i hate your stupid face.

I have friends who are lawyers in labor and employment or something or other. Anyway, I haven’t consulted them, and I have learned how not NSFW I am. But, I think I have negotiated a good enough way to disguise this. So, without getting into super-specifics, genders, ethnicities, or job descriptions, I feel fairly confident in saying that I can safely say express my absolute disgust about everything about a specific individual at my office. We’ll call shim Terry.

For starters, my company adopts a very lax but still moderately professional dress code. His abuse of it is the like throwing a three-legged puppy down a spiral staircase and then unloading a truckload of tire irons on said puppy. I don’t believe this person owns an iron. And his description of a dry cleaner is probably about as accurate as my description of Stephen Hawking’s theory of quantum gravity. I’m 99% certain Terry pulls up to work and pulls a shirt out of a NASA-esque vacuum preserved container and strolls onto the elevator as if it doesn’t look like a homeless person robbed a JC Penny’s and made away with their finest poly-blends.

The hair is borderline ridiculous. Without getting into specifics, Terry looks like a cartoon character whose illustrator lacks even my MS Paint skills… I’m not sure if Terry’s barber has Parkinson’s or some sick sense of humor, but I could chew a better looking hairstyle.

On a confessional note, there is a part of me that is jealous of Terry. Shim somehow snagged a promotion into a department above me. Believe me, I am not the only person who is completely baffled by this random act of chaos. Terry also has a spouse. Not like I can or want to take a stroll down the aisle, but I would like to think I am charming enough for someone at some point to want to try to roofie me. But here I am, 25 without as much a living-in-sin significant other, and Terry has managed to become legally bound to some recently lobotomized, no doubt equally socially inept individual.

Ultimately, the reason I despise Terry is shis complete lack of pin-pointable hate-worthy qualities. Shim is moderately competent at performing in shis work duties and has never done anything directly offensive to me. Literally looking in Terry’s general vicinity forces me to internalize my predilection for saber-wielding violence.

This may seem particularly and unnecessarily hateful, but I am not the only person in my office who is likely minded. There are many of my coworkers who feel rivaling levels of disdain for Terry. There have been long discussions and/or group rants about everything mentioned above. Luckily for you, unless you frequent SuperCuts, go to awkward smilers’ conventions, participate in any number of universally lame hobbies I’m assuming shim enjoys, or work in my office, you will never meet Terry and will never fully grasp this palpable abhorrence.



In the efforts of not being just a rant, I recommend using "I hate your stupid face" as a justification for unjustified disdain for people. It's a pretty solid argument.


Want more? Check out my "Dear Coworker" tumblr: http://dear-coworker.tumblr.com/

UPDATED: Childhood Trauma: Part I - Un-Sweet Sixteen

I just turned 25. I had my first big birthday party of ever, enjoyed a weekend in New Orleans, and have been in the best place in my life thus far. I have good feelings about this year. It only took me NINE YEARS to recover from what could be described as the worst birthday ever. (25-9=16… right?)… Anyway, My 16th birthday was one of the most devastating day of my life!!!

Background: If my blog, predilection for attention, and my overall personality weren’t a huge indicator, I was a particularly strange child/teenager. As if my surname wasn’t a big enough big hint either, I am adopted. I have also always had a deep connection with most things fantasy, sci-fi, and television in general. And, finally, since I grew up outside San Antonio in the country and my siblings' love for me was feigned tolerance (at best), I spent a lot of time alone with my imagination and myself.

So, if you watched some of the same television shows I did as a kid, you know that when you turn 16, something BIG is supposed to happen in your life! No. Not a brand new car with a big red bow on it. No. Not some lavish over-the-top party where Lil Wayne comes and raps for you and all of your friends.

You are supposed to be told that you have magical powers, are from another planet, or something of equivalent magnitude/awesomeness!

PS - The fact that I am adopted cemented the idea of my guaranteed 16th birdthday super hero status! I even had a preemptive discussion with myself on whether I should use my new found super-ness for good or evil… As you can assume, evil won.
The night before, I was beaming with anticipation about which of the above referenced revelations would be revealed to me come daybreak. The next morning, I got ready and did my pre-magical/alien morning routine. As I passed my parents during this ordinary AM walk-around, I was just waiting for them to sit me down at our kitchen table and spill the proverbial beans.
I was even prepared to act shocked and not know what to do with my new powers, but secretly I was pretty sure I was gonna be a kick-ass teen witch/alien/vampire slayer/generally awesome something. Didn’t happen! So, I went to school where all day I was waiting to accidently use my powers and have to run home to my parents so they could explain to me why I could shoot lasers out of my eyes, freeze time, and/or crap gold. 

Nope.

Anyway, we went out to dinner that night and I thought, “Ok, now is the time! They were saving it all along. Get ready for your life to change, John Boerger!” Nope. I spent the rest of the evening devastated, shocked, and still not superhuman. As I brushed my ordinary teeth and got ready to walk (not fly/levitate/transport) to my bed that evening, I honestly felt wronged in some way by the universe. I even stayed up until midnight to see if it was one of those sort of BS reverse-Cinderella addendums to me getting my powers, but no.

I cried myself to sleep and woke up the next day exhausted from staying up late, emotionally drained, with puffy eyes, and the acidic, stinging taste of disappointment in my mouth.

Happy Birthday to me!

PS - I didn't get a car until the February or so after my November birthday. So, yeah, I couldn't drive my own car OR fly!

UPDATE: I was recently sent this picture from 1997.

I don't remember this at all, but it's like I was totally meant to be a super hero of some kind. Granted, a semi-colorblind one, but super nonetheless! 

To answer your lingering questions: 

YES, I did make the costume all by myself! (I was very crafty).

NO, I did not have a lot of friends.

And, YES, shortly after this picture was taken, I turned tastefully draped that cape/sheet into some sort of sheet-dress.

Why I should be allowed to drink at work…

Everyone once and I while I go out to eat for lunch and have a few beers. Rest assured, this is completely ok with our corporate policy. One afternoon, I came back with a particularly pleasant feeling rushing through my bloodstream and thought to myself, “this would be totally awesome... like... all the time!”

Now, I’m not talking about tying one on all day every day, but maintaining a quality buzz throughout the day would exponentially increase my job satisfaction. I haven’t proven this (yet) but I’m sure someone is commissioning a work-study just as vigourously trying to figure out which breath freshener will successfully mask tequila breath… Binaca v Altoids?

My argument (like most good brochures) is tri-fold.

1) I guess the obvious would be my overall demeanor. I’m a pretty high-strung individual. Usually the slightest level of incompetence or rudeness makes me want to throw my computer through our building’s cheap drywall. Put a few drinks in me, and I’m as docile as a dead deer. You know how beer goggles make people more attractive? With the right amount of malt liquor, I get a sort of crap force field that filters out most of people’s unpleasant qualities which allows me to NOT Kill Bill people.

2) I recently saw a news blurb about how it is impossible to maintain focus or perform the same task for more than 90 minutes at a time. (Forwarding said article to my bosses did not convince them to convert our conference into a nap room FYI). That disappointment aside, just the right amount of liquor makes me relaxed to the point of pleasantly tired. Afternoon naps would make it possible for me to break up the afternoon with a booze snooze. I also remembered reading how a drink or 5 a day help fight off heart disease. Naps = reduced stress + lowered risks for heart disease + increased productivity. Latin cultures call these ‘siestas.’

Sure the leading causes of death in these countries are burro stampedes and decapitations by angry cartel thugs, but I’m sure strokes and myocardial infarctions are nowhere near the Top 10.

3) In four simple words: I’m a fun drunk (see left). I mean, I already like to consider myself a NSFW breath of fresh in our otherwise drab office. Kick that up a notch and what do you get? A super fun coworker who will make you laugh, give you an impromptu cubicle dance, and occasionally throw up in your recycle bin. Sounds like we're all winners to me!

In closing, I have forwarded this to my HR department and managers and deposited about 50 copies of this in our company suggestion box. In the event I do not get fired but they do not adopt my plan, I do have one serious question that has been rescued from this otherwise hopeful trainwreck: does anyone have a good suggestion for how properly mask tequila breath?

UPDATE: I am currently participating in a corporate training that NO AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL, other abuse-able substance, or midget-tranny ninjas could make better!

hate letter.

Thanksgiving is upon us. Big dinners, more food than physically necessary, and, in my case, enough red wine to shut down a mule’s liver. Speaking of cooking, I want to hit Sandra Lee in the back of the head with a shovel. Not really… But sometimes, really.

I don’t consider myself an amazing cook or five-star chef by any stretch of the imagination, but I can to cook. Look, I even blog about it. Getting a little messy, following a recipe, and having your hard work pay off in the form of deliciousness? Yes please! Sandra Lee is a cheater and doesn’t deserve a show. Maybe a one hit wonder cook book that offers a smattering cooking tips, but NOT A SHOW.

I guess my initial hate stemmed from the fact that I confused her with Sarah Lee. I was under the impression that I was tuning in for a half hour show completely dedicated to cup cakes. Imagine my surprise…

The motifs. THE MOTIFS! How in the hell are you supposed to be preaching about cutting corners and making cooking easy for the mom on the go and dedicate an entire segment of your show to your tacky place settings? Look! This little number almost made me hate the most sacred gay holiday: Halloween.


Also, I’m pretty sure 99% of her recipes include pre-chopped onions or that jarred garlic crap. Knife work is probably the awesomest part of prep and you’re taking it away from me? Not on my watch. My food is delicious and slightly over-salted because I cried the tears of hard work into my onions. Most people who cook for themselves on a regular basis do so to be economical. Buying precut vegetables/ingredients is more expensive than if you take the few minutes to cut your own damn celery/carrots!

I’m all for a few tips to helpful tips that are included with cookbooks and appreciate a time-saver here and there. But Sandra Lee is perverse. I can’t believe she is even on the same network as the Barefoot Contessa or my favorite giant-headed, overly enthusiastic bombshell: Giada De Laurentiis.

Also she is way too skinny. Never trust a skinny chef… not even me. Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

CONFESSION: In efforts of full disclosure, I don’t mince/chop/peel garlic because I am lazy and this is a task I'm totally ok with never doing. Solution: a garlic press aka the best $15 I ever spent since my Alanis Morissette Jagged Little Pill album.

the most wonderful sounds of the year.

Christmas music might be the best thing of ever. Regardless of the time of year, it makes me smile. To all the Grinches and people who think Christmas music should be heard solely during the holiday season, I say ‘no.’

Listening to Christmas music is like being naked under a Snuggie™ made of rainbows that was loomed by the delicate hands of gnomes while Care Bears serve you Sour Patch Kids and Shiner Bock. In case you needed help picturing that, here you go!

I detest the commercial qualities of Christmas, and it isn’t even my favorite holiday. (Thanksgiving is where it’s at, y’all.) But, the music is amazing. There are few things you can be doing that can’t be better with the addition of Christmas music. I mean, who hasn’t danced around their house in their underwear to “All I Want For Christmas Is You” while tidying up or folding laundry?! Who hasn’t almost driven off the road hitting the high note to “O Holy Night” while cruising down I35 with the radio on full blast?!

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it 1,000 times, you can only have 2 favorite Christmas songs (one religious/traditional and one secular.) What are mine? I’m glad you asked!

TRADITIONAL: “Do You Hear What I Hear?” By Carrie Underwood

SECULAR: “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” By Sarah MacLachlan (or pretty much any version).

If loving Christmas music this much is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. It is happiness musicified. (Wow. Spell-check did NOT like that one…) But it’s the truth. It’s the birth of the Baby Jesus, and I am crowning with excitement.

UPDATE: The Glee Cast's Christmas Album is ho-hum and probably not worth an entire purchase. HOWEVER, do buy the Lea Michele "O Holy Night." Tis amazing, and on top of that she does the 2nd verse that so many people overlook when they record it. :)

machete rampage

Other than the fact that this place pulls me away from the warm, inviting, delicious bed every morning, there are a few things about working in an office that make me feel like I am the perfect candidate for anger management courses!

Coffee. If you finish a pot, you make another. It’s not rocket science. It’s common courtesy and/or the rules of any organized society that doesn’t want me to go on a machete rampage with Chinese throwing stars to boot.

(Actually, this isn’t true, we don’t have water coolers…)

A few days ago, I wore the same color shirt as one or two people in the office. If have happen to work in an office with comic geniuses like I do, you can guess what I heard quite a few times that day. That’s right Banana Republic sells more than one of these!!!

Instead of going with my first instinct of immediately pulling my hair out in a fit of rage (see right), I exercised restraint. Do people really find it necessary and/or funny to say these things? Their lame attempts at humor are the gateway to forced small talk where my feigned interest dwindles with each passing story about their children. I am too lazy to put a link to my previous post about how much I detest small talk in general. Feel free to find it.

My father has firsthand experience with this next one. I would literally scream like an irate ethnic woman at the grocery store who has expired coupons when he would leave the microwave LED with a flashing :23 seconds or something queer bait like that. What is so hard about letting a microwave run all the way out? Or is it impossible to just manually type in the time you want?! This is just one of a few things that will be a contributing factor to my heart attack at 34 and/or explanation for my new D&G eye patch since stabbing myself with a fork is the only logical course of action.

A lot of my job involves phone work with client’s who are well aware of our location in Dallas. Phone small talk is probably worse than water boarding or a pap smear from Edward Scissor-Hands. If you want to know about the weather, the Cowboys, or the Rangers, google someone who cares. I am more than happy to help you with my job responsibilities, but caring about any of the above is not one of them!

And, yes. I use a rotary phone at work...

much ado about nothing.

I’m usually a high-energy, Johnny-on-the-spot kind of guy, but everyone once and a while, I want to be a fat, lazy, shell of person who accomplishes nothing in a big way. So, Tuesday, I had regulatory training that required me to go to some sad, all-grey, no smiles testing centers off 75 to make FINRA know I still know that money-laundering is a no-no. Anyway, I finished it in an hour and as I walked back to my car, I saw something beautiful: the rest of the day before me.

This day is sort of an exception because I actually did get up, showered, and completed a work-related accomplishment. However, on random weekdays, I use some vacation hours to redefine the word ‘sloth.’ This brand of doing nothing is usually best reserved for either the morbidly obese or models in living art paintings. I like to call these weekday non-adventures ‘Staycations.’

I have perfected this to an art. I have even found ways to include enough ‘fake accomplishments’ throughout my days that require very little energy, but keep me guilt free, because I can say I did things. Well… things other than eat Chef Boyardee directly from the can or my weight in popcorn. Case in point: laundry. It is quite possibly the most passive and least involved of all household chores, and therefore my favorite. The dishwasher comes in a close second, but you only unload once and load it up in small increments throughout the use of your dishes.

The moment I start a load, I feel completely justified, albeit required, to just stop everything. Social engagements? No, I can’t. I’m being a responsible human adult. Plus, it’s a white’s load! I can’t come to brunch. Any other household chore? Sorry. That dryer is going to go off at any moment and I’ll have to reset it and give myself enough time to finish ‘Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle.’ Sometimes I’ll even throw in an extra rinse for those Lord Of The Rings: Return of the King Extended Version days.

If you’re laundry is done, or you hate doing it for some strange reason, the real trick is to just do enough without having to do anything. If you muster up the will power to actually operate a motor vehicle, I find driving past the oil change place fills me with enough accomplishment because I ‘tried’ but didn’t successfully change my oil. Sometimes I’ll go to the grocery store or Eatzis and hit up the prepared food section because cooking is out of the question on these days usually. But, to alleviate the sloth-guilt I buy milk or some sort of food staple like corn starch so it can be deemed ‘grocery shopping.’

The key is to do as absolutely as little as possible (I’m talking, stare at a DVD menu replaying itself multiple times because you don’t want to reach for the remote), but still have little spurts of somethings that are still practically nothing (oil change drive-by, washing one towel over and over, etc). That way you can enjoy your sloth guilt-free.

PS – these are also days I usually my saddest movies, so I can cry in peace without my roommate or friends making fun of me.

daylight savings time + genghis grill

We are four days into the emotional and physical hell that is Daylight Savings Time. I don’t know who invented this, I think Nicolas Cage said that Benjamin Franklin is the responsible party, but regardless, I hate them both. Anyway, when I was a kid, I was under the impression that the Boerger Family (and possibly our close friends) were the ONLY people who practiced DST. This is also coming from the mind of a child who couldn’t tell time on an analog clock until he was a teenager.

Anyway, I was so set on the fact that the rest of the world was had fallen into a different space time continuum, I stressed about what time my favorite TV shows would come on. I didn’t think the good people at whatever network Star Trek aired on got them memo that I was now in my very own time zone. For some reason, I never worried about the school’s ‘new hours’ or play dates with friends (from my Star Trek reference, you can probably guess I wasn’t Mr. Congeniality or very bright).

After a conversation with my nemesis and some revelations about myself I have stumbled upon, I’m still pretty stupid. Let’s start with my friend though. She, like me, is extremely intimidated by new experiences. True story: Nemesis and her brother went to Panda Express. I’m not sure if the ‘ORDER HERE’ signs were out of order, but they were so intimidated by figuring out if it were a buffet or whatever, they gave up and left. This is the same girl who couldn’t successfully navigate herself out of a Blockbuster video store. Nemesis just waited patiently, surreptitiously behind a rack of videos waiting to observe someone escaping the labyrinth of the Blockbuster.


Others when hearing these stories, also confessed that they had walked out of Genghis Grills due to overwhelming stupidity. My other very intelligent friend who is my resource for all things cooking, baking, and general common sense, cannot work iTunes. Yeah. I have her an iPod shuffle full of music for running, and in a year’s time, she has never updated it…

The truly sad thing about this is the fact that I would have done the same (well not in the iTunes scenario... I get computers). But, I hate asking stupid questions. Seriously, can you imagine going up to a Blockbuster clerk and asking ‘how do I get out of here?’ I can’t even wrap my mind around how to even phrase the question to the servers at Panda Express… perhaps a mildly retarded groan that simply utters ‘me want food!’ No one likes to feel stupid. Let's flashback to my tear-filled experience with getting my oil changed...

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is “will someone come with me to Genghis Grill and show me what to do?”

the F word

A few nights ago I stumbled upon a really weird conversation with my friends. Who knows where the conversation started, possibly Glee or something stupid my friend who speaks English as a second language said, but it somehow got to how knives helped alleviate fear.

A couple stories came up about feeling insecure or unsafe at home or someone else’s home another friend was house-sitting and how having multiple knives around hidden in various locations made them sleep easier. I cannot stress this enough, WORST. IDEA. EVER. I’m usually opposed to the Caps Lock button, because it’s the written equivalent of yelling, but in full disclosure I said “I cannot stress this enough.”

Anyway, I would like to say that if someone were to break into my house I would be able to defend myself to safety at the very least, but who am I kidding? I don’t have fight or flight skills. I flop. You can ask anyone who has successfully scared me. That’s right, I do not engage danger, and I can’t really think enough to maneuver an escape, but I believe if I look/act pathetic enough I will survive the danger. (PS – the pathetic is so not an act. I am 100% pathetic).

However, in a hypothetical world where I can make conscious decisions and not be a puddle of fear (and some pee), the knife is the LAST thing I want to use to defend myself. Seriously, I would rather have a wooden spoon. Think about, if someone is bad ass enough to break into your home, chances are they know their way around a shiv. Why not save yourself the embarrassment and simply turn on the lamp, give them the code to your wall safe, and start stabbing yourself the moment they kick down the door?

If someone is desperate enough to go to the trouble to break in during the middle of the night, by all means take whatever you want. I simply ask that you not seriously wound me to the point of handicap, you allow me to backup my computer before you take it, and that you take a picture with me so I can tell people the awesome story of how I was robbed. (Of course, I would allow the robber to cover his/her face for legal reasons).

Finally, if anyone reading this is concerned about my personal home safety or you wish to have my roommate accidently shot in the face (the more likely scenario), please buy me this:

the morning after feel.

The time is 8:50 AM on a Saturday morning and I am a pitiful mess of a person staring at my computer screen with no product in my hair, sunglasses still on, and all the lights are out. Did I mention I was at work? That’s right. This dream of a job I have forces me, on occasion, to work on the day deemed for nothing. I kind of wish I was dead right now. Oh, did I mention I went out last night? I know this is all making sense in bits and pieces, but that’s where my head’s at right now…

Once I got over the emotional shock of seeing that picture and my heart started beating again, I was in the process of updating my status to something like ‘John Boerger has a four-alarm hangover at work. FML!’ to elicit some pity from anyone on facebook at this wretched hour. Then I realized that 1) Jason was never going to sign onto Google chat and I could close the browser and 2) the status was stupid and I started writing, still stupid, but it sure beats trying to figure out if my building has roof access to see if a six-story jump would make this all stop.

Then I thought, what is a four-alarm? What alarm is going off? Why are there four? And who is responding to said alarm? Unless the person responding has a time machine who can take pitiful now me to talk some sense into last night’s excited, gave into peer pressure me, I doubt said alarm would do much good. How did this saying come to be? Did one loser say it and I just caught on? It’s like ‘tardy for the party’ but lacks even less practical application, and it doesn’t rhyme… So thank goodness I didn’t make it my status, rather I dedicated two paragraphs to my crappiest post to date to this damned saying.

Speaking of sayings, I have learned that the ‘just a drink’ doesn’t exist. Also I learned I will never turn down a shot of tequila and setting any sort of deadline of when you have to go home is setting yourself up for a lot of self hate. I am seriously sucking at life right now. Sarah McLachlan’s public service announcement to her most depressing song about my morning is soon to air any minute now.

Hopefully something really greasy and fattening and a disco nap will make me up for the adventures left in store once I escape the death grip of adult responsibilities. If only if I could nap under my desk…

It’s 10:58 AM and I have successfully rammed my hips against every corner in my office, almost fell over in my cube (twice), and threw my coffee mug into the trashcan in the break room (in my mind, it was an empty bottle of coffee creamer). Boerger out.

UPDATE – 6 or 7 homemade brisket sandwiches, a family-sized bag of Cheetos, and a never-ending keg of Shiner Bock were the cure! Thanks, Emily!

cry me a river.

Unfortunately, I think in college somewhere, something inside me snapped. When I say “snapped,’ I mean “went completely wrong and made me into the pitiful mess of a person you see today.” I mean, I would still like to classify myself as in the ‘functional’ category… to some extent. Whatever horribly dark and twisted world my soul has fallen into is heavy like iron and there is probably no escaping it.

I suppose a little background may justify/explain how I ended up being this way. I was a very angry child. I mean, not Macaulay Culkin in “The Good Son” bad, but my adorability didn’t quite make up for my manifested inner turmoil. Through many, many days spent in In-School Suspension and more spankings than all of siblings combined, I put a lid on my tantrums. Instead of emotional outbreaks of anger, I would sulk and usually cry tears of anger. In lieu of getting angry I would just get pathetic…

I thought I had cried all of my tears allotted for my life to such an extent, I rarely ever cried through my tween years. Actually, things in real life rarely make me cry. There definitely are times I have uncontrollable cried because of real, personal things. But, most sad things, I internalize and deal with sans some emotional cutting ritual. However, the tears were still there… waiting… and they found a way to escape!

At one point in my life, I could watch TV, go to the movies, and listen to my iPod without a worry in world. It was just sheer, unadulterated entertainment. Now, I can barely sit through any movie without breaking down. Of course the traditional criers (‘Beaches,’ ‘Steel Magnolias,’ etc.) make me cry so hard, I just want to stop living. But with a mouth full of shame, I have to admit I have cried in movies that writers/producers never intended a tear be shed (‘Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle,’ ‘How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days,’ and ‘Finding Nemo’). In fact, I have decided those a-holes at Disney/Pixar have it in for one John Boerger. Every single one of their movies has made me bawl uncontrollably (multiple times). I’m talking hiding underneath a blanket pouring out salty, self-hating ‘Notebook’ tears.

If I had a dollar for every tear shed during ABC’s ‘Brothers & Sisters,’ we would all be partying on my yacht like it was 1999… again. Even shows that have nothing to do with any sort of melancholy emotion have brought me tears. I have cried in episodes of ‘Star Trek: Voyager,’ ‘Desperate Housewives,’ and even ‘Modern Family.’

There isn’t enough room on this post for me to list out or explain the number of songs that have broken me. I think, ‘oh, this Taylor Swift song is catchy.’ Then, BAM, cut to me driving down the North Dallas Tollway hysterically calling my friend because I’m crying so hard.

Maybe I feel that being brought to a pathetic state by these ‘fake’ things is a safer emotional outlet than actually being a mess all the time. I think it’s healthier, because in an actual emotionally charged situation, I can function and solve the problem as opposed to being a physically non-functioning emotional bed-wetter who helplessly makes any situation worse.

UPDATE - This past Sunday I watched Toy Story 3 with my friend, Jason. While he cooked and busied himself in the kitchen, I completely fell apart. Like Jenga + Parkinsons fell apart. SPOILER ALERT! Even on parts (the junk yard incinerator) that I knew were going to be OK, I bawled. When Andy pulled up to the little girl's house, all bets were off. I started uncontrollably crying. Mind you, I have seen this movie before... But this time it was personal. Literally, I wasn't at the theater surrounded by friends who would laugh at me.

Scooby-Don't

So a blog about a woman who let her pre-school child dress up as a female Scooby Doo character has made its way around the shared links of facebook. Here is the link: http://nerdyapplebottom.com/2010/11/02/my-son-is-gay/

While I applaud this woman for her strong stance, good writing, and acceptance of her son’s possible homosexuality, I sort of have to agree with some of the other mothers’ reactions.

Children at such a fragile and malleable stage in psychological development need to know how society works. Like it or hate it, men have certain roles and women have others. They are ingrained in every member of society by observation and reinforced by generations and generations of repeated norms. People who shy away from the norm are exactly that, not normal. This doesn’t make them horrible people. It isn’t grounds to be chased with pitchforks by the townspeople. But, it will illicit reaction.

Even as a fully grown man who (in all good fun, on Halloween or theme party or Friday night ‘staying in’) will throw on a wig and whip his hair back and forth, I don’t think these children should be encouraged to stray from the norm at such an early age. Should the child be made feel ashamed of what he or she wants? No. But I think this mother could have tactfully encouraged the child against his wish to cross dress. I mean, the kid walked up to school and already felt out of place or that he would be made fun of. Luckily his peers were more pleased with the costume than the parents.

Early on, I think children should be aware of the norms of society to help define them as a person, and if and when they are old enough to understand how society works and choose to be a horse of a different color, then they can make that informed decision at that time. However, I don’t think it is appropriate to encourage a child (who doesn’t really know better) to act so out of normal. As much as I hate that word and wished we lived in a world where that word carried very little weight, we don’t and it does. When everyone is aflutter talking about how bad bullies are, I don’t think it helps to give them ammunition in a wig and a pair of sensible heels.

She also mentioned the double standard of a girl going as Batman and how that would have been totally acceptable. I got made fun of for being a male cheerleader, but a female footballer was praised for being different. Yeah, it’s there, it sucks, but this is the crappy world we live in that you have live in. I was a stubborn 15-year-old who was doing something I loved and was quite aware of the ramifications. This kid wasn’t old enough to know or understand the consequences of his actions. His mom should have known we do not live in a perfect world.

When it comes down to it, unfortunately, growing up is all about trying your hardest to fit in and maintain the status quo (aka be invisible/boring enough to not get made fun of). Then, once you actually are grown up, you realize how stupid that is and you can shine like whatever star you wanna be and be happy!

me are helen keller.

So, the other day I was in a muddled state of mind. It was the Sunday afternoon following a night of Halloween shenanigans. I wasn’t just beside myself, I was actually a few seats over from myself, because I lacked a shower, had a slight, at best, grasp on any level of hand-eye coordination, and looked like the first 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan. Anyway, I picked up some food and decided I needed to go to rent a movie and reconcile myself to a couch.

Since the Blockbuster near my house closed and driving to Uptown was probably not a good idea for pedestrians everywhere, I found myself at a Red Box. I literally stared at it for about 8 minutes before I gave up. How do these things work? I was so intimidated by the machine I just walked away and told myself there wasn’t anything worth watching. I’ve seen children, poor people, and what looked like past contestants of the Jerry Springer Show at these things navigate the touch screen and walk away happy with no problem. I first thought, what lender gave these people credit cards? Then I thought, if they can do it, surely I can. Not so.

Simply put, I hate trying new things. I’m a (magnificent) creature of habit and repetition who enjoys being right. So, when I’m thrown into situations that are seemingly simple, but I have absolutely prior knowledge to, bad things happen. The first time I actually had to take my car in to get the oil changed, I think I cried. I don’t know what kind of oil I want. I just wanted to walk in say ‘oil change’ and have absolutely no follow-up questions to which I have no answers. I would like to think I’m a smart, resourceful person. But one of my favorite resources is a subject matter expert.

I made it through college with a stellar GPA, not because I worked hard or studied a lot, it’s because I went to every class with very few exceptions, if any. If I went and was able to hear my professors and probe them for further explanation, I would learn. I took an online English course during a summer session, and this is where I got my first B (and that B was almost a C). I am the worst self-taught person ever. When I started my job, I had to study two giant books on securities, regulations, and other crap I don’t really use. The first time I took the 7, I failed it. I don’t even like to look things up myself. Sure, I can Google answers to my simplest questions, but if you explain it to me, I’ll probably remember it longer/forever!

I need instruction, assistance, and someone with firsthand experience holding mine. Seriously, I if I don’t know what I’m doing I’ll be the first to admit I am Helen Keller desperately seeking my Annie Sullivan.

the social network.

No, not the movie I boycotted. (Dear Justin Timberlake, you do not exist to me until you make more music). Anyway... I clearly have a reason to blog about this. Facebook is pretty much the closest thing to an addiction in my life. If there is one thing I’m certain of, it is that no one should eat wings or spaghetti on a first date. If there is another thing I’m certain of, it is Facebook. Unless you have hidden me from your news feed (which means you’ll be deprived of this knowledge) you know I know what I’m talking about. So, please, here is a small list of my Facebook pet peeves or Facebook etiquette.

Profile pictures are meant to be of you and ideally primarily of you. If I have to squint (no Asian jokes please) or search for you in your picture, you need to change it to one of you, preferably your face. To all the parents out there, please do not a picture of just your fat baby. I’m glad you procreated, so at the very least, post of picture of you AND your baby. Also, to all you d-bags out there, (Kanye included), if I review your past profile pictures and 99% of them are you standing shirtless in front of a bathroom mirror and taken with your iPhone, I will highly consider why we are friends. I’ll let one or two slide, but I want to see pictures of you out with your friends, traveling, or in some cute over the left shoulder prom poses.

Again, these people must not see my previous blogs/own statuses about how annoying I find their statuses. But, overly vague or depressing statuses are a cry for attention that will get you forever hidden from my feed. I mean, I’m not knocking attention, other than TV it is my favorite thing in the world. But, I want positive attention, funny comments, ‘likes,’ or the occasional LOL, I don’t want people to be like ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘what happened?’ That’s lame. I actually got into the habit of liking people’s Debbie Downer’s statuses. “Today is the worst, why do all the bad things happen to me?” LIKE! If I wanted that kind of attention, I would put on my fake back brace the next time I go to the bar. Also, stupid one-sided and filthy updates about your political beliefs are annoying. Sure, I’ve posted about my disdain for certain political issues I don’t believe in, but I’m not throwing up a random status that says “all $#%* democrats should #@$% die!”

The relationship status is something I like a very much. When I see the same tragic love fools go in and out of relationships, I thank Mark Zuckerberg with every fiber in my soul. I like when on Monday you see two people are in a relationship, and then you immediately see the flood of facebook PDA and mushy status updates leading to my projectile vomit. But it’s totally worth it, because usually by Friday I’ve cleaned the vom chunks out of my keyboard and they are back to being single (or if I’m really luck, ‘it’s complicated’). Then you get the string of ‘woe is me’ status updates that make me laugh harder than seeing Scarlet Take A Tumble. (If you have not seen this, get to YouTube ASAP).

I’m not effing around, y’all. This is facebook. I take it as seriously as every single word that comes out of the Barefoot Contessa’s fabulous mouth. As a final note, if you don’t have facebook, you practically do not exist to me.

PS – How creepy is the new “See Friendship” thingy?!