Monthly Archives: January 2012

Werdz: Not Rocket Science, NPR

The other day, I was driving home listening to NPR as I am wont to do on most days.  I listen to NPR because honestly, all the other news radio sucks even worse than theirs does.  I try to mostly listen to the BBC (usually always error-free because they are BRITISH) or the non-news programming, whatever.  I don’t need to explain away my shameless abuse of public radio to you.  I had a giant meltdown with NPR 3 years ago and our relationship has never been the same.  But I digress.

I am listening to NPR, and I SWEAR TO BABY JESUS, the reporter says this word:

INTERNECINE

At least I think that’s the word she’s trying to say, because she pronounces it like this:

INTERNȲCȲNE 

Long i sounds on the last two syllables.

ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING.

Look, I’m not an asshole.  That’s a word with which not everyone is familiar.  I’m not going to hold a normal person responsible for maybe never having seen that word before, and having trouble their first go-round with it.  But you are a reporter, ma’am.  Saying words can be possibly difficult at times but aren’t you supposed to practice that shit?

Let me just list the words that radio and TV people get wrong all the time:

ET CETERA:  It’s Latin, folks.  Quit fucking it up.  A dead language cannot rise up and defend itself.  There’s no ECK.

HEIGHT:   It is always this word.  There is no “th” on the end.  Ever.  EVER.

MOOT:  Moot and mute are two different words that do not mean the same thing.  Stop it.  It drives me absolutely batshit crazy.

ORIENTATE:  Not. A. Fucking. Word.

RESPITE:  Again with the long iiiiiiii’s.  Noooooooooooooo.

and last, but oh, not least, and the timeless classic:

NUCLEAR

Just, uh, insert mushroom cloud here.

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I Wish I Had a Dime for Every Dick on a Plane

I have recently started traveling quite a bit for work.  I can firmly say I’m in the pro-Southwest Airlines camp, even when the attendants float crazy bombs of jokes that go out into the atmosphere like a suffocating cloud of death.  I have a list of observations about my experiences on relatively short flights.  I would like to take this time to share them.

1)  I want more drink coupons, but more than that, I want a longer time to be able to enjoy them.  Southwest, on some flights, has started taking your drink order before take-off.  THIS IS A TOTAL BONUS.  The less time I have to wait for you to bring me 8 coffee & Bailey’s all at once, the better.

2)  I don’t need a great many frills – but why is the peanut/pretzel offer even an offer?  You need to just give me two of everything the minute I walk on the plane, because clearly, the choices I just made at the airport newsstand will not get me through your 40-minute flight. And in reality, all I did was buy my derby wife a $10 fedora.  Give over the snacks, lady or dude.  I cannot wait until I hit the ground in, like, 20 minutes.

3)  I appreciate people my age.  They now all work for Southwest.  It’s a little creepy, but I’m glad that if this job ever falls through, my fat ass can waddle through the aisles and offer you fine assholes some peanuts and drinks.  I’m guessing the air marshals may not find my jokes amusing, and I’m fairly certain they would have to put me through some sort of “WE’RE SOUTHWEST AND WE PROMISE YOU WILL NOT DIE” training.

4)  I enjoy the fact that I am of the Southwest Elite, and I will always board the plane before you, allowing me to procure the seat by the window directly over the engine.  If we go, I want to go first.  At all times.  For everything.  Even dying.

Let’s now discuss some experiences I’ve had with passengers.  Because unlike Southwest, the clientele sucks balls.

1)  Hey lady, I’m really sorry I now know your first and last name and your phone number.  Why do I know it?  Because you’ve shouted it at the top of your lungs into your phone, for clearly you are a Very Important Person.  I understand that Jared cannot do things by himself in the office while you are on a plane, and I am absolutely giddy at the prospect of your catered event going completely fucktastic because you are trying to Control All Things from your mobile phone.  Also, you write in a notebook like a child.  If it’s pink and frilly, you do not look professional.  Just sayin.  Personal style be damned.

2)  Wow, excuse me, King Douchebag.  Can you see that my row of seats is in front of your row of seats?  That means I get to exit the plane before you.  But hey, you are a guy, and we all know women don’t really work and if there are women in front of you on a plane it’s because they are going on a superfun girls’ trip.  By all means, cut in front of me.  The importance with which you guffaw at your business partner is nauseating, so I’d rather you had just go.  I can wait.

3)  This flight is taking place at 4:45pm.  Are you seriously just ordering water?  Does not compute.  You do not belong on my row.

4)  Get off plane.  Walk through terminal.  Perhaps go to the restroom.  PERHAPS TRY TO AVOID STANDING AIMLESSLY IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYONE’S PATH.

There are small, simple things everyone can do to make flying better, faster, and overall more awesome.  Southwest has done many of these things.  Unfortunately, Southwest offers some people more courtesy than they deserve.

On second thought, I hope this job never falls through.  No one looks good falling out of a plane, whether it’s me in my fancy blue flight attendant shirt or the loud-talking misogynist I’m taking with me.

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Nobody Can Rock a Blouse Like 1973 Robert Plant

I mean, look at him/it/this:

Sir, that’s a girlshirt. But you wear it well.

My husband, although The Song Remains the Same might as well play on an endless loop inside our home, thinks that I somehow am immune to the allure of 1973 Robert Plant due to two factors:  1) I do not pay attention to the television because it is very loud and explosion-y most of the time, and 2) Because it’s clearly not 1973 and we do not own a time machine.

He is wrong.

I am, in fact, in deep and abiding love with 1973 Robert Plant and his many blouses of fancy.  It is not his strategically ripped jeans that make me love him; it’s not necessarily the way he parades around the stage like a peacock (although that might be a little of it); it’s…just…goddamn,  THAT IS A WOMAN’S TOP YOU HAVE ON AND IT LOOKS UNBELIEVABLY AMAZING.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am in full appreciation of Robert Plant’s incredible, soul-filled voice of passion and his impeccable timing – he is an improvisational wizard, a rock god, and possesses a stage presence that is second to none.  But it’s the shirt, my friends.  It comes down to that one small fashion choice he made before he went on stage at MSG.  It makes me stop whatever I’m doing, stare all wide-eyed and goofy at the television every single time, rapt in His Glory.   I can’t help it.  The wearing of the blouse was, at that time, What Is and What Should Never Be. But it WAS.  And it worked like a fucking charm.

I am fairly certain this particular article of clothing, with its dreamy ocean-blue fabric and white accents, has magical powers.  Come forth, ye who owns this GirlShirt of Glory, this Blouse of Beckoning…I do believe it is my Precious.  We wants it.  Gives it to us.

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2012: Not Letting The Man Get Me Down

To my extreme chagrin, I have to work just like all the rest of you. After having all of this wonderful time off during the holidays, it’s especially chagrin-filled. The more I am allowed to rise at my leisure at 9am, the happier I am as a person. But sadly, that will only become a reality if you, dear reader, make me famous. Get to it.

As I stumble every morning out of my hateful sleep and awake to the sounds of angry little morning trolls beating their tiny troll drums inside my head, I think to myself, “Self, why do we have to get up at such a godforsaken hour? And why has the dog (or cat) not learned how to MAKE ME SOME GODDAMN COFFEE YET?”

The dog, thus far, has only learned how to look cute. No coffee skills at all.

These questions make sense to me during the wee hours, but then the horror that I’m awake wears off and I’m left with nothing but my sheer determination to arrive at my office before some choad drinks all the coffee without starting another pot. I warn you, Sir Choad (because I know it’s a dude, not a ladyperson) – if I ever actually witness with mine eyes the thing you do, I will proclaim “you should be shot” and throw the glass carafe at your head. I will take aim. I will not miss.

Once I settle into my office, I am immediately enraged by literally tens of personal emails from websites to which I have inevitably given my email address. Why, just this morning, it appears I have an urgent message from Sting. Sting, I didn’t realize that you cared, or that I was high on your radar. I thank you. Now kindly fuck off out of my emailz.

As my day meanders on with a succession of request upon request of people needing shit from me without a thought as to what I might need, I long for the sanctity of lounging in bed and operating my tiny world from there. Because honestly, if I can convince someone that this is way more productive than me getting up and getting dressed, it can totally be accomplished. I’m actually very focused when I work from home and am not easily sucked in to the Lifetime Network or reality shows. I *may* be sucked in to the idea that pants are a complete waste of time in all circumstances. That is the only negative. I swear. And it’s more of a negative for you, not me.

Either way, I like to start out with a thimbleful of optimism at the beginning of each new year, so 2012, you are already looking brighter simply because I have a vision one day that I might be able to get paid doing something that is legal while remaining in my robe. The vision, once far too distant, is a shimmering heat wave on a road in a desert that leads to my possible future, and I will relish in that desert dream until someone reminds me that the desert is full of insects and thirst.

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