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Let's try something different, shall we? I offer you a haiku, in honor of this most glorious day of the work week, Friday.
Lame-ass job, so dull
Feigning work for one more day
When darkness falls, beer
Come on, share your poetic gifts with the rest of us!
Pushing you to new creative heights,
~WG
PS: Click here if you want some tips on writing a haiku.
Today, in lieu of a lengthy discourse about some hot-button knitting issue or a paean to the ample assets of some semi-clad hunk, I suggest you pop over to the Minnesota Public Radio website, where one of my essays has just been published on the In the Loop page.
Click here, then scroll down until you see my handsome face next to the title Cafeteria Zoologist. Begin reading.
My conquest of all media has begun!
Humbly yours,
~WG
I have been a knitter for nearly four years, and in that time, I have made precisely 3 socks. One was a pair of baby socks that proved too small for my niece, and the other was one half of a pair for myself. Somehow I never got around to knitting its mate--Second Sock Syndrome, what have you.
I love the idea of knitting socks. In many ways, they're perfect project--practical, colorful, and portable. I have all the skills required to make socks (well, my grasp of kitchener stitch is somewhat questionable), and really want to add them to my quick project repertoire. So, I'm giving socks another try.
I started a sock last week and quickly ripped it out because the gage seemed too loose. I cast on eight fewer stitches, dropped from size 2 needles down to size 1, and now I'm just starting the heel flap.
I tried the sock on yesterday, and it's a bit too snug. (Have I mentioned that I'm no good at measuring gage? I can never get same count three times in a row.) Oh well. I'm going to press on, just so I finish the project. 
These aren't the sort of colors that I typically wear, you understand. I usually prefer something brighter, more vibrant.
Encourage me to finish these socks. I can't stand to fail again.
Needy,
~WG
f you are far luckier than I am, your workplace is free of insipid motivational posters that exhort you to "Focus" or "Strive" or extoll the virtues of "Teamwork."
I'm not sure what I find most mind-boggling about these banal and peppy framed insults to my intelligence--the idea that employees might in some way be influenced by such tripe, or the fact that my company's management (who replaced all live plants with plastic greenery as a cost-savings) finds it appropriate to spend shareholder money on such nonsense.
(Of course, nothing is quite as gag-inducing as the employee whose desk is adorned with a mini-motivational picture. Those damn apple-polishers need to be smacked.)
You can imagine, then, how much I love demotivational artwork. Perhaps are familiar with it, too. At first glance, one sees a stirring, glossy photo of the ocean (or a lion or eagle) with a bold title and some accompanying text. "Oh, I know where this is going," one thinks.
But no! On closer examination, the viewer is swept up in a refreshing blast of icy cynicism that truly warms the heart.
Take this gem, for example, which quite nicely sums up my distaste for motivational art.
Delicious, isn't it?
There are so many wonderfully biting posters on this site, it's hard to choose my favorites. But if I could, I would buy several to present to a select group of people here at my company. (I'm picturing some sort of company-wide video conference with enough cookies and punch to serve the first 23 of the 400 people at the meeting.)
To the team of hardworking folks who keep our corporate Intranet almost entirely unusable, I would present this lovely piece.
...And here's the perfect choice for the senior VP who, at a divison-wide Q & A session, ominously intoned "I'm not happy that people keep telling me we have a morale problem in this division and I don't want to hear about it AGAIN." Got it?
This next one goes to the dim-witted, semi-literate risk manager who keeps a constant frown on her face as she race-walks though the building, mumbling to herself "Another day with no time for lunch!"
And for my own cube wall, this last bit of genius.
TGIF,
~WG
One of the members of my men's knitting group is an extraordinary young fellow named Calvin, who is about fifteen years old. He is an accomplished and FAST knitter, and in the year I have been attending Men's Knit Nights, he has created more lovely sweaters than I will likely knit in my lifetime.
Calvin is rather soft spoken, but he has a wry sense of humor that sneaks out at unexpected moments, and he is a charming knitting companion. I think it's pretty amazing that he enjoys spending two hours on a Friday night knitting with a group gay men in their 30's-50's. (His mom is pretty amazing, too. Not only does she buy all his yarn--and the good stuff, too--but she often sends along baked treats for the group.)
At last Friday night's meeting, Calvin told us something that the rest of us knitters found absolutely appalling.
One of the guys asked him about a lovely baby sweater he had knit for a baby that his aunt and uncle recently adopted.
Calvin replied in a quizzical tone, "I mailed it to them, but they didn't want it. They said it was 'too big', so they mailed it back to me."
There were eight simultaneous thunks as our jaws dropped onto the table.
"WHAT?" we exclaimed in unison.
Too big? TOO BIG?? What the HELL? Is this some rare species of baby that arrives fully grown and thus has no need for clothes to grow into? It's just asinine. We all agreed that it was one of the rudest things we had ever heard.
"So now I don't know what to knit for the baby. Booties maybe?"
"WHAT?" we exclaimed in unison.
"Calvin," I said, "you will never knit for these people again! EVER. They don't deserve it."
All of us fellows pretty much felt the same way. I think Calvin was somewhat taken aback by our vehemence, but can you believe the gall of those people? Morons.
That got me thinking that I have been very lucky in my knitted gift giving. No one has taken my hard work and then acted like a total dip-shit. Maybe something I made wasn't a huge hit with its recipient, but if so I've never heard about it, and that's as it should be.
How about you knitters out there? Do you have any horror stories that compare with the injustice done to Calvin?
Still aghast,
~WG
At the risk of being labeled a "Sharmock Scrooge," and in defiance of my ancestral heritage, I, Sean Kevin, must state unequivocally that I find St. Patrick's Day to be pretty damn annoying.
Sure, when I was in grade school, I got a mild kick out of the day. It was fun to wear something green to school (even though I knew it was a challenging color for me), and I enjoyed the attention of my teachers, who typically made comments like "Sean, with your name I don't even need to ask if you're Irish!"
"I'm half Irish, on my mom's side," I would answer proudly.
When I was in sixth grade, I was exposed to St. Patrick's Day on a scale I had never imagined existed. My family was visiting my dad's sister in Savannah, GA, which holds the second largest St. Patrick's Day parade in the country. Naturally, we attended. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and I was VERY excited to see my first real celebrity in person. Lani O'Grady, the recently deceased actress who played eldest daughter Mary on Eight is Enough was stationed on one of the floats. She was acting really silly, and she seemed to be having trouble standing up, even though the float was moving at a stately, even pace.
"She's so drunk she can hardly stay on her feet," I heard my mom say disapprovingly. I had a hard time believing that Mary, who was such a responsible, studious medical school student on TV, would appear drunk in public, but the evidence was there before my eyes, along with an alarming amount of green-tinted vomit flowing in the streets.
Skip forward 30 years, and green vomit has lost most of its charm.
Each year, I am surprised once again to see people decorating their cubes at work with shamrocks and leprechauns. Um, okay.
"Hey, Miguel, glad to see you like St. Patty's Day! You, too, Xiao Ping! Yes, I do like your Shamrock deely-boppers! Very festive!"
"Yes, yes, my name is really Irish isn't it? Oh, my St. Patrick's plans? Um, I'll probably just ring it in quietly at home, as I do each year."
Or better yet, I'll ignore it completely. Of course, forgetting the day all together can prove dangerous, too.
This past Saturday, Darren and I made the enormous mistake of driving into downtown St .Paul (a very Irish city) to grab lunch at a brew pub that we like. What a nightmare that proved to be. It was as though the entire city had been invaded by drunken, green-skinned aliens.
"Holy crap, it's St. Patrick's Day! THE PARADE!" I exclaimed. Panic gripped us. How would we escape the ravening kelly green-clad throng?
Forunately, Darren used to be a transporter for the mafia, so he has mad driving skills. Tires screeching, we fled to the relative safety of the suburbs and had lunch near our home. A few freaks in green face-paint crossed our paths, but we were able to enjoy ourselves anyway.
Shamrocks! Leprechauns! Green beer!
Humbug!
~WG
PS--Slang, you're exempt from this sentiment, of course.
Well fudge.
I came home after work yesterday to find a rejection letter from the community college. I guess it's not my time to escape the corporate world after all. (Or take a ten thousand dollar pay cut, for that matter.)
Kind of a shitty way to start the weekend.
What annoys me most is that after spending a whole morning interviewing with their seven(!) person committee and taking an asinine writing test for them, all I received in the end was a lame form letter from HR. Thank you for your interest, but we chose the strongest candidate for the position BLAH BLAH freakin' BLAH.
I have a strong hunch that "strongest" probably meant "least expensive," with no Princeton degree, but I guess I'll never know.
Okay, onward and upward. Well, this weekend I get to wallow a bit, treat myself to a couple cocktails and some fried food, and then Monday, onward.
Go forth, shop, be merry. Don't fret about little old me.
~WG
PS--All is not doom and gloom. I did get some nice
news yesterday. Minnesota Public Radio is going to publish one of my
essays on their web site. I'll post a link here when the piece is
available.
I first saw the Robert Altman film Gosford Park at the Sony Metreon in 2001. Darren and I were on the first night of a four day stay in San Francisco, and we decided to go see a 10:00 p.m. showing of the elaborate period piece.
In retrospect, it was a bad choice, at least in terms of timing. Nothing like sitting down for a long movie in comfy reclining chairs after a draining day of travel and sight-seeing, when one's body clock says it's already midnight. Darren was asleep within half an hour.
I managed to stay awake (years of boring graduate seminars had taught me the knack of keeping my eyes open under all circumstances), and I loved the film. So much bitchery, so much subtext, so many wonderful actors.
I watched the film again last night on TiVo, and I found myself completely charmed once again. The level of acting talent is astonishing, and like most Altman films, Gosford Park has a staggeringly large cast of familiar faces. Pretty, pouty Ryan Phillippe does a nice turn as a bisexual gigolo, Clive Owen is dark, handsome, and dashing, and Helen Mirren is impeccable as the prim, controlled housekeeper with a tragic secret. Oh, and there's a murder mystery.
Of course, movies like this aren't to everyone's taste, but I love the lavish attention to detail and the sharp eye for the rigid constraints of the British class system and myriad subtle humiliations endured by nearly everyone except the lord of the manor.
He, however, ends up poisoned and stabbed. It's all cracking good fun.
Happy Friday to you!
~WG
Ring, ring, why don't you give me a call?
Ring, ring, the happiest sound of them all
Ring, ring, I stare at the phone on the wall
And I sit all alone impatiently
Won't you please understand the need in me
So, ring, ring, why don't you give me a call?
So, ring, ring, why don't you give me a call?
Geez I'm tired of waiting for word on this college job!
~WG
Today would have been my mother's sixty-third birthday. Rather than feel sad, I have been recalling happy times with her. Here's a story that I thought you might enjoy.
For my sixth Christmas, my mom gave me a fully functional toy sewing machine. I still remember my joy as I opened the box and saw the little mechanical wonder inside.
Overcome by emotion, I uttered a line that has been quoted in my family for over thirty years: "No more sewing by hand!"
Now I'm fairly certain that I had not been working my little fingers to the bone sewing with needle and thread up until that time, but I still recall the relief I felt at the site of that little blue sewing machine. Oh the luxury!
After Christmas, when we returned from my grandparents' house, I set up my mini-Singer next to my mom's full sized machine, and together we would while away contented afternoons with our needlework.
I began by sewing together scraps of material, learning how the machine's foot-pedal worked and how fast to push the material past the needle. Eventually I worked my way up to designing and assembling funny looking little purses, all of which I gave to my mom. I liked to sew on little buttons, or appliqués, too, just to dress things up a bit. You know, for a little extra fabulousness.
Somehow, though I don't recall how or why, I must have lost my enthusiasm for sewing, because today I can barely reattach a button. It's an embarrassing gap in my otherwise thorough mastery of a wide array of "girly" skills.
For her last Christmas, I gave my mom a new sewing machine to replace the clunky old Singer she had used for at least twenty years. By that point in her life, she didn't do much sewing (when I was a kid she made many of her own clothes, as well as outfits for my sisters and me), but I thought she might still enjoy a nice new machine with a few bells and whistles.
As it turned out, she never had a chance to take the machine out of the box, so it is gathering dust at my dad's house. I've asked him to bring it to me the next time he comes to visit, and he agreed. I think I would like to go back to my sewing lessons.
Some of my shirts really need appliqués.
~WG
That's how many rows I have left to knit before I've finished the baby blanket for my cousin's daughter, who is due to be born AT ANY SECOND. (Nicole, if you're reading this, that loud voice was to startle you into labor.)
I've set a new record for slow knitting on this baby blanket. I'm not particularly proud of that fact. I cast on for this project on January 14 while I was watching Little Miss Sunshine on DVD. I was high as a kite on Percoset, because it was just three days after my liposuction, and I was incredibly miserable from my post-op swelling and pain. After about five rows, I put the blanket away, and that's been my m.o. for the whole project--knit for thirty minutes, procrastinate a week.
(I hasten to add that despite my drug-addled state at the time, those first five rows are as neat as a pin. It's not like those f-ed up spider webs that you see in psych text books with a caption that reads "This web was spun by a spider under the influence of LSD.") 
Yes, I must finish this blanket this week. I have sworn a holy oath to Baal, Roger Federer, and Chris Evans' lickably hairy tummy that I will finish this blanket by the end of the week. I simply must.
But then what do I knit? I don't have a good project going at the moment. I started a pair of socks a few weeks back, but I'm not enjoying them. At all. I'm on size zero needles, and honestly I totally guessed at the number of stitches to cast on initially, so it's probably a doomed project anyway.
Yup, I think I kind of hate this sock, and I've only made 1.5 inches of ribbing so far. I keep telling myself that the fun will kick in with the stockinette stitch, but I'm a lying bastard, and I know it.
Men's Knit Night is next week! If I don't have something fun started by then, why I'll simply go all Blanche Dubois-mental and that will be the end of me. They'll trim my nails short and take me away from Elysian Fields forever.
You don't want that for me, do you?
~WG
PS. On a completely unrelated note, I'm glad I'm not the only one who has noticed this little habit of Andy Roddick.
That smart girl Madonna sure knows what she's talking about. (Well, after all, she made it through the wilderness--somehow she made it through--way back in the '80's!)
Time goes go by VERY slowly indeed for those who wait for news on a job they really really want.
I had been told I would receive word on the college job I applied for sometime during the week that just ended, but nada, nichts, zilch, niente, 没什么, rien. Finally, yesterday afternoon I sent the dean a quick email to inquire about the status of the hiring process.
As it turns out, the huge snow storm we had last week closed the college for two days, so the interview schedule got messed up. I'm told that a final decision will be made this coming week and the "will definitely be in touch." So, the waiting will continue a bit longer.
Adding to the tension is the fact that I am also apparently "at the top of the list" of candidates for round two of interviews at a job I mentioned last month. After a considerable dry spell of applying for jobs and receiving no response at all, neither positive nor negative, it has been an odd turnabout to find myself in any form of demand.
All of this has left me feeling preoccupied and a bit nauseated. Having two potential job offers looming is a good situation to be in, I know, but I'm ready for the uncertainty to end.
Of course, in my head I've already given my two weeks' notice at my current job, so I'm feeling even less motivated than normal (if such a thing is even possible) to continue my essentially meaningless work as a tiny cog in a huge corporate machine.
As a side note, while sitting in my cube staring at the ceiling, it struck me yesterday that it had been eight years to the day since I had started my current job. That realization made me throw up in my mouth a little. (Sloppy Joes.)
Have a great weekend, you crazy kids. Come back Monday for your helping of delicious beefcake!
~WG
Well, my little Mystery Mii contest sure was a hit! No one guessed all three mystery guests correctly, but my cousins Nicole, Annie, and Tracie all got two out of three. You go, girls.
So, without further ado, here are the answers.
Mystery Guest No. 1...
...is Prince (give me a break, I did my best).
Mystery Guest No. 2 ...
...is my dad, Terry.
And Mystery Guest No. 3...
... is world #1 tennis superhuman Roger Federer.
Thanks to everyone who played my silly little game. I'm relieved in a way that no one got all three answers right, because I didn't actually have a shiny penny to give to the winner.
Now, let's get through this day and start the weekend!
~WG
Well hey, y'all. In the last few days I have created three new Mii characters who have joined my burgeoning virtual world. A shiny penny goes to the first smartypants who can identify all three.
I offer these clues to their identities: One Mii is a professional athlete of some renown; one is a musician and Minnesota native; one is a semi-retired college teacher.
Anyone who gets two out of three correct will receive honorable mention here in this HIGHLY public forum.
And now, will the Mystery Guests sign in please...
Mystery Guest No. 1
Mystery Guest No. 2
... and last, but certainly not least,
Mystery Guest No. 3
Let the frantic guessing commence!
~WG
PS. Today at the gym I learned that Honeychile has a brother, Hot Damn Babychile. Thought you might like to know.
Today was my second day back at the gym since my trip to San Francisco, only my fifth real workout since my surgery in early January. So, obviously, I haven't been at the gym much since Christmas.
At some point during my long lay-off from exercise, a new expression has insinuated itself into my fitness vocabulary: Honeychile.
You know, like "honey-child," but with soooooul. I say it like I might look like Martin Lawrence in Big Mama's House. I put some weight behind it, baby, and it's kinda nasty.
I first heard the word Honeychile pass my lips yesterday when an especially striking exemplar of male pulchritude strolled past me as I huffed and puffed on the elliptical machine.
"Ooooh Honeychile!" I cooed appreciatively to myself.
Well, maybe it wasn't entirely to myself, because the strapping young buck in question did shoot me a somewhat startled and wary glance.
Quick-thinking old perv that I am, I instantly fixed my eyes in the middle distance over his head and continued moving my lips silently, as though singing along with the song on my iPod.
--Awkward, potentially violent moment gracefully diffused.
"Hmm," I mused to myself as the achingly beautiful twenty year-old strolled over to the free weights that had done such wonders for his body, "Where the hell did that expression come from?"
For I am quite certain that I had never before uttered the word Honeychile in my entire life prior to that moment. I can't be 100% sure, because lord knows I do drink. But let's say I'm 97% sure. Pretty damn sure, that's for sure.
If my workout today is any indication, however, Honeychile is quickly becoming a staple of my ogling/workout routine. No fewer than three Honeychiles (Honeychillin'?) crossed my path today, and that's not even counting the locker room.
Somehow, the word has just worked itself to the front of my brain, and it wants to leap forth at the first opportunity, no matter how inopportune the moment. I have now at least managed to confine myself to just thinking the word, but it's a herculean task, believe me.
So how's your brain working today?
~WG
Well, come to think of it, maybe the hardest part would be the rejection.
Last Wednesday I had a job interview for position that would finally allow me to escape corporate life--an environment that I've pretty much hated since that day ten years ago when I was shown to a dank little cubicle and told "You''ll be sitting here."
I think the interview, for a web writing job at a local community college, went extremely well (it's encouraging, for example, when one of your interviewers says that speaking with you was "a delight"), and I would very much like to be offered the job.
Money will be the most likely sticking point. A large pay cut is certain; the only question is exactly how large. Darren (the math major and MBA in our little family--Hudson and I have no head for numbers) has done some figuring, and we know what we can sustain. I've never really been the bread winner in our relationship, but no one likes to see their salary drop. However, if I can find a job that I don't dread going to every day, I'll gladly sacrifice the cash.
I was told at my interview last week that the final candidate could expect an offer this week. So, I'm sitting by the phone with crossed fingers and a knot in my tummy. Any of you out there with magical abilities might consider working your mojo on the dean and the hiring committee. I'll totally owe you one if I get the job.
Time to fight some crazy rabbits now.
~WG
One of the many fun aspects of the Wii video game is that you get to design players, assign them names, and then play the game as that character. This virtual being is called a "Mii." (Pronounced mee.) Generally, you design a player than looks something like yourself, but you can also create as many other personae as you see fit.
This may border on the pathological, but look who I was yesterday evening as I played tennis...
Yes, it's "Sandra Mii"!
Losing my mind,
~WG
On Friday afternoon, despite the huge snowstorm that womped the Twin Cities, UPS delivered the Nintendo Wii console that Darren bought me for my birthday. I must share with you the embarrassing admission that muscles ache all over my body from playing Wii tennis almost non-stop since Friday. We were up until 2:30 Saturday morning playing tennis!
The game is incredibly addictive, but since Darren and I are getting physical exercise while we play, I refuse to feel guilty for playing video games nearly all weekend. The Wii Sports disk that comes with the player has five games on it: golf, boxing, bowling, baseball, and my favorite, tennis.
It's really pretty amazing--using the Wii game controller as "rackets", we can hit forehands, backhands, volleys, and serves. We can even hit topspin, slice, lobs, you name it, all by swinging the controllers like actual tennis rackets--hitting low-to-high, brushing up across the back of the ball, etc..
(Hudson has found our antics quite irritating. For the first hour we play he often growled and barked at us, because he thought we were throwing a ball he couldn't see. Now he seems to understand that napping while we play is the best solution.)
The game is always doubles, but oddly enough, if I choose, I can be on both teams, or even be all four players (if I want to induce a psychotic break combined with a coronary infarction). Darren and I have played for both teams (as it were) and we have also played together.
It seems a trifle unfair to me that I have played tennis since I was in first grade, and I even taught tennis for years as my summer job in college, but Darren (who doesn't even play outside the Wii virtual world) has had slightly better success with the game than I have. Each of us is accruing points toward becoming a "pro," and currently Darren's ahead of me. That really burns my britches.
It appears to be a disadvantage to hit my usual, fully-formed (gorgeous) groundstrokes--in this game choppy and sloppy wins the day. So I may have to compromise my tennis aesthetics a bit if I wish to climb in the rankings. (What will my dad say when he sees the way I'm rolling my wrist over on the forehand? That's NOT how I was raised.)
Dig, if you will, the picture:
Totally geeky,
~WG
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All opinions expressed on this blog, no matter how ridiculous or perverse, are solely those of the author.
