What's up, Doc?

I have a doctor’s appointment today. Actually, because of our lovely health care system, I wasn’t able to get a “doctor” to see me until the end of September so I had to settle on a nurse practitioner. I stand corrected, I have a nurse practitioner’s appointment today. Damn HMOs. At this point I would rather pay full price to see a doctor if I were assured she’d take me more seriously. I’m tired of the Wal Mart style in practicing medicine. I have little faith.

There are some work things I must catch up on in order for me to leave for a few hours this afternoon. I’ll post more shortly.

Music for you

I’m walking home from work, it’s a Thursday. I have 5 videos in a bag dangling from my arm, it’s one of the perks about working there, free movies and Swedish Fish. The snow started falling at 9 a.m. It’s now 5. People are climbing out from their corners, headed for the bars, headed for houses, headed for snow shovels, cocktails, conversations and nights which end in sloppy kisses.

(I think of White Russians, fire places, Adam’s Apple and how most people look best under firelight and how the northeast is really the only place for me, nature must wear winter).

Winter.

My headphones introduce me to daily, music videos. To and from class and work, I write new versions for MTV and VH1. They’ll never be seen, I know this, but they’re amusing and pass the time. In this video there are people shoveling into a new snow fall and it’s still falling. And I am watching and laughing, knowing full-well I have to do the same once I reach home. But that’s ok because classes have been cancelled and I have 5 videos to see me into Friday. People seem happy when they allow life to live them for a bit. And the sudden blizzard has done this. I watch my feet fumble on uneven snow mounds, I watch them sink into sudden, slushy puddles. Someone throws a snowball at a stranger, arms flail, it’s suddenly whiter. There is so much laughter. I pause this. I listen to life for a bit.

(I remember hot cocoa as a kid and sledding. I know I just missed cracking my head open about 301 times off of 303 trees. Reckless, we were as kids. There was a profound forgiveness for our self-proclaimed invincibility. It came from somewhere, it grew from something. There was much more hope it seemed, and as with every new, white blanket of snow before the cars come by and muck it up, things are right now and right here and untouched and suddenly entirely possible).

Here is a snapshot.

(4.3 mgs) Love Spit Love

Ten Things I Like About People I Don't Know. (In no particular order).

1). Girls who in the morning have wet hair.

2). That after the 3rd time something small sets off a highly sensitive car alarm, the situation is moved into highly amusing and they are forced to laugh.

3). Their ability to overlook the embarrassing.

4). That the cops who sit on our corner trying to deter the selling of crack, have set up lawn furniture.

5). That some people let you merge.

6). They notice you’re there.

7). They notice you’re not there.

8). They notice things aren’t well, empathize, and react even before you pass out on public transportation.

9). The asking of questions, especially if they can’t stop staring.

10). The puffy, fresh, vulnerable look everyone has in the morning. You just want to fluff ‘em up like pillows.

And you? What do you like about people?

Freaks

Blogging. Blogs. Weblogs. Blahgs. Much of this area on the internet reminds me of the cafeteria in elementary school only it’s worse because judgment as to who can sit where without being called a “stinkin bitch!” or a “filthy loser!” isn’t passed on one’s hot pair of (imitation) Jellies from Hills, it’s not passed on the Star Wars trapper keeper or the number of friendship pins one has on their shoe. Nope. Judgment comes down by way of a few not so honest words, uttered by a couple of BloGods who are temporarily rendered kind and link a few measly mortals who instantly develop God complexes.

And me? I find it wholly entertaining, I do.

Yesterday, between a few bar graphs, pie charts, and data points, I found myself craving distraction. I found myself on a blog housing the most amazing Jerry Springer-like cat fight. And I quite honestly could not take my eyes off it. It all started with one girl accusing another girl of (and I quote) “diluting her online personality.” She said something about being the first girl and that no other girl, or girl2 could exist. Thing is, said online name (or word) being fought over is a word taken from the Webster dictionary. Can one own words? If so, I call the word “moron” and while you’re at it, throw in “YAYA!” as well. These two went back and forth, fighting. Two grown women fighting about losing their online personalities.

Now, that’s what I call high-quality internet.

One ran off to her blog and wrote:

I hate women. Women are stupid and petty and never seem to grow out of junior high gossip mode. No wonder I’m not a lesbian.

(Sugarlips, lesbians have other lesbians to play with, they need not this).

I thought about commenting. I wanted to suggest a mud-wrestling event, fight it out. Someone suggested the two girls fight it out by showing us (the judges) their tits. Someone called them “Idiots” and “children” someone else said something about “getting a life.”

(I’m reading this. I thought to myself. Perhaps I need one as well).

While the internet is strewn with amazing bits of information and packets of knowledge, it is also filled with human excrement, name-calling, unworthy ownerships, and petty fights. People make cheap shots, they hit below the belt, they waste precious time on things so very small in the grand scheme of things. When I asked Toby to (quickly) talk me out of posting something (not so nice) on this person’s website, he told me it’d be pointless. And I knew it’d be dumb and pointless.

So I said nothing. I just could not stop watching. The flow of poorly constructed sentences and catty name-calling (which, by the way, if you’re going to get your bitch on and slap someone, make sure at the very least you spell everything correctly) was ten times better than Style Network’s reruns of Melrose Place.

And, yesterday as I sat there from the quiet table in the corner of the internet cafe watching the popular girls pull hair and slam lesbians, I cued up a soundtrack in my head:

Oooooma gooma! Oooooma goooma! One of us! One of us!

Starbucks letter

To whomever it may concern: (A letter I sent to Starbucks).

I generally don’t give negative feedback, however, the people who work at the store on 7th and Pennsylvania in Washington, D.C. (which is across the street from where I work) are infamously rude to their patrons.

Usually, it’s just a blatant disregard for common courtesy. However, lately it’s been worse. For starters, they like to yell across the counter, making people feel like barnyard animals. And they will not take twenties. I understand this happening from time to time due to lack of change, however it happens often, perhaps planning better to avoid this would be a better technique? Another problem, which happened today as a matter of fact, was that they ran out of iced coffee. And the absurdity of this was nearly laughable. They had coffee, they had ice, but we were not able to order iced coffee. (I felt like Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces). When I asked the cashier why they were out of iced coffee she merely answered,

I do not know. I am only a cashier.

I could go on an on about the rudeness spewing from this location, really. But I won’t bore you with the details. I will say this, however, that particular location is in a highly reputable area. They serve senators, congressmen, businessmen, tourists, people from all over the world. I should hope that a location with such a hi-level exposure would be a shining example of how a Starbucks would like to be recognized, and quite frankly, it is not. Contrary to the desired relaxation coupled with coffee shops, I leave there stressed out and annoyed. And lately, I have wondered why it is I keep returning.

Finally, I like Starbucks. I like their fair trade. I hear that Starbucks treats their employees fairly well, unlike many large franchises today. I hope something is done to fix this problem, because I rather enjoy the convenience and the coffee.

Thank you for reading,

Michele H__

(Either I don’t have enough to do, or I’m just a big bitch today. But I could resist, given the iced coffee and all).

Where are you?

Time for a question! It’s simple. I’m mihow. I currently sit at a gray desk in Washington, D.C., U.S.A. To the fine folks who leave comments here regularly and bring me daily fits of joy and laughter, I was thinking it’d be nice to know where it is you write from. So, where? Just a curiosity, really. I don’t want to scare anyone. And the lurkers? I guess you fine folks can just do what it is you’re good at, and say nothing.

Edited to add: Where do you write from? Help me improve my geography.

(I was trying for a map of the world but instead I’ll just appear entirely nationalistic and put up the U.S.A! [and Canada, who is apparently shrinking]).

Gross Things We May Have Stepped On

I once had a date with a redheaded boy named Keith (who turned out to be quite boring and rather strange-in that I’m too touchy feely and talk too soft sort of way-but that’s not the point of this story). On our first date, which I thought would consist of sitting on his front porch, sipping wine he bought from a winery, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, he (I guess) decided this was not “romantic” enough and suggested we take a late-evening stroll through the park. I really didn’t see the need, and was sort of annoyed by the suggestion, but went along anyway.
A bit later, after returning to his house to use the restroom, I looked down at my sandal-covered feet and noticed about 30 or so slugs of all different shapes and sizes crawling in and out of my toes, sliding along my ankles and calves. Horrified, I tore off my shoes, grabbed my bag, and blurted something like

Slugs! Feet! GOD! Gotta go! Slugs! LOOK at your TOES! GROSS! Bad slug idea. DUH!

We hosed off my feet out front and I headed home. Much later, I realized they were on my skirt and legs as well. It took days to get them off me mentally.