Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Raw, strong and ghetto...with a little bit of crazy

I have been in a mood lately.

I find it fun to drive home from work and pretend I'm crazy -- shooing people who get in my way, wagging my finger as if to say "nooooooo" to a child if they do something wrong, or screaming, "mooooooove!" at the top of my lungs to the bitch in front of me, chatting away on the cell phone...

No one fucks with you if they think you're crazy. It's the Big D, after all.

On another note, I may be in the process of being inducted into the Proofer Club. One proofer came up to me and told me that they're thinking of a nickname for me. That's swell. I'd like something raw, strong, ghetto, like "T-dawg" or "TJ" -- short for "tan-ja," which is a story in itself. I'll tell you anyway...I've got the time.

At my former place of employment where I was for the most part miserable, but kind of miss because I made some good friends there, one guy started calling me "tan-ja." When I asked him about it, he said, "because in Spanish, the "y" is pronounced with a "j" sound. I told him that's the reason my cousins in Mexico call me that, too. So, for short, he started with the "TJ" business and I felt all included in the Mexican cool club and stuff. God, I miss working with Hispanics.

But, I can't suggest any nicknames to the new proofers because that's not what a nickname's all about. But at the same time, I can't count on them to come up with something raw, strong and ghetto, either. I'll probably get stuck with "Faerie" or something.

I knew this guy in college who called himself "Logan," when his real name was Orlando. Totally uncool. When I asked him why "Logan," he hestitantly told me because of Wolverine from the X-men. That totally demystified the whole "Logan" thing, but I didn't ask any more questions because he was from Laredo and he could cut me.
Peace out, beetches!


Friday, August 19, 2005

Proofer talk

Yesterday I made some steps in overcoming my at-work shyness when my supervisor invited me to a "team meeting." Because I am now like a robot, I didn't realize that I am actually in a team. So I walked into the fish bowl -- I think every company's conference room is called the "fishbowl" -- and joined the nine other ladies sitting, with their attention fixed on Ms. Supervisor. "So this is my team," I thought, as I considered sitting next to the two other proofreaders.

Let me say this: I think proofreaders are universally alike in that we judge for a living and everyone who doesn't understand us, fears us because we hold the power to tell you that your work is shit and slam it down on your desk. I'm not that mean...but I have the capacity and somehow I think I'd be allowed to behave that way because everyone expects it. We're never really part of the company because we could do this job anywhere, kind of like IT people or file clerks. So we band together and judge not only your work, but everything about you.

I didn't sit next to them at the meeting -- as a part-timer, I'm not really part of their group either...hence the robotic tendencies. Yes, they're nice and helpful, but as a newcomer, I feel the hesitation on their part to let me in their elite group of feared judges.

So anyway, I quickly realized the meeting is not a meeting, but a time to dish, talk about the flooded bathrooms and people who aren't in this particular team. This is what happens when you stick 10 ladies in a room and business is stable.

The one piece of useful information I took from this meeting is that I may not be part-time forever. Ms. Supervisor said something to the effect that "she's part-time for now; but if we're lucky, we might be able to get her in full-time." That is good news -- my pocketbook is throbbing in anticipation.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Good morning, Miss Bliss

It smells like Mexico outside -- and I like that. For once it's not brutally hot this morning. And even though I'm running late, I think it's going to be a good day. Just had to share.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Boozy? Who's boozy?

Ick. It's been an icky past few days -- the weather, my mood, just everything. [Pouting like a trust fund baby who didn't get a BMW for her 16th birthday] Well, today's a new day, right?

So guess what? I've been accused of having a drinking problem. I shouldn't really care because I know myself better than anyone and those who know me best have told me in all honesty that they see it as a European thing -- not that I'm Euro or anything, but a drink after work, with dinner or breakfast (just kidding!)...not a problem in my eyes. But I guess it's enough of an issue for a "friend" to talk about it and for it to get back to my mom.

And then I think, what the fuck is wrong with people in Brownsville? Gossip reigns in the hometown and it's like there's nothing better to do than talk about people who aren't there to hold their drink high and defend themselves while expertly avoiding spilling on the carpet. Said friend is now excommunicated indefinitely. So are all toxins.

So today marks Day 3 without my "European" indulgence. I plan to make it until the end of the month. To stop the gossip...you know.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005


Yesterday, for the first time since high school, I played hookey with Big C. And it was better than I remembered.

There's something magical that happens when you throw responsibility out the window, put on your "I-don't-give-a-shit" hat and do whatever you want. It's not like I can't do that on the weekends -- it's just far more delicious when you know the rest of the world is working.

It was impromptu, really, as is the case with most "hookey" days. I woke up looking forward to a day of hanging out with my man M all day. My car was in the shop so I couldn't get to work. I come out to the living room to find Big C on the couch, curled up with an adverse reaction to the last night's fideo. So I made the shameful call to the office, clearing my throat to sound like I'd been awake for hours, drank my coffee and we watched "Good Will Hunting" on TBS.

When the movie was over, it seemed like a good idea to watch another one. So we put in "Garden State" and watched that for the 87th time. When that was over, we hit the mall.

That's where it hit me that we were reliving a moment from like, 8 years ago, when we strolled into the music store and listened to CDs on their dodgy, worn headphones and motioned to one another to "come here and listen to this!" Hearing a new song on the high-quality only a CD can give you made me sad and happy at the same time. I feel like those old people who say that nothing beats vinyl...

To keep the spirit of hookey alive, I suggested we go to the pool and drink beer, despite the dark clouds that were forming as we drove home.

The clouds won.

But we didn't give in so easily. As the storms rolled in, we sat on the balcony in our bathing suits, drank beer and laughed at all the stupid people we saw at the mall.

My magical day of hookey was complete.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Fat Kelly

When I finally do form my own band, it will be named “Fat Kelly.” If you don’t know who “Fat Kelly” is, you will soon…

There’s this lady at work who looks like Pat from SNL and asks me every day how I’m doing. Now that it’s my second week of work, I think it’s too late to ask her what her name is.

Every day when I walk to and from my car, I always feel the need to look at the humongous dog turd on the sidewalk. I want to put a note next to it that says, “damn, that’s a big turd! Congratulations, ya ridiculously lazy, obscene and SHAMELESS dog owners.” Jerks.

I wore my skinny pants yesterday.

Where’s Cameron Diaz been lately and why is her last name “Diaz”? I don't see no "nopalito" on her forehead.

We, as Americans, live in an over-worked, over-medicated, over-bitchy society. Just had to say that.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

I heart Dallas

It’s kind of like when you wake up and all of a sudden, your life is surprisingly different than it was last year.

Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel.

Most of the time, this kind of feeling comes once or twice a year: New Year’s, a birthday, etc. For me, this feeling came when I saw “August 1” and flashed back to last year, when I was working at “former-place-of-employment-where-my-dreams-were-endangered” in San Antonio and the summer was coming to a close.

I remember feeling sad that suddenly I wasn’t a part of the sun-tanned, whiny mass of leisurely folks who cried that the summer’s already ending, it went by too fast, waa, waa, waa... I sat with my like-minded counterparts, pale-skinned and jaded, and scoffed at those people – the intern who was leaving in a few weeks to go to college, the clients who occasionally strolled through the office in shorts and sandals, the joggers I passed on the street on my way into work every morning – secretly wishing I was back where I was last year, jobless, free and most importantly, tan.

Now that things have changed so quickly (new city, new apartment, new job…), I have to take a look back and thank Gaw! that I don’t wish it was last year again. You see, the truth is…

I’m happy. It may not seem like it due to the tone of this entry – you know I can be a little dramatic and overly introspective, especially on paper. Not that I’m without my little day-to-day annoyances or grievances, but yeah. Happy.

I actually like my job. It’s menial work – most of the time I stand in front of a printer or a fax machine, pushing, pulling papers and then running back to my computer – but I don’t mind it. I actually have a cube, my own computer, phone extension, e-mail address and I ride an elevator to get to and from work. It’s like the first grown-up job I’ve ever had. It seems cool now that it’s still new, but I know this novelty will wear off eventually. But for now, I’m sipping the honey-flavored beer of early occupational bliss.

And there’s a strange, wonderful balance that happens when you actually have something to do, a “job” to perform. I sit in traffic, biting my fingers in fear that the big bad cars are going to run my ass off the road, get to work, do my job, sit in that traffic again and come home to a home, where I’m greeted with a plate of fideo*, a glass of whiskey, tales of my man M's Internet job search or whatever he’s seen on the news. Then Big C comes home and the night’s events are not unlike a small hurricane. The apartment is lively, to say the least.

Fortunately, the ESPN is kept at a minimum – never underestimate a woman who grew up with an obstinate dad and brother – so the "lady parts" are still intact (scroll down, you'll see the post). Now my next mission is to get the boys to stop playing Playstation so I can catch up on “All My Children” on the ever-fabulous SoapNet.

Till next time, kids. XOXO

* Fideo is delicious. It's soupy, tomato-y and noodle-y.
** Sorry for staying away so long.