F*cking Bees

I had a wonderful weekend. There was the time-share presentation that ended in free trips, a house-warming party in Seattle complete with an impromptu dance party at 1am, yummy brunch the next morning, costume shopping, and an IKEA trip. And all I can think of is how much I HATE bees.

Why all the hatred? Well this morning I was attacked by two yellow-jackets. ATTACKED.

I actually got up early this morning to go to the gym before work. I was walking out to the car when I felt a stabbing pain by my knee. I thought it was just a spasm but I looked down and saw a giant bee on my knee. I swatted it away and started to walk toward the car when I realized how much it was hurting. I turned back to the house just as my mom was leaving for work. I was holding my knee and whimpering from the pain when she asked me what was wrong. Just as she finished asking another bee swooped in and bit my head. MY HEAD!

She swatted it away and we both ran for the door, fumbling with my keys I finally unlock th house and got inside. Too bad that wasn't safe either because the f*cking bee followed us inside. My brother was tasked to killing the bee while I holed up in the bathroom bawling my eyes out with pain. After the death of the bee we moved into the kitchen to hose of my head (cold water always helps), only to find the second bee was hiding out in the hood of my jacket. I renewed my screaming/crying and ran back to the bathroom stripping myself down to my workout top and pants on the way.

We think the second bee is dead but haven't found his carcass yet so I refuse to enter the kitchen until that happens. The upside to this mess is that I don't have to go to work. The downside is all the damn pain. My head feels like someone is driving a needle into it. And for those that know me, you understand how bad that is (I have a very low pain threshold and an irrational fear of needles).

I'm going to go curl up into a ball now and cry.

Jamaica Mon'!

Ever wonder what it must feel like to win a free trip to Jamaica?

It feels incredible! That’s right, I won a free trip to Jamaica! It seems that my “race for the freebies” ended in a free trip. For those wondering “what the hell!?”, I shall explain.

Last night I was minding my own business decorating for Halloween when I got a phone call. I didn’t recognize the long-distance number but I have family out of town so I answered it. The conversation went like this:

“Hello.”
“Hi, I’m looking for Amy.”
“This is her.”
“Hi, Amy. I’m calling from Coordinated Services.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You entered into a drawing at the Race for the Cure.”
“Oh! Yeah, I did.”
“Your name has been chosen and you have won a prize.”
“Great!”
“Now, I don’t know what your prize is but I have a number for you to call. They will tell you what you have won.”
“Okay.”
“They are waiting for your call, so call very soon.”

I am shocked. I NEVER win anything, so I am assuming it to be the drawing for the $50 Burgerville drawing that I entered into. ‘Cause while it’s not much it’s still free stuff.

My friend Sarah arrived to help me decorate and I of course filled her in. So, together with Sarah, Chad (my brother), and Shannon (another friend) we waited in excited anticipation while I dialed the number.

“Hello.”
“Hi, this is Amy I’m calling for extension 355.”
“One moment… that operator is busy right now. Can I have their assistant call you back.”
“Sure.”

Now I’m thinking it’s a scam. What kind of operation is this? Ten minutes later they call back.

“Hello.”
“Hi, is this Amy?”
“This is.”
“Hi, Amy. You entered into a drawing for Fred Meyer at the Race for the Cure.”
“Yes, I did.” (Though I can’t remember what the prize was. But even some free groceries would be great.)
“Now we aren’t doing that drawing until December 30th, which you are still entered in to win, but we do secondary drawings up until then and you have won.” (Okay, maybe a $50 gift certificate… still good. I wish I could remeber what the Fred Meyer prize is.)
“Okay.”
“You have won a trip for two…” (Holy crap I won a trip!)
“… three days, two nights…” (Sweet, maybe I’ll go to the coast.)
“… including round-trip airfare…” (I get to fly!?)
“… to your choice of Las Vegas, Jamaica…” (At this point I stopped listening. I get to go to Jamaica!!!)
“Can you repeat that for me?”
“Sure. You have won a trip for two that includes three days, two nights, including round-trip airfare to your choice of Las Vegas, Jamaica, Cancun, or Orlando. Congratulations.”
“Thanks!”

I can’t freaking believe I won. I never win anything. So the guy goes on to tell me that when I go to the reception to pick up my winnings I will receive an additional gift for listening to a presentation from the sponsor of the trip. The free gift is a champagne cruise on the Willamette… not too shabby.

It still sounded a bit like a time-share scam so I asked the guy, and he assured me that I will not be asked to sign-up for anything, sign any contract, or purchase anything. The company is (shameless plug) ‘Vacations International’ out of Vancouver, WA and relies on word-of-mouth for their advertising.

This is the point where I hung up the phone and I began screaming and dancing around the living room screaming. “I’m going to Jamaica! I’m going to Jamaica!”

I of course am taking my friend Sarah because I lover her so very much and because her grandmother is the reason I do the Race for the Cure.

Jamaica Mon’!

Ditching and Belching

Both ditching and belching are two things that I would rather not encounter at work. Mainly because belching is gross and no one likes to be ditched.

Yesterday afternoon I looked up from my instant messaging to realize that I had been ditched by my coworkers. They all left early and didn't tell me. Now, I could really give a crap about them leaving early but I felt like such a schmuck sitting there "working" when everyone had left. I like to do the ditching damnit! It's no fun to sneak out of work early when everyone else has already done it. I felt like a lemming.

And belching. Ewww.

I started my day early with a workout at the gym. I like starting my day this way, you feel you'e accomplished something before you even get to work; though I hate the waking up part. Anyway, I'm sitting at my desk and it blissfully quiet (10:15 and no one is here) and out of no where I hear a belch. Not a burp, a belch. I can understand a burp, sometimes they just happen. But a belch takes force. A belch is on purpose. Which is why it's disgusting. And had the guy no said a delayed "excuse me" I would have had to punch his face in.

P.S. Only 42 days to Halloween and the decorations are already going up. Such a fantastic holiday.

___ for the Cure

The Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure was yesterday, and for the third year in a row I participated; though I am beginning to wonder if that is really helping. There are too many people (men and women) that are being affected each year. Shouldn’t that number be decreasing slightly with all of the money being raised to help find the cure?

More and more I wonder just how many people come for the free stuff and don’t actually donate any money to the cause. I can see how you could be tempted… who can resist a pair of too large pink underwear, a pink lunch sack, pink Sun Chips, pink mirrors, pink scarves, pink, pink, pink. Don’t get me wrong, I grabbed all I could. But I also paid to be there.

Last year it was chaotic but the race went fairly smooth. This year, it took 35 minutes just to get across the start line. There were people pouring in from all sides of the start line trying to get into the race. When you have a year to plan a race (that takes place every year) the biggest issue should not be how to get people started, it should be how to get more people to come. Once it gets going the race is fine, slow but that’s fine because that gives you time to find the team that you lose every time to turn around.

One of my favorite parts of race day however, are the different teams. To name a few there were the “Happy Hoofers for Healthy Hooters”, “Walkers for Knockers”, “Hoola Hooters” (with coconuts as o’s), “Team Tatas”, and my team “I Feel a Song Coming On...”. Yes, I know there is no reference to boobs, hooters, breast, knockers, tatas, melons, or tits in the name but we made up for that with our wonderful accessories that included sparkling pink foam cowboy hats and pink boas. We were awesome!

Equally hilarious was how some chose to “race”. There were people “running for the cure”, “rowing for the cure”, “walking for the cure”, “sleeping-in for the cure”, “complaining for the cure”, “crying for the cure”, “spilling hot coffee on Amy for the cure” (twice, I kid you not), “hoarding freebies for the cure”, “yelling at people for using the wrong garbage cans for the cure”. You name it, people were doing it. My personal favorite was my dear friend Kara’s method of “drinking for the cure”… priceless.

All in all is was another good race. I just hope to see more cure than racers next year

Natty News - The Guillotine

I know when most decent people complain about the people they work with and say things like, "they need to be fired" deep down they don't really mean it, they're just frustrated. Well I mean it. I'm to the point where I want to be the one to release the rope.

This week Pen and I:
1. Got yelled at for getting something RIGHT.
2. Had to hear from the new lady "Marge" that Natty told her that "this place would fall apart withot me".
3. Were forced to train Marge, who is supposed to be the new person in charge of analyst relations... only to have her ask me "What is an analyst firm?" and "What do analysts do?"
4. Overheard Pen telling her boss that she "hadn't seen" someone all day, implying that they haven't been at work; when the truth is that Pen has been at home and her coworker has been in the office all day.

Now you may think the whole guillotine thing may be a bit extreme until you relaize that I am only a face in a line of over a dozen people waiting in line to release the blade.

I know, I know. Why not just quit? I have a plan. And that plan is finally coming to fruition. I just got word from my boss that the new position that I've been working towards getting is finally going to happen. Adios Natty!

Ocotber has always been my favorite month but this year it is even more special. I get to tell Natty to kiss it, spend nearly three weeks in Morocco, party at the 2006 Pumpkin Ball, and start a new job.

October is glorious!

The Haircut

I know that most people say that a used car salesman ranks up on the pushiest sales person list but I think a hairstylist can give them a run for their money.

For all the women out there, when was the last time you went in to get a haircut and weren’t made to feel guilty about the number of spilt-ends you have, the quality of shampoo/conditioner you buy, how long it’s been since you last came in, and on, and on. It’s incredible.

A car salesman will try to get you to but something that you don’t really need or want but a hairstylist makes you feel self-conscious and guilty about your own hair, the thing that women love and care about so much.

Now I consider myself to be low maintenance in the hair department. I wash it, condition it, and brush it. That’s about the extent of my hair care. I keep it long and straight, no color, no curl, no hair products, just plain. It works for me. I have healthy hair, and as long as I keep the split-ends at bay I feel I have done a good job. Well apparently that’s not good enough.

Yesterday I went in for a routine trim. “Cut the dead ends off,” I said. Then the inquisition begins; What shampoo do you use?, Do you condition your hair?, Do you put it up a lot?, Do you use a straight iron? To which I respond: Biolage, Yes, No, Never. And then I get the response no woman wants to hear, “Huh?”

This is the word that strikes fear in all women. We never want to hear “huh” because what it really means is, “then why is it so bad?” This is something you never want someone to think about your hair. Never.

The “it” in my case is breakage. My hair breaks, it’s not very strong. Seriously, in a slight breeze my hair will break away and travel to parts unknown. I blame my parents. My mom has thick, strong, slightly wavy hair while my dad has thin, fine, shiny hair. All is fine there until you look at the children; my sister and I got my dad’s hair while our brothers got our mom’s hair. It’s not fair! They cut it short, it doesn’t even matter what their hair is like. Oh the injustice.

Anyway, after lecturing me for twenty minutes about how to take care of my own hair (which I already do, thank you very much) and trying to get me to purchase over $50 of unnecessary hair products I don’t need, I ran out of there as fast as my legs would carry me.

Why is a simple trim so much work?

A Mike Ferris Moment

Have you ever had one of those Mike Ferris moments? I had one of those today and it creeped me out. As it always does.

"Who the hell is Mike Ferris?" you ask. Well, Mike Ferris is an astronaut. No, not a real astronaut... but he played one on TV. More specifically, he played one in the pilot episode of The Twilight Zone. Which just happens to be my favorite episode.

Mike Ferris, played by Earl Holliman, finds himself on a deserted road with no one in sight. He has no idea who he is or where he is. He starts walking and stumbles upon a diner, he starts yelling in hopes of someone answering but no one does. He keeps walking a finds a small town, he checks the buildings but no one is around. He thinks he spots someone in a truck but it turns out to be a mannequin in front of a mannequin shop. The phone in the phone booth in the middle of the town square starts ringing; he runs to answer it but no one is there. He tries to contact the operator but it is only a recording.

He then searches the police station, wandering through the jail cells, and an ice cream parlor, where he sees a book called "The Last Man on Earth". Finally he visits the movie theatre that is playing a film reel about joining the Air Force, where he realizes he might me a pilot. After running out of the theater he trips over a bicycle, only to come face-to-face with a giant eye painted on the optometrist's shop window. At which point he cracks; running over to the crosswalk, he begin to repeatedly push the walk-button crying, “somebody help me, somebody's looking at me, help me, help me, help me.”

It’s then that you learn he is being watched. Several military officers are sitting in a room viewing the man in a small isolation chamber repeatedly pushing a panic button. The man had been in the chamber for 484 hours as a part of a secret Air Force operation meant to simulate the isolation felt on a solo trip to the moon.

There are moments in life I feel like Mike Ferris. Driving down the street when no one is around; no cars, no people, no sign of life. In that split second before a car drives by or a dog barks I wonder, “Is everyone gone?” And I get a bit panicky.

For those of you thinking “what a wuss”, you have no idea. You are both right and a punk.

Today I had a variation of a Ferris moment. I pulled into the parking lot at work, parked my scooter, and began to pull of my helmet when I thought I heard music. At first I thought it was my cell phone, but when I took my helmet off I realized it wasn’t my cell phone… it was a bagpipe.

I quickly spin around to see what the hell is going on. There is an honest to god bagpipe being played in the parking lot; only I can’t see it. No matter how hard I look I can’t find it. Not only that, I seem to be the only one who can hear it. There was easily 20 people scattered around the parking lot, and another 20 or so walking in different groups up and down the side walk… none of them seemed to hear it. No heads were turning and no one was asking, “What is that?”.

Now I hear things sometimes that I question are there but I swear to god this was real. Someone was having bagpipe practice on their lunch break in the parking lot.

As I walked the path to the building I could still hear it… mocking me in all of its Highland glory. I kept stealing glances around to try to find it but my efforts were in vain. I am concerned for my mental health.

Where’s the panic button!?

Labor Day

I do enjoy that in the U.S. we celebrate a holiday honoring laborers that started in Canada and had loose affiliations with the Ku Klux Klan by not working. Only in America.

I spent my weekend editing home videos of my travels over the past year, wishing I was back in said locations, and lounging in the pool. For you lucky people that have never edited home movies I have one piece of advice for you, don't do it. Con someone else into doing them for you.

It took me over five hours to edit together a video of my four-day Las Vegas trip. Five hours! The movie ended up being 20 minutes long. Five hours for 20 minutes. My only saving grace is that iMovie is truely idiot proof; and I haven't broken it yet so I'm pretty happy about that. I am not looking forward to editing together the video of the 10-day cruise I went on last year, or my upcoming 2 1/2 week trip to Morocco. I will edit myself into insanity... although I am hoping that some of that footage will include a camel, nee dromedary, spitting on my dear friend Kara.

I can see it now... and it's glorious.

Pass the Buck

Meaning – to pass responsibility on to someone else.

Origin – buck is an article used in a game of poker, and that's the buck that's passed. This was often a knife, and knives often had handles made of buck's horn - hence the marker becoming known as a buck. When the dealer's turn was done he 'passed the buck'.
Silver dollars were later used as markers and this is probably the origin of the use of buck as a slang term for dollar.

While Harry S. Truman may have made the phrase 'the buck stops here' famous I think he may be the last person on the planet to practice it.

Case in point, when you have been back from vacation for three months you should no longer say things like “things kind of fell apart while I was gone” as the excuse for current issues. It’s been three months, if your absence made the place fall apart shouldn’t you have fixed any problems in the three months since your return? The answer is yes.

So stop blaming everyone else! You know who you are. The truth is, the problems that are coming up now were problems you had then. The only difference is that the person you used to blame quit because she was sick of you taking credit for her accomplishments and blaming her for your mistakes.

Karma is catching up to you and it’s pissed!

*******

On a completely unrelated note, while waiting for the blogger system to come back online yesterday so I could post entry I decide to run to the cafeteria for a sandwich.

I am waiting in the sandwich line in the cafeteria for my glorious chicken-hummus-feta on pita sandwich to finish grilling when the grown man next to me actually asks the woman making his tuna fish sandwich, “Can you cut that into fourths?”

To which she replies, “Of course. It’s just like being back with my little kids in the kitchen.” The woman is old enough to be this man’s mother.

At this point I steal a glance at the man next to me who is boring a whole through the cutting bored with his eyes while trying not to look at the four guys behind him in line; who, like me, are no doubt silently mocking him.