossible to get a straight answer out of you. You never respond to questions with yes or no. Instead, you use a lot of conditional language, and I find that confusing.

Scott: Hmm. I'm not sure I follow. Can you give me an example or two?

Me: Sure. Whenever I ask you a question, you respond with phrases like, "that's certainly one option" or "this is definitely something we should consider" or "it might be something to try," etc. Sometimes, all I want is yes or no.

Scott: Some people may see me as excessively diplomatic. I've often thought that may be the case. But giving more definite answers is something I'll have to shoot for.

Me: Is that a yes?

(I thought it would be fun to bold Scott's conditional nonsense for you. You're welcome.)

Now, I seem to be working for the invisible manager. She's been in charge of our team for three weeks, and we've never actually spoken with her. I know her name, and I've seen her face on the video conference...but that's about it. One of my coworkers is convinced that she's attempting to manage us through our project editor. And that makes some sense...considering his sudden Jekyll and Hyde personality transformation. He's gone from a sweet-tempered, docile team player to a raging micromanager. It's been unpleasant, to say the least. One of my teammates went so far as to unfriend him from Facebook. That's practically the kiss of death, as you know.

In other news, I wear glasses now. Turns out that creepy eye trick is less of a trick and more of a disorder. Remember way back when Emilie and I went to that 3D movie and decided that, instead of a lazy eye, I had an "ambitious" eye? It wasn't that my eyes didn't want to look; it was more that they wanted to look too much! Well, it's actually closer to being a lazy eye, after all. If this problem had been worse when I was a child, it could have ended up that way. My advancing age has made the issue harder to control. Hence, the glasses. Over time, it'll continue to get worse, but, happily, I am past the age where a lazy eye is a possibility. The doc said 3D movies are a total waste of money for the lazy-eyed. As long as I wear my glasses underneath the 3D glasses, I'm all set!

The weirdest part is that I have 20/20 vision. So, my glasses are just prisms, designed to trick my eyes into thinking they're looking at the same thing. Otherwise, they're just glass--no prescription at all.

Meanwhile, I've been thinking that my eye doctor could probably set up shop as a fortune teller for extra cash. At my appointment, he noticed the problem and said, "Your sister has this, too." And I was like, "How do you know I have a sister?!" Sure enough, Lindsay was just diagnosed with the exact same eye trick. I mean, disorder. And I'm thinking Bridget has it, too. It's entirely possible that my eye doctor's prediction will come true for all of my sisters. If so, I'll have to nominate him for the Ripley's Believe it or Not show.

By the way, if you aren't sure what prism glasses look like, they look like regular glasses. After my diagnosis, I attempted to look them up online and was horrified by what I found at SkyMall. Just so you know, I can't actually lie on my back and read a book like this:



Never believe anything you see on SkyMall. This is a valuable lesson you don't have to learn the hard way. Just take my word for it.

B

Pet Peeve of the Day:
You know when you download a free book on your Kindle, and it turns out to be practically the worst piece of garbage you've ever read? And then you feel overwhelming guilt for having wasted so much of your time reading it? You figured it was free, so why not? But it wasn't really free, was it? Because it cost you precious time that, at the end of your life, you'll wish you could get back...but you never can. A lot of the time, they're heavily religious. And Amazon fails to mention that in the labels. That really gets my goat! Although, not all free books are bad. That book about the human replacements who look like an amalgamation of cats, reptiles, and people was pretty good. Unlike the main character, I probably wouldn't want to date a guy with razor-sharp claws and spiky teeth...but I respected her choice. And, hey, he seemed like a good guy. If we were all killed off by a super-parasite, I, for one, wouldn't mind if a man/lizard/cat species took over the world. As long as they were like that guy.

Rock 'n Roll is the devil

One of the only positive aspects of an 80-mile daily work commute is that it affords one time to think. About anything and everything. Yet, when one reaches the year mark, anything and everything starts to run a little thin. Now, you know that I think about loads of crazy shit--and very seriously, too. Even so, there is only so much time a reasonable person can commit to the contemplation of extraterrestrial life forms, desirable super powers, time travel, cannibalism, catastrophic volcano eruptions.... You get the point. As a result, I have lately turned my thoughts to the song lyrics I hear on the pop radio stations. And, I have to admit, I'm disturbed. You read the list of topics above, so you know that's saying something.

What, pray tell, is the fascination with this Nicki Minaj character? Just because the words "vindication" and "syndication" sound cool and rhyme does not mean they make any kind of sense when slapped together in a lyric. "Umpire" and "vampire" don't work so well together, either. This is the problem with modern rap: it's just a bunch of random rhyming. To quote the ever-controversial yet brilliant Eminem, "I'm about to lose my mind / You've been gone for so long ... Call me a doctor." And, just like Eminem, I mean the doctor: Dr. Dre. That man knows what true rap should be; he gets "funky on the mic like a old batch of collard greens." Nicki Minaj? Not so much. She does have a sense of irony, though. Take, for example, the way she sings the following:

I wish that I could have this moment for life, for life, for life
'Cause in this moment, I just feel so alive, alive, alive

She attempts to convey animation while singing in a completely expressionless monotone. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I would go so far as to say that she sounds like nothing so much as a glitchy robot, based on the way she skips like a scratched CD at the end of each line. No vocal inflection. Nada! Kinda reminds me of when someone programmed Mom's computer to say, "Oh, balls, balls, balls."

Honestly, though, I would listen to Nicki Minaj all day before I would subject my fragile psyche to the horrors of Katy Perry. I'll admit, I originally found her song "E.T." quite catchy. And then I started in with that pesky thinking again, and I realized that, according to good old Katy, nothing says I love you like a song full of violent imagery. Allow me to point out a couple of my favorites:

Take me, ta-ta-take me
Wanna be a victim
Ready for abduction

My translation:
Hey, let's go on a date. I could really go for some kidnapping and assault.

Stun me with your lasers

I don't even know what to say about this. I'm at a complete loss.

Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me
Infect me with your love and
Fill me with your poison

My translation:
And while we're at it, it's been quite some time since I've contracted an STD. I sure hope you're packin'. If not, roofies are always a good alternative.

Oh, that Katy. Such a romantic. A real class act! Seriously, though, this kind of language is giving kids the wrong idea. And how about that Rihanna?

Sticks and stones may break my bones
But chains and whips excite me

Hmm. This is a somewhat puzzling message, considering this very songstress was recently beaten and nearly choked to death by her boyfriend. And who could forget that heartbreaking television appearance during which she condemned domestic violence? I don't mean to point fingers, but ... hypocrite of the century. Right here. If it's so wrong, Rihanna, don't sing a song about how much you love it. Duh!

It's almost as alarming as that Elvis Presley and his swiveling hips. If we don't do something about this, we'll be facing Armageddon.

B

Pet Peeve of the Day:
Nonsensical "laws" that serve no purpose other than to stifle personal expression. For example, did you know that it is illegal to form your index finger and thumb into the shape of a gun and point it at the insane asshole who just put your life in peril through an act of reckless driving? Apparently, that's considered a death threat. The PO-lice (that was for you, Christian) will literally hunt you down and throw you in jail for brandishing a finger gun. LAME! After all, most people employ the finger gun gesture while passing the insane asshole. I mean, you're never going to escape him/her unless you get in front. Mom taught me that. So, if you're in front with said insane asshole following behind you, how can you possibly be expected to act on your "threat"? Unless you have the magical power to shoot real bullets out of your index finger (how cool would that be?!), you would have to stalk this spaz to a stopping point and use a real gun. You cannot stalk a person who is behind you. Therefore, this "law" is useless. Those of us who are prone to road rage have one less healthy outlet. Great!

My Hero

I thought about putting this off until tomorrow, but the idea that I might forget even one moment of this story is more than I can bear. I figure it's not everyday that something like this happens, and it is just too funny (way, way too funny) to go untold. You're welcome.

It all started with two sexy Mustangs and a touch of the road rage.

I find that I frequently enter that emotional state while driving within my apartment complex. You see, I live in a giant maze. There are too many buildings to count, but, all in all, the number of units is right around 3,000. Within the complex, the six phases (each one named after some kind of wood) are situated around a huge circular drive with unnamed side streets shooting off in every direction. It's almost impossible not to get lost here. And get this: When I enter through the security checkpoint (which includes a mechanical arm and a swinging, wrought-iron gate--as if that weren't overkill), I have to make four left turns to get to my parking space. And you'd better believe I've clocked it. It's a quarter of a mile!

Tonight, that quarter of a mile took an eternity to traverse. It was interminable. And all because of Big Red's evil twin, a lovely silver Mustang. If not for the ultra coolness of the vehicle, I would have automatically assumed I had been caught behind a half-blind, weak-legged grandpa. Our speed did not even register on my speedometer. I kid you not! The needle just sat there, two dots below the five mile-per-hour mark. Terrible!

Finally, about 20 minutes later, I saw the end in sight. My parking space was just ahead. And then, of course, grandpa pulled to a stop with the engine running. Right. In front. Of my space.

I honked.

I honked again.

Minutes later, the passenger door opened and a shady-looking character swaggered up to my window and started striking threatening poses like some sort of deranged supermodel. I locked the doors and grabbed my cell phone. We recently received notice that our complex hired a new security firm. And, since one hundred million people live here and half of them are rowdy and/or suspicious, I programmed the number into my phone immediately. Before I could get out more than two or three sentences, though, the officer told me he'd be right over. And then he hung up on me.

After a few more seconds of serial killer charades, I pointed to my parking spot, my tormentor got back in his car, and they pulled into a space a few cars down from mine. Whew!

I thought about waiting for the security officer, but my impatience got the better of me. I grabbed my laundry from the trunk (thanks, Mom!) and headed for my apartment, which happened to be several yards past what now had become two shady characters. And, as luck would have it, they were waiting outside of their still-running vehicle for me.

A bit of swearing and a few more tough-guy poses later (them, not me), I entered my apartment and locked the door. But then I got to thinking: What if those miscreants try to take out their delinquent urges on my innocent car? Better I should be beaten to a bloody pulp than one tiny scratch mar the beauty of Big Red. So, I called the security office a second time and asked them to take down the license plate number of the silver doppelganger.

Turns out, the officer had already made it to the scene of the crime (which is an inappropriately melodramatic description of what turned out to be nothing), and he was wandering around, very confused but with a look of great purpose.

"Is it this one? I bet it was this one!" he exclaimed, pointing to a black Mustang many years newer than mine.

"Uh, no. It definitely wasn't that one," I replied, "because, as I said on the phone, it was silver."

"Are you sure it wasn't this one? I think it was this one."

"I'm positive. It was pale silver."

"There are just so many Mustangs parked over here. I can't decide which one."

I looked around and noticed three Mustangs parked in the vicinity: two black and one red. No silver. They had obviously fled the scene.

"It's not any of these," I said. "They must have left already. I don't think they live here."

"Is it this one?" he asked, pointing to Big Red (which was parked in my space, the number of which I had given him over the phone mere moments before).

"Nope. That's my car."

"Oh. Well, I guess they must have left already. I'm sorry I was late getting here. I got lost," he explained. He looked quite dejected, so I tried to cheer him up.

"That's okay. It wasn't really that big a deal. It's just that, you know, when a couple of burly young men approach a lone woman in a dark parking lot and start swearing and making threatening gestures, it's a little worrisome. But no harm done."

"I'm really sorry, Ma'am. I swear I zoomed over here as soon as you called. I really did. I zoomed. But I went to Building 3," he said, pointing to Building 9, "and then I drove around some more until I found Building 5. It's really confusing around here."

"Yes," I agreed. "It's very confusing."

"Ma'am, maybe next time," (and there will be a next time--we both know that), "don't get out of your car if strange men are threatening you until I get here and tackle them." And, I swear to you, he made a tackling gesture when he said that. No joke. "If I hadn't have gotten lost, I totally would have tackled those guys!"

"Wow," I said, "that's really extreme. I appreciate it."

"You know, since this place is so hard to find, maybe next time you could say the street name instead of the building number. You could say, like, that it's right next to Capitol," he recommended, pointing to Snell.

"Oh, uh, I think that's Capitol over there," I said, pointing to the perpendicular street. "I think this one here is Snell."

For at least ten seconds, the earnest and seriously overzealous officer turned first to Snell and then to Capitol, whispering their names under his breath. "I think you're right," he finally decided.

"If this ever happens again," he went on to say, "you just call us. Do you have our magnet? And I will zoom right over here, and I will tackle them! I mean, I zoomed tonight, too, but I got lost. But anyway, just stay in your car until we can tackle them for you. That's the safest way."

Hmm. I don't know. All that tackling seems a little unsafe to me. In any case, this guy was obviously disappointed that he didn't get to rescue me. And I really did appreciate his extreme overreaction. So, I asked him for a business card.

"Oh, we don't have cards. But we do have a phone number." Yeah, I sort of got that, seeing as how I called twice this evening. But I didn't point that out, of course. Instead, I explained that I simply wanted to know his name so that I could praise him to his manager.

"That's really nice, but I am the supervisor around here." Of course, he is.

He did write down his name for me, though. Officer Santos. My hero!

B

Pet Peeve of the Day:
Ridiculous alarmists who have nothing better to do than freak people out for no reason. And by this, of course, I mean the HR department at my workplace and the media. It was supposed to "snow" in the Bay Area today. I heard the term "Snowpocalypse" bandied about quite a bit. So, on Thursday, the entire company got an email from HR detailing a contingency plan. You know, in case the drifts and ice-slicked roads should become too hazardous to travel. Come on! Last week, it was in the 70s. There is no possible way that snow could stick, considering the temperature of the soil. Plus, all weather sources predicted that it would be 46 degrees. Is it just me, or does that not make any sense? It did snow in some places. For about a minute. But not anywhere near my office or my home, which is 40 miles away. So, yeah. Thanks for the contingency plan, you fools!