It is both flattering and disturbing to have a 14-year-old boy tell you that he thinks you're hot. Really hot. Flattering because it's nice to know that you're desirable, disturbing because he's FOURTEEN. 14! Four. Teen. In fact, it's more disturbing than flattering, which is why I won't touch him, if I ever did. I just can't do that. It's kind of cute, but I want to say "um, sweetie? Please don't. I'm old enough to be your mother! Save it for the girls your age!"
Bless his heart.
The youngest I can go with any seriousness is 21, and that's entirely dependent on the personality and maturity of the guy. I know men in their 30s who are morons, and men in their early 20s who have all the qualities I look for. I sometimes feel, however, that I've been relegated, through no conscious effort on my part, to sister, best friend, or admired-from-a-distance status. It's kind of obnoxious, but there it is.
Maybe there are good reasons I didn't end up being a high school teacher... Not that I'd ever DO anything, because I definitely wouldn't, but it's difficult knowing that teenagers are attracted to you.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
*grumble*
I don't want to go to work tomorrow, because I know it will be more of the same: People telling others they'll do something that is my job, and then not telling me until much later that I need to do the thing they just told someone they'd take care of; really terribly poor communication department-wide; no word on the department reorganization, or no word that they'll pass down to the paeons; freaky Points Woman who is always talking about how many Weight Watchers points her rice has or whatever; facilitators not listening to me and then complaining that their jobs are hard; facilitators freaking out because we're taking their site clearance from them because one or two of them have rearranged things in the past; the mess that is currently the state of the history quizzes; and, to top it all off, people assuming I know everything about the copier because I happen to share space with it.
GAH.
Ok, yeah, it's a decent job. But I need to be done. DONE. I've been on that campus either as a student or an employee for the better part of the last 14 years and I need to break that relationship off. 14 years is too long to be getting paid what they pay me.
GAH.
Ok, yeah, it's a decent job. But I need to be done. DONE. I've been on that campus either as a student or an employee for the better part of the last 14 years and I need to break that relationship off. 14 years is too long to be getting paid what they pay me.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
"Men only"? I think not!
My coworker (who shall be called Repo Boy) just mentioned (because he's in charge of food for our staff meeting today) that he doesn't cook--"if it's not steak or pop-tarts, you won't catch me touching it. If it comes in a box, I can cook it." My other coworker teased him about making us some grilled salmon, and Repo Boy said "oh, if it's grilled, I can totally cook! I'm all over that! Makes me manly."
That bugs me. Why should grilling be just for men? Why differentiate grilling and cooking? The only practical difference is the heat source. Does this take us back to the time when women were confined to the kitchen and couldn't touch anything as masculine as a barbeque grill? Spare the thought.
A few weeks ago, as I was helping get dinner ready, my dad called me to see how I was. I was standing over the grill, brushing more marinade on some chicken, checking the potatoes, and enjoying the smell of propane, flame, and cooking meat. I said, in response to his question, "I smell like a grill! I'm great!" He said "of course you are! That's a good smell!" We agreed that the only smell better than the smell of a grill is the smell of a campfire.
Now, I don't like smelling like what I'm cooking, most of the time. I have been known to hide in my room whenever someone is deep-frying something, because I don't like smelling like French fries. I don't mind smelling like whatever I'm BAKING, but cooking is a whole different matter...unless it's a grill or a campfire. Not that I'm going to wear a silk shirt while grilling, but it's a smell I really like and I'm always a little disappointed when it goes away.
I like to grill. I like playing with the different temperatures and marinades and sauces. I like knowing, almost by instinct, when a piece of meat is just about perfect. I like the grill marks. I like how a sweet marinade crusts over and sears. I like turning meat over and seeing the flames leap up. I like seeing the juice drip onto the heat source. I love the smell.
I'm also very female. And there's nothing wrong with me for liking to grill. Why should there be that kind of differentiation? Is it that men have been told for so long that women are the kitchen inhabitants and men will only break things or make a mess? Is it that women are told that grills are the specific domain of men and that we don't know what we're doing around them? Why do we put up with this? Ok, I'm not going to go off on a feminist rant, but it's a question that bothers me. Just because grills are so aggressively marketed toward men doesn't mean I should get weird looks when I want to check them out at the store. Just because kitchens are so aggressively marketed toward women doesn't mean that I'm going to give weird looks to a man who waxes profound about convection ovens. I say cooking is fun! I say EVERYONE should be invited! If I'm working the grill, so what? I'm not any worse a cook than any guy who likes to play with fire.
Now I'm hungry. Bring on the raspberry vinaigrette marinated chicken! Get out the zucchini! Unwrap the bratwurst! Let's throw some pineapple on there, too! Grilling for all! Bring your own tongs, though. I don't like to share. ;)
That bugs me. Why should grilling be just for men? Why differentiate grilling and cooking? The only practical difference is the heat source. Does this take us back to the time when women were confined to the kitchen and couldn't touch anything as masculine as a barbeque grill? Spare the thought.
A few weeks ago, as I was helping get dinner ready, my dad called me to see how I was. I was standing over the grill, brushing more marinade on some chicken, checking the potatoes, and enjoying the smell of propane, flame, and cooking meat. I said, in response to his question, "I smell like a grill! I'm great!" He said "of course you are! That's a good smell!" We agreed that the only smell better than the smell of a grill is the smell of a campfire.
Now, I don't like smelling like what I'm cooking, most of the time. I have been known to hide in my room whenever someone is deep-frying something, because I don't like smelling like French fries. I don't mind smelling like whatever I'm BAKING, but cooking is a whole different matter...unless it's a grill or a campfire. Not that I'm going to wear a silk shirt while grilling, but it's a smell I really like and I'm always a little disappointed when it goes away.
I like to grill. I like playing with the different temperatures and marinades and sauces. I like knowing, almost by instinct, when a piece of meat is just about perfect. I like the grill marks. I like how a sweet marinade crusts over and sears. I like turning meat over and seeing the flames leap up. I like seeing the juice drip onto the heat source. I love the smell.
I'm also very female. And there's nothing wrong with me for liking to grill. Why should there be that kind of differentiation? Is it that men have been told for so long that women are the kitchen inhabitants and men will only break things or make a mess? Is it that women are told that grills are the specific domain of men and that we don't know what we're doing around them? Why do we put up with this? Ok, I'm not going to go off on a feminist rant, but it's a question that bothers me. Just because grills are so aggressively marketed toward men doesn't mean I should get weird looks when I want to check them out at the store. Just because kitchens are so aggressively marketed toward women doesn't mean that I'm going to give weird looks to a man who waxes profound about convection ovens. I say cooking is fun! I say EVERYONE should be invited! If I'm working the grill, so what? I'm not any worse a cook than any guy who likes to play with fire.
Now I'm hungry. Bring on the raspberry vinaigrette marinated chicken! Get out the zucchini! Unwrap the bratwurst! Let's throw some pineapple on there, too! Grilling for all! Bring your own tongs, though. I don't like to share. ;)
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Why I Hate Shopping, Part 1: Shoes
To preface this whole thing, I must say that I've been studying the history and psychology of clothing for the last 20 years, and I have a significant amount of training as an image consultant through the Conselle Institute of Image Management. I have been a student member of the Association of Image Consultants International and my award-winning senior thesis was about how the last 200 years of women's fashion, along with biological semiotics and evolution, have contributed to the current unrealistic feminine ideal we hold so dear. So, you see, I've analyzed in depth my preferences, personal style, best colors, proportions, figure variations, and wardrobe values. It's kind of shooting yourself in the foot to know so very much about one subject that you're unable to shop without being overly critical about everything.
I've decided to start from the bottom up, so logically, shoes are first. This is a series that will either make people laugh or shake their heads in dismay at finding out so much about me, but I think it must be blogged.
When I was a kid, my knees and ankles would bang together when I ran. My parents took me to a chiropractor when I was 8 to see what the problem was. I was subsequently diagnosed as having "flexible flat feet", which meant that if I wanted to correct the overpronation that made running miserable, I'd need custom orthotics. I wore them for a few years, and eventually my feet developed lovely high arches. I inherited my mother's high instep, narrow heel, and generally long foot, and since both my parents have long toes, I got the double-whammy. I kid you not, my second toe is almost as long as my pinkie finger.
When I was 14, I finally grew out of my mother's shoes. I wore a size 9 shoe in ninth grade, and I was only about 5' 4". I hated my feet. I felt like a clown when I looked at them in my white gym shoes. I eventually grew into them and they stopped growing when I was 19, which is when I finally hit my full height. Yes, I hit that awkward stage later than most of my friends, and ended up taller than most of my tall friends. At 19, and at 5' 9" (give or take), I wore a size 10 1/2 shoe.
I spent about 11 years working on my feet either in retail or waiting tables. I've lost a toenail, gained corns, dealt with aching arches and ankles from 10-hour shifts, and rubbed out cramps from standing on a cement floor in bad shoes. I will go for comfort over style if it comes down to it.
To consolidate the previous paragraphs: I have long feet, long toes, narrow heels, high arches, and high insteps, and I have spent enough time on my feet that I really enjoy comfort, but I can't abide clunky shoes. I really don't want to make my feet look bigger than they are. Try going into a shoe store and giving someone those specifics and have them just look at you for a few seconds before saying anything. I once had someone, when I told him what size I needed, look down at my feet as if to make sure I wasn't kidding. Someone else (poor man--he tried!) could think of nothing that matched my criteria that season: not clunky, preferably a monkstrap or a mary jane to cut the length, good arch support, an adjustable buckle for my instep, and something that wouldn't slip off my heel.
Don't get me wrong, I love shoes. I love high heels and boots and sandals and even, sometimes, athletic shoes. I know a lot about the history of shoes. I have seven nearly useless pairs of shoes in my closet that I bought because they were pretty or funky. They're not suitable for much, and one pair is my wedding shoes. I'm just not going to wear those or my shoes with gold heels and rhinestones to church or work.
I hate shoe shopping because, although my feet are proportioned and well-taken-care-of, if I find a pair of shoes that fits, they're either too expensive, too clunky (do NOT want to look like Frankenstein's monster, thank you!), or cheaply made. I can't exactly afford $300 for shoes that fit perfectly, will last forever, and are finely constructed. More often than not, I end up compromising because I can't wear my Dansko sandals all year, and my feet end up unhappy. The rare times I find something comfortable, the brand changes all its styles for the new season into something I'm just not comfortable in. I don't do the pointy- or extended-toe thing, for instance--my feet really don't need to be elongated.
I hate shoe shopping because I have couture taste and a Target budget. I'll fall in love with $500 shoes and then be sad that I can't find anything like them within my budget.
I hate shoe shopping because I can't find anything I like most of the time, unlike my jerk sisters (love you!) who have average feet and can usually find something no matter where they are. I can't just walk into a store and be confronted with cute shoes in my size.
I hate shoe shopping because I don't have wide feet (I'm glad I don't have wide feet) and it seems that as shoe sizes go up, so do widths.
I hate shoe shopping because sizing above, say, a 9, gets arbitrary. I can wear anything between a 9.5 and an 11 depending entirely on the brand and style. It would be so nice if I knew for sure that I could go anywhere and wear a 10. As it is, I've had to memorize exactly what size I am in different brands and styles. It's good that I can retain that information.
On the other hand, I love my feet. I really do. They're exactly right. I love it when I can find the perfect shoes. I love eBay and the Internet. I love Dansko, Merrell, Nine West, and Steve Madden for carrying lovely shoes I know for sure will fit. I love not having the exact same shoes as all my friends. I wouldn't ever trade a smaller foot size for a few inches less in height. I generally have a humorous, if not entirely good, attitude about shoe shopping, which keeps me from getting too scowly. I've learned not to fall in love with a shoe until I know I can find it in my size. I've worked through a lot of my issues about my feet, and I no longer feel like a clown when I look at them...unless I'm wearing the bright pink flats I wore in "Seussical: The Musical", but those make me feel like a happy clown because I loved that show so much.
It's all good, really. I don't have HUGE feet or crooked feet or diseased or crippled or ugly feet. It just takes me three times as long to find shoes I like...
I've decided to start from the bottom up, so logically, shoes are first. This is a series that will either make people laugh or shake their heads in dismay at finding out so much about me, but I think it must be blogged.
When I was a kid, my knees and ankles would bang together when I ran. My parents took me to a chiropractor when I was 8 to see what the problem was. I was subsequently diagnosed as having "flexible flat feet", which meant that if I wanted to correct the overpronation that made running miserable, I'd need custom orthotics. I wore them for a few years, and eventually my feet developed lovely high arches. I inherited my mother's high instep, narrow heel, and generally long foot, and since both my parents have long toes, I got the double-whammy. I kid you not, my second toe is almost as long as my pinkie finger.
When I was 14, I finally grew out of my mother's shoes. I wore a size 9 shoe in ninth grade, and I was only about 5' 4". I hated my feet. I felt like a clown when I looked at them in my white gym shoes. I eventually grew into them and they stopped growing when I was 19, which is when I finally hit my full height. Yes, I hit that awkward stage later than most of my friends, and ended up taller than most of my tall friends. At 19, and at 5' 9" (give or take), I wore a size 10 1/2 shoe.
I spent about 11 years working on my feet either in retail or waiting tables. I've lost a toenail, gained corns, dealt with aching arches and ankles from 10-hour shifts, and rubbed out cramps from standing on a cement floor in bad shoes. I will go for comfort over style if it comes down to it.
To consolidate the previous paragraphs: I have long feet, long toes, narrow heels, high arches, and high insteps, and I have spent enough time on my feet that I really enjoy comfort, but I can't abide clunky shoes. I really don't want to make my feet look bigger than they are. Try going into a shoe store and giving someone those specifics and have them just look at you for a few seconds before saying anything. I once had someone, when I told him what size I needed, look down at my feet as if to make sure I wasn't kidding. Someone else (poor man--he tried!) could think of nothing that matched my criteria that season: not clunky, preferably a monkstrap or a mary jane to cut the length, good arch support, an adjustable buckle for my instep, and something that wouldn't slip off my heel.
Don't get me wrong, I love shoes. I love high heels and boots and sandals and even, sometimes, athletic shoes. I know a lot about the history of shoes. I have seven nearly useless pairs of shoes in my closet that I bought because they were pretty or funky. They're not suitable for much, and one pair is my wedding shoes. I'm just not going to wear those or my shoes with gold heels and rhinestones to church or work.
I hate shoe shopping because, although my feet are proportioned and well-taken-care-of, if I find a pair of shoes that fits, they're either too expensive, too clunky (do NOT want to look like Frankenstein's monster, thank you!), or cheaply made. I can't exactly afford $300 for shoes that fit perfectly, will last forever, and are finely constructed. More often than not, I end up compromising because I can't wear my Dansko sandals all year, and my feet end up unhappy. The rare times I find something comfortable, the brand changes all its styles for the new season into something I'm just not comfortable in. I don't do the pointy- or extended-toe thing, for instance--my feet really don't need to be elongated.
I hate shoe shopping because I have couture taste and a Target budget. I'll fall in love with $500 shoes and then be sad that I can't find anything like them within my budget.
I hate shoe shopping because I can't find anything I like most of the time, unlike my jerk sisters (love you!) who have average feet and can usually find something no matter where they are. I can't just walk into a store and be confronted with cute shoes in my size.
I hate shoe shopping because I don't have wide feet (I'm glad I don't have wide feet) and it seems that as shoe sizes go up, so do widths.
I hate shoe shopping because sizing above, say, a 9, gets arbitrary. I can wear anything between a 9.5 and an 11 depending entirely on the brand and style. It would be so nice if I knew for sure that I could go anywhere and wear a 10. As it is, I've had to memorize exactly what size I am in different brands and styles. It's good that I can retain that information.
On the other hand, I love my feet. I really do. They're exactly right. I love it when I can find the perfect shoes. I love eBay and the Internet. I love Dansko, Merrell, Nine West, and Steve Madden for carrying lovely shoes I know for sure will fit. I love not having the exact same shoes as all my friends. I wouldn't ever trade a smaller foot size for a few inches less in height. I generally have a humorous, if not entirely good, attitude about shoe shopping, which keeps me from getting too scowly. I've learned not to fall in love with a shoe until I know I can find it in my size. I've worked through a lot of my issues about my feet, and I no longer feel like a clown when I look at them...unless I'm wearing the bright pink flats I wore in "Seussical: The Musical", but those make me feel like a happy clown because I loved that show so much.
It's all good, really. I don't have HUGE feet or crooked feet or diseased or crippled or ugly feet. It just takes me three times as long to find shoes I like...
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Why I Hate Shopping
Yes, I am finally blogging about something that's been bouncing off the inside of my skull for the last year or so. Part of the inspiration for this is my ex-fiance, and part of it is several bouts of deep introspection in an effort to understand my neuroses.
More to come...
More to come...
Monday, June 11, 2007
Finally gave in
and started on blogspot/blogger/whatever. I won't post everything here, but it's good for me to have several places in which to rant. Means I can divide 'em up or something.
Anyway. You can also find me at www.heidiaphrodite.com.
The end.
Anyway. You can also find me at www.heidiaphrodite.com.
The end.
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