The Tyranny of Fashion

After tidying up the house this morning (I blame Luna, honestly), doing the dishes, and making my bed for the first time in days, I turned to the giant pile of ironing and let out an audible sigh. While I recognize I am no fashion plate (shocker), and that women have it way worse when it comes to expectations about what to wear in general, I still want to know who decided centuries ago that I have to iron. Why. Why do we iron our clothes?


They just get immediately wrinkled while you wear them.

It just seems so pointless. Does it look “better” than wrinkly clothes? According to whom? And what about linen? That’s supposed to be wrinkled. That’s linen’s job. And if I don’t iron the sleeves of the shirts I wear to work, but roll them up, does that mean I’m just “phoning it in”? I am confident that I would do just as good a job (or better) during the week if I could just wear army pants and flip flops.


Mean Girls is on point here, no?

And what the hell is it with suits? They’re expensive, and hot, and require dry cleaning, which from what I understand uses more toxic chemicals to get the job done than McDonald’s does to make a Big Mac. And TIES?! If you think about it, they’re just little noose knots that I am forced to wear to formal events where I will inevitably piss someone off with my inability to be politically correct. Which just means I am giving them ideas on how to throttle me.


And don’t get me started on bow ties.

So today, I’m rocking the bandana, a pair of ripped jeans, and the most wrinkly shirt I had in the closet. I’ve done enough ironing to get me through the next two weeks, but truth be told, I’d be just as happy to never have to iron again. So, to the Anna Wintours and Karl Lagerfelds out there, please. Heed my plea. Figure out a way to design clothes that I can take out of a drawer, throw on, and be work- and event-ready. I’d appreciate it.


And not this. Just no. Never, never this.

Until next time, stay classy (and comfortable) Salt Lake.

Davey The Volcano

My coworker/buddy/occasional house sitter has… a way with words. When he isn’t keeping two non-profits running as smoothly as possible, he’s a writer. In fact, he’s leaving us at the end of August to get his master’s degree overseas in creative writing. He also, coincidentally, doesn’t suffer fools. At all. I mean, I get irritated with poor customer service, but Davey?


You piss him off and he erupts.

Our postal machine, like everything else in the office this week, was broken. However, it was because the company that we contract with came and “serviced” the machine, and broke it. So Davey called to rectify the problem. One of the more memorable quotes from that conversation included: “Well, no… Nope… Not true… Yes you did… Because it was fine, and then you came to ‘clean’ it, and now it’s broke. And I didn’t break it. So how did you NOT break it?”


Things deteriorated from there.

When the technician never showed up (not good), they called to say they were going to overnight a new machine. Good. Progress. This was Wednesday…. and it arrived this morning. So they have, apparently, a different definition of “overnight.” Davey began setting up the machine, swearing loudly, and called technical support because the new machine wasn’t working. Because they sent us one that was broken.


This is when things got loud.

They couldn’t get us a technician (at first) until Monday. Davey went nuclear. Most of the things he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone are not repeatable. Much later, I heard him respond to the representative with, “I mean, I’ve already spent over an hour talking to you, who won’t fix my problem that you created, what’s another five minutes on hold?” When the supervisor promised a technician would be in between noon and 5pm, he slammed down the phone and proceeded to tell us about how that technician was a sham. And, low and behold, they never showed.


This is when things got real.

Davey first called their corporate office to lodge a formal complaint with the director of customer loyalty, and reported it to the BBB. I had to spot edit it to make sure they didn’t call the police or bomb squad. Remind me to never get on his bad side. So if you ever need someone to rip a company a new one, let me know. Just don’t piss him off. Ever.


Oh Davey. You wouldn’t know you were vicious in this picture.

Stay classy (and don’t break Davey’s stuff) Salt Lake.


The Great Flood

As you are all aware, or will be soon if you finish reading this, my Sunday morning didn’t start well. See previous rant. But the rest of the day went well. I went to bed early (and really, really sore, I need to work on that whole “exercise” thing), and was about to doze off when my phone chirped. It being close to ten, which is late for me, I almost didn’t check it. But for some reason I did. Which is good.


Because had I not, I would have gone to work not ready for this.

There was some sort of water explosion in my office building this weekend. We were lucky; we’re on the second floor and the great flood hit the basement pretty hard. Which meant no water. Or power. So, my boss let us know that we would need to work from home, and that we would make do. Which we did. I drove up to work, grabbed my computer, unplugged everything so that nothing would explode when the power was restored, and opened all of the windows. Because it’s 1000 degrees outside and water + drywall = nasty smell.


Not as bad as the Bog of Eternal Stench, but still.

So working from home is awesome, but a mixed bag. Pro = working in your pajamas, and being able to read articles while making casseroles. Con = no access to the server, limiting what I could do in a given day. Pro = conference calls, again, in pajamas. Con = my craptastic phone dropping calls like that old rap song. Or was it hip hop?


Drop it like it’s hotttt.

But apparently we might get to move back in officially tomorrow, and I am weirdly excited about it. Working from home has been great, but there’s something to be said for having a work/life balance. And my work computer is… special. I look forward to its return to our office so I can watch Hulu on my laptop.

Until next time, stay classy (and dry) Salt Lake.

Sometimes People are Bastards

While I know the people I am talking about are never going to see this post, I figured 1) I like to write out my frustrations to get over them, 2) I figured my friends would be able to empathize, and 4) it’s my flipping BLERG and I can do what I want!


It’s a Cartman kind of day.

To the bastards that decided to rip up my garden plot for absolutely no apparent reason, you are terrible. You have no redeeming qualities. Beth and I worked really hard on building raised boxes, hauling in dirt, improving the soil, and making sure it was cool with the property owners that we could use the space. We planted tomatoes, squash, the whole nine yards. I had just planted a cucumber that I was pumped about. I’m impressed, frankly, that you did so much damage in the five minutes between me leaving the garden and Beth and me walking back to check it out. You really, really let out your inner bastard.


Because you are a terrible person.

What was the purpose of tearing up a garden plot? Do you resent people who want to eat fresh vegetables, to meet their neighbors and foster a greater sense of community between older and younger people? Are you a resident of Graystone who is dead set against us having a garden, and decided to vandalize property adjacent to but not on the grounds because you’re bitter about your shitty life? Or were you just in a bad mood and decided to ruin other people’s day because misery loves company?


Or it could be all of the above, you being a d-bag and all.

So thanks for screwing my morning. I had planned on using that time to clean the house and make some casseroles for a dear friend with a serious illness, but it was much more fun to replant things you ripped out across the street in the planter that is more visible. Luckily, unlike you, there are decent people in this neighborhood that are willing (HEAVENS FORBID) to let me grow a damned tomato plant. With less space, though, I doubt I’ll have enough to can food this year to give gifts to some of the elderly frail people here at Graystone, who were looking forward to it after last year’s bounty.


Congrats on dicking over the elderly. An extra bonus for you, I’m sure.

So you win; you are officially a bastard. Which is something you can’t really grow out of. I may be a pain sometimes, but that’s temporary. You now officially get to stare at empty planter boxes that could have been used to grow fresh, healthy food for me and my neighbors. Go you. I’m just grateful that there are still good, decent people in this neighborhood that we were able to rely on. That said, if you touch my veggies again, and I’m around to see you do it, expect things to get ugly. Fast.

Until next time, stay CLASSY (and for crying out loud, be kinder to one another) Salt Lake.

Kiss the Day Goodbye

It’s been ages (literally) since I had a Saturday to myself. Granted, I’ve overextended myself tomorrow (church, moving a complete stranger from house to house, cooking a bunch of casseroles for friends), but today was beyond relaxing. I woke up at the break of dawn, and contemplated laying in bed for another hour, but figured, you know what? I deserve an omelet, dammit, and to hell with anyone who casts their noses down on people rocking the “party of one.”

PofF copy

It was 7:45am. Get over yourselves.

So I rocked the Blue Plate solo. I read a book and went shopping (again, Big G is going to punch me in the face). And then I couched, spent some time with an old friend over coffee, and came home to a crazy cat. The house, after such an early rising, was relatively clean. And I was happy about that, because the last thing I wanted to do after some amazing coffee and a good book was folding laundry and making the bed.


Where the hell is my butler? Seriously?

So I am mellow. I got to talk with my folks, and some of my sibs, and I am a happy camper. I also managed to volunteer to help someone I don’t know move tomorrow (Thanks to A.Moore!), but I figure it was good karma. Considering the small army that I had to help me, it’s paying it forward, no?


Nobody wants this invitation. Nobody.

So I am long-winded. Big surprise. Tomorrow will be long, but totally worth it. Being good to people is kind of awesome in my opinion. In the meantime, stay classy (and don’t overextend yourself) Salt Lake!

She Blinded Me with Science

The irony is not lost on me as I think about the last few months and the fact that I’ve learned more about genetics since March than I had prior (in all of my existence). Truth be told, I wasn’t ever a science whiz, but we had established a decent relationship. I never set a fire in chem, for example. I’ll call that a win. That being said, when I went into the world of poverty non-profit work, I thought that the world of academia and higher level scientific learning were behind me.


I was wrong. Just, wrong.

The channelopathies (yes, this is a word, and it is spelled correctly) that my kids and families tend to have genetic markers. Which has meant that I’ve had to revisit a world that brings letters and numbers together again. Something that algebra did. Which ruined math for me forever. But I guess I’m getting used to it, considering how many times I said KCNE1 today. It’s surreal that my path has led this way, as I am the only person in my immediate family that didn’t end up working in the scientific industry.

Dupont sign

Oh DuPont. We have such a complicated relationship.

So I will be having to brush off the old textbooks and learn more, because it’s part of my job now. And it is interesting, admittedly. Just strange. Ten years ago I was itching to be a college professor in psychology, and now I’m learning about genetic sequencing and who does testing nationally/internationally for genetically rare diseases. Who knows, Dad, you may have another budding scientist in the family after all.


Though I still can’t “math.” Thanks to Davey for that.

Until next time, stay classy Salt Lake.

The Old Days

I won’t bother you with the sordid (or in my case, mostly not-so-sordid) details of my trip back to the good ole VC. Suffice it to say that I had an incredible time seeing old friends, colleagues, professors, the list goes on and on. The one thing that truly struck me, though, was that, ten years later, while there were a lot of things that have changed, there were a lot of things that haven’t. Like my relationship to memories that I hold incredibly fondly.


Like feeling completely at home a decade later.

This isn’t to say that being “home” didn’t have its pratfalls. Sleeping on an incredibly squeaky extra-long twin bed (alone, thank you very much) was not necessarily a highlight. Nor was the realization that there are new rules that I would have been livid about having not had to live by them during my time as a college student. For instance, how do you have an on-campus “bar” that doesn’t serve alcohol? Why do you still call it a bar?


Where everybody knows your naaaaame…

And while I may be getting addled, I still have a decent memory. I caught up with the Director of Buildings and Grounds who I nagged into giving my building bike racks (the irony). I got to speak with the newest President about the queer prom we used to hold when she was leaving the LGBT alumni/ae get-together. I had breakfast with the man in charge of one of the dining halls who happened to be around Saturday morning before the parade. I felt like, while definitely older (watch it), that I had left yesterday.


Even 32-year-olds appreciate the old playground equipment.

I am happy to be back at Castle Graystone with a cat that happens to have a personality disorder. I am even happier that I went back to visit. I am grateful for the experience, for the time with old friends who took the reigns when it came to planning. For not worrying about the hot water bill while taking a scalding shower the morning that I left surreptitiously, knowing that if I didn’t leave before everyone woke up that I was likely to burst into tears.


I still miss you, Blodgett.

To be sentimental (don’t worry, the snark will return tomorrow), I’m grateful that for four glorious years, I was fortunate enough to meet incredible people who still smile when they see me. Who still laugh at my terrible jokes and forgive me my flaws. That is something that, no matter what, I will always have.

In the meantime, stay classy (and appreciate what you have) Salt Lake.