When consciousness is too hard

Are smelling salts still a thing? Because I think it's time for me to invest.

Tonight, I passed out for the...well, at least the fourth time. Is it bad that I can't remember how many times I've passed out? It happens kind of a lot. I thought I was over it, but apparently not.

At least I've passed out (fainted? swooned? had a fit of the vapors?) in a variety of interesting places. Tonight, we can add a boxing gym to a list that already includes 8th grade shop class, a London theater, and the Gap. To be more specific, two hours in to my first shift as a clothes bitch at the Gap.

There are lots of reasons why I pass out. The primary one is my dumbass thyroid which caused a lot of hell for a couple of years, though the twenty pound weight loss was nice (and scary). Tonight was a combo of that, and unfortunately, TMI ALERT! the first day of being on my period.

My fucking uterus was the problem at the Gap too. I had a couple of cramps, next thing I knew everything was fuzzy, and it looked like there was an abortion in my pants.

I'm sorry, that grossed even me out a little bit. Blame the fainting fit from earlier.

But you know, I've actually gotten pretty good at passing out. I mean, I warn people. At the London theater, I was with a girl I barely knew but when I felt my vision getting blurry I said, "I'm sorry Laurel, but I'm going to pass out now." I'm super polite. So tonight, I knew it was coming, got off the treadmill and had the trainer walk me to a seat where I could recover. I don't think I completely passed out (mainly because I don't remember waking up) but it was touch and go for a while. The most awkward part came after I had recovered a little bit. I had a water bottle in one hand, the other was holding an ice pack to my neck. And a one-armed man wanted to shake hands. It just wasn't happening.

But they were all super nice, and I assured them I would come back for a proper workout. But I won't. If there's anything I've learned from passing out, it's never return to the scene of the crime.

In which I rant, Part 2

So, fun fact. Or at least a vaguely interesting fact. I'm kind of an etiquette geek. I own a first edition of Emily Post's "Etiquette" and I have a whole separate "Advice" folder in my Google Reader. Local columnist Robin Abrahams aka Miss Conduct is by far my fave, while Dear Prudence is often borderline offensive but responds to such ridiculous situations that I can't help but read it. And Dan Savage is, of course, the shit. Love him.

Now, this is not to say that I'm a classy gal who automatically knows the right thing to say in every situation, or who can set a table for twenty in ten minutes. I'm definitely a little socially awkward, and if I had twenty people over, trust me, there'd be nothing besides a bag of chips and a cooler of beer. I just dig the advice columnists.

However, I DO think that people are owed some basic courtesy, and no group of people deserve more courtesy than people who work in customer service, the food industry, or any other field serving the public. They - oh, who are we kidding, this is totes personal - WE are the ones who serve your food, make your coffee the way you like it, don't raise our voices when you're swearing at us, and generally bust OUR asses to make YOUR life a little easier. I don't care that you drive a Lexus or make 200k a year, you quite obviously need my help. If you didn't, you wouldn't be calling my customer support line. And I CAN help you. I actually WANT to. I like my company, and I will gladly explain all of your policies and rules all the livelong day if that's what you want.

But at the end of the call, when I say "Thanks for calling, have a great day!" do you know what your response should be? "Thank you." Or, if you're feeling generous, "Thanks, you too." You should not say "Oh, I will," "Yeah, right," "No thanks to you," any type of grunting noise, or worst of all "Whatever." Really Mr Surgeon? That's your comeback? "Whatever"? Well, yeah, I went to middle school too, and let me tell you, you are a loser loser DOUBLE loser, as if, whatever, get the picture, duh. (Complete with hand motions!)

I don't know why this galls me so much. People are seriously horrible to me sometimes, but being told to go fuck myself really doesn't piss me off as much as telling someone something nice and then having them scoff. It's like when I tell someone I like their dress and they say "Oh, I think it makes me look fat." I mean, for fuck's sake, just accept a compliment you know?

And yes, people who actually work in the industry should be nice and polite also. I'm talking to you, bitch at Panera. Telling your customer "Don't look at me like that, grumpy!" is not endearing, it's annoying and will not get you a tip.

LOST and Harry Potter, or, I'm a wicked big geek.

So, did you know that literary sensation Harry Potter and television sensation Lost are EXACTLY THE SAME THING?!

You didn't?? Well, neither did I until I drank a little too much wine before the usual Tuesday night tradition of squeeing over Lost. Squeeing, or yelling at the writers. Or crying. Or all three. I mean, what the fuck. Sun and Jin?? What a terrible, heartbreaking and awesome scene. I mean, Jin was on my "Characters I want to survive the whole series" list. Yes, that was an actual list. And it happened when I was reading Harry Potter too. Obvi, Dumbledore had to die at some point. And at least one of the Weasleys, because that's just statistics. But no matter what, Ron and Hermione had to live. Harry was expendable. No offense mate.

See? First similarity right there. Weird list making. And blog posting....anywhoodle.

The thing is, they really do follow the same similar story arc. Our hero (Harry/Jack/other character who is way cooler than either of these guys) is flung into an unfamilar world (Hogwarts/The Island) where things are not quite as they seem (Voldemort and Death Eaters/The Others, Smokey, all that weird shit). In the end, a battle is fought between good and evil (Jacob/Jack vs The Man in Black/Locke). Since Lost hasn't ended, I can't say for certain, but let's assume that in the end, Good wins out. Tada, they're the same thing!

What? That's the plot of like, everything ever?
Sigh. Fine. Let's continue.

As Maria once said, let's start at the very beginning. Season One, Book One.

Oceanic flight 815 lands on Craphole Island, and suddenly Jack is thrown into the role of hero. Everyone expects him to be making decisions, which he does. He's kinda of a tool, but people seem to like him. When Harry discovers he's a Wizard and gets to Hogwarts, he finds out that he's actually super-famous. He's the JoBro of the Wizarding world. People think he's a hero. Neither Jack or Harry wanted to be a hero, but they end up fulfilling that destiny. Like all heros, they have adversaries. Jack finds himself up against Locke, and ocassionally Sawyer neither who like the way he's running things. Professor Snape hates Harry (for a multitude of reasons) but especially hates his little hero persona. If I was a geek, I'd throw some quotes in here as reference, but I am clearly too cool for that.

There are some other characters in there as well. Fred and George and Hurley are pretty good at providing comic relief and (spoiler alert!) end up becoming pretty important characters. Everyone, especially Boone, seem to hate Shannon but eventually we know it's just because he loves her and after that stupid French translation, she was almost useful sometimes. Oh hai Hermione and the troll! Hermione also was a totes stuck up bitch, but eventually she grew on us, and people loved her. Including Sayid. No, wait. He loved Shannon. They're so similar I'm getting confused!

In the first season of Lost, we find out that the camp has been infiltrated by an Other, Ethan. He seemed like a good dude, who just occasionally smelled like Garlic...what up Quirrell! No one suspected him until Hurley found out that he wasn't on the manifest/The Dark Lord popped out the back of his head. But after his terrible act of kidnapping Claire/trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone (Yes, I'm using the Brit wording so I sound more legit) he got his comeuppance and was killed. Vegence is beautiful!

Oh, and we found out that everyone has daddy issues. Yes Harry, that means you too. Jack and Harry, your dads are dead. Just...let it go, okay?

(to be continued...)

Post in which I rant

I love my job. I really, really, do. I'm the rare and lucky chick who got an fantastic job right out of college with benefits, decent pay, awesome coworkers and free coffee.

Can you tell that I'm trying to convince myself that I love it?

The problem with my job is that I have to talk to PEOPLE. And, I kinda hate people. I'm not bad at being perky when necessary, but there are just so many dumbasses in the world, and I get to talk to them all. I've been here for almost three years, so I'm used to it. But sometimes, like today, I find myself ending every call with a muttered "fucking dumbass cocksucker." And hope that my previously mentioned awesome coworkers don't hear me.

People from New Jersey are the fucking worst. I know plenty of lovely people from the dirty Jerz, but they know how to say words correctly. And -

-okay, have to interrupt myself. I was just on the phone with a customer. AND HE CALLED ME FUCKING MACOLE. People of the Universe, Macole is not a fucking name. It's just not. My name is Nichole, which is seriously one of the most common names in the world. How do you fuck that up? And it happens all the time. I get called Macole on at least a weekly basis. And no, I am not just pronouncing my name wrong. I checked.

And now I forget where I was going with people from Jersey. Basically they suck. As do people who don't speak English. And people who pretend to be British. And Canadians. Oh God, Canadians.

Why is it not six o'clock yet?

La post nasal drip

I used to think I was one of those people who never got sick. Or when I did get sick, it was with horrible, possibly life-long conditions like a spinal tumor or Grave's Disease. (True story)

But the past month or so has definitely proven that I'm as suscepitble to nasty colds and sicknesses as any one else. On Valentine's Day I was puking my brains out, last weekend was the horrible cold, and now, I have NO VOICE.

It's very frustrating because I essentially never shut up. I think people around me appreciate it though.

Beastie girl

I've decided that most of personality can be summed up by two sixth grade yearbook signatures:

Beast, have a good summer.

and

Do you think you read enough?

I'm a geeky Beast, and I embrace that.

Weirdly enough, I recently saw that Beast guy is on facebook. I'd friend him, but there's a reason he called me Beast, and I'm pretty sure it's 'cause I was a bitch. And possibly caused him to bleed. And chased him around the playground with flowers because he was allerigic to pollen.

Ah, childhood.

Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful

I know this isn't going to earn me any sympathy. It never has.

But I don't get zits.

And I do absolutely nothing to prevent them. I don't moisturize, or use face masks, or even wash my face. Every once in a while, I think I should start using that crap. Maybe it could make me prettier or whatever the commercials say. But I'm too lazy. I'm pretty sure I had some trouble with my T Zone during that whole puberty fiasco, but other than the occasional pimple, I have awesome skin.

But the thing is, since it almost never happens, when I DO get zits, it's like the fucking apocalypse on my face. I HATE it. Hideous red splotchy things. I'd feel bad for all you poor bastards with acne, but I'm freaking out over here.

And most of the time when I get zits, they are in SUPER OBVIOUS places. Right now, I have two on my forehead. One over each eye. Those plus my glasses make me some kind of six eyed weirdo. I'd take a picture, but I'm too hideous. Here's an approximation:

:shudder:

--

All right, confession. I wrote this like, a week ago, and when I woke up the next morning, my zits we gone. I know. My life is tough.

Also, although most people in the world will say that I look nothing like Evangeline Lilly one of those celebrety face matching thingymabobbers once said I did 'cause we both had side parts. Suck it, World.

Oh, and I realized last night for like the thousandth time that I'm a huge dork when I compared the Lost story arc to Harry Potter. But it's legit. For reals.

Oh, work.

My job is fab. But sometimes I wonder if I'm too close with my coworkers.

Coworker: I really like your outfit today.

Me: Thanks!

Coworker: Are you wearing your control top nylons?

Me: ....

Coworker: ....

Me: Yes.

The one where I make a fool of myself.

So we had a potential client visiting my office today. We're a pretty small company, and normally only interviews and salespeople come into our office. So this was a pretty big deal. I'm not high up or anything, so I wasn't supposed to be talking with them directly. Mainly, I just take customer support calls. But this company is like, uber paranoid about customer support, so they wanted to stand in my cube and listen to me take calls, and have me explain some typical calls we get.

Listen, I did a badass job at it. Chatted up the system, was friendly, all that happy sales-y horseshit. I was even wearing a suit jacket, which I haven't done since my job interview three years ago.

Unfortunately, after they left my cube, I looked down and realized my button down shirt had burst open due to my massive breasts (HA) and since they were standing up while I was sitting, they had a clear view down my tank top to my shiny blue bra.
Fuck.

Story of my life. Okay, no, not really, but I'm generally klutzy and make awkward comments and weird social faux paus. It's awesome.

That is all.

Roses are red...etc.

When I was in high school, I really wanted to be one of those punk, I just don't give a damn type of girls. I tried. Black clothes, baggy jeans, approximately ten jillion stupid rubber bracelets. It worked a little; I've always been kind of a smart-ass, I liked (gulp) Godsmack, and it was high school, so it's not like I was ever going to be totally happy. I had a pair of black boots that I freaking loved; my mom called them my shitkicker boots. I still have them in my closet at my parents house, because even when the sole split I just covered it with duct tape and kept wearing them.

The first time the sole split, I was walking home with my boyfriend at the time, and it was raining. My foot started to get wet, so he gave me a piggyback ride the last few blocks home. It was the romantic highlight of my life up to that point, which I think shows just how romantic my life was. He was a decent guy who thought he looked like Scott Stapp. (He didn't)* But we were not destined to be. He was actually destined to be with Claudia, my BFF from elementary school. Scott and Claudia met at my 16th birthday party. Scott and I were still dating at that point, but we broke up in February and a few weeks later, he asked out Claudia. They've been together ever since** Eight years people. That's fucking crazy. I don't talk to either of them (not a spiteful way, we just fell out of touch) but it's nice knowing that I'm some part of their story.

Oh, this is making me sound like a romantic, isn't it? Let's backtrack to punky shitkicking me. Scott Stapp and I broke up probably a few days before Valentine's Day. And my friends asked me, why don't you wait until after Valentine's Day? I guess they thought I wanted they typical Valentine's Day romance...dinner, candy blah blah blah. But it honestly didn't even cross my mind that I was dumping my boyfriend a few days before Valentine's Day. Because I really did. not. care. about that holiday. Or Scott, at that point. Sorry buddy.

I know, everyone says they don't care about Valentine's Day. It's like a rite of passage, to hate the commercialism of the holiday. It's probably the one holiday it's cool to hate. No one really likes it, do that?

Well, Boyfriend does. Now, I'm not complaining that I have a super nice boyfriend who likes to buy me presents and go out to dinner for romantic holidays. But...I am. Look, I like chocolate and wine and food. Who doesn't? It just seems so unnecessary. It's forced. I HAVE to buy him a card and I HAVE to be all lovey dovey and we HAVE to go out to dinner. I like buying things impulsively, or to celebrate a birthday, or special occasion. One night, I was being super crabby, so the next day I brought home a bottle of wine called BITCH as an apology. When I give a photo as a present, I always write the occasion and date on the back, so even if he doesn't see it for years, it's always there. My favorite nights are the ones where we're out out for hours, for no real reason, and I always end up learning something new about him. I don't need any candy hearts for that mushy shit.

Ugh, crap. Is this going to turn into one of those things where I try to be all snarky, but then end up learning the DEEP MEANING behind things? Why I should love Valentine's Day, and why it's important? Because that really wasn't the point.

I am a BAMF with no use for this holiday, mmkay?
(But maybe I'm looking forward to the chocolate)

*Actually, he kind of does!
**Yes, I doublechecked on Facebook to confirm this. What of it?

Zumba!

So last night was my first attempt at Zumba. Apparently, it's all the rage and despite my aversion to working out, it's supposed to be a lot of fun, so I went down to the YMCA, got my hand stamped, and Zumba-ed.

If you don't know, Zumba is a combination of different dances - hiphop, salsa, some other weird stuff. According to the official Zumba website, The Zumba® program fuses hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy-to-follow moves to create a one-of-a-kind fitness program that will blow you away. Well, I wouldn't go straight to blown away.

I read somewhere that you don't know how to dance to be good at Zumba. This is a lie. You know that song "Cha Cha Slide"? It's pretty simple, you slide to the left, slide to the right, at some point everybody claps their hands. But there's one part that always confused me, where you're instrcuted to cha-cha, real smooth ya'll. And you kind step front to back and try to shake your hips, and wait until the instructions are more clean cut.

That's how I felt most of Zumba. There were some parts I could follow - when everybody was kicking, or turning in circles. But most of the time I just felt like I was shaking my hips and hoping for the best. And honestly, I'm not very good at shaking my hips.

I don't think it helped that in a class of about 60, I was in the back row. I could barely see the perky blonde instructer. I could hear her, because she had a mic, and she kept encouraging people to whoop in a excited, Latin dancing type of way. This to me felt more akward than the hip/boob shaking.

Also, there was like a 75 year old woman who was kicking my ass. I felt pretty shitty about this at first, until I realized that when she tried to shake her ass, EVERYTHING on her shook. Not because she was...er, hefty, but because there was just a LOT of loose skin flapping around. For about a nanosecond I felt good about my firm, young person skin. But then I realized that unless I keep working out, eventually I would turn into that lady, except with less rhythm.

So to sum up - Zumba is a little fun, a lot bad for my self-esteem, and I'll be back in class on Saturday.

You have some...Artz on you

LOST last night. It blew. My. Mind.

Okay, just the first five minutes did. And Desmond on the plane did. Otherwise it was just a solid two hours of television.

I think the Dharma wine/beer/fish biscuits helped.

goedemorgen!

When I studied abroad in London my junior year of college, I spent a weekend in Amsterdam with some friends. It was pretty much exactly what you would expect a bunch of 20 year olds in Amsterdam would be like. We went to a couple of musuems and smoked a ton of pot.

Our first day there, we had a tour of the city, led by a little old Dutch lady. She was fabulous, and everyone wanted to take her home and have her be their grandma. She gave good advice - "Don't buy crack off the street, just buy weed" and told stories about hookers (a man who had a heart attack with his regular hooker and she had to call his wife to tell him). And over and over she would tell us, "ja, it is true!" As if we ever doubted her.

Oh yeah, and we actually lost our bus driver at some point because he kept going into the whorehouses. He was a little sketchy.

So the point of the story is that we loved the Dutch. And now I've decided to learn the language.

I bought a Pimsleur audio course thingy which I can listed to in my car. I've done two discs so far, and can say "Spreekt u Engels?" (do you speak english?) and "Ik spreek geen Nederlands" (I don't speak Dutch) So....that's going to get me far.

But what really annoys me about these CDs is that they keep giving me false hope. I have to have fake conversations with Dutch people. It goes something like this:

Pardon mevrouw

--goedemorgen meneer

Spreekt u Engels?

--Ja, ik spreek engels.

And at this point, I get wicked excited, because awesome! Dutch lady speaks English and I can forget this whole speaking in Naderlands thing. But no, that's not what Pimsleur wants me to do.

Ik Amerikaanse (I'm American...like she cares)

--Je spreekt zeer goed Nederlands (You speak very good Dutch...LIES WOMAN. My Dutch is terrible, and I keep spitting.)

Dank u (Thank you. And this is probably my favorite thing to say so far in Dutch, even though it makes me feel like a four year old. It's like English baby talk.)

--Tot ziens meneer. (Good bye sir.)

And that's it. It's pretty fucking fascinating, I know.

But the Puppy Bowl is on now, so I need to focus on watching that. Because it is 8:30 on a Saturday morning and I have nothing better to do.

Oh Celebs

I love this photo, blantantly stolen from boston.com.

Dakota Fanning: What the hell K Stew?

Kristen Stewart: Shut up.

Dakota Fanning: Why are you even HERE? You know this is Sundance, right? I mean, you know what that is?

Kristen Stewart: Shut up.

Dakota Fanning: You look miserable, like always.

Kristen Stewart: Shut up.

Dakota Fanning: Fortunately, I look fabulous!

Kristen Stewart: Shutupshutupshutupshutup

Yes, I know that they're in a movie together. But I like the scene in my head better.

Why living with a boy is gross

So I get home from work, pretty pumped. I scored a promotion and a raise at my annual review, so it's a good day.

And Boyfriend is sitting on the couch. Which is fine. Then I hear the tell-tale sign of video games: "Fuck you, you maniac!" That's the game, by the by, not the Boyfriend. The dog is lying on his lap. Next to him is a half finished beer and a bag of M&Ms. A nutritious dinner, to be sure.

And he's not wearing pants.

I just don't GET that. I really don't.

So when you ask what I'm doing BF, this is it. Writing about you, in all your pantsless wonder, on the blog that no one reads.

Happy weekend y'all.

Oh hey Blog, what's up.

No, I didn't forget about you. Jeez. Don't be needy.

I've been busy. Things to see, people to do. Or something. But you know, I've been watching a lot of Lost. Boyfriend and I are trying to rewatch all five seasons before the Feb. 2 premiere. It's actually a pretty big undertaking. Last night, I parked my ass on the couch for four episodes. It was rough. Watching Jack fight back tears for that long usually is.

Plus, I work. I mean, I'm at work now. But sometimes the phone rings and I have to answer it. I can't type and talk at the same time y'know. And trust me, that's true. Back in the days of college, my roommate and I would be having deep, meaningful conversations about the meaning of life (or sex. One or the other) and I would be on AIM. Inevitibly, I would end up typing what I was saying, so the guy I had a crush on for five years would get a message like "I just need to get fucking laid already". Which, in theory, could be taken as invitation. But it never was. Sadface.

Where was I?

Oh yes, my busy busy life. I read too, you know. Like, a lot. The book I'm reading now is called Break, and it's pretty good. Except it was written by a high school senior. It's like watching the olympics with all the frigging 16 year old gymnasts. I haven't done jack with my life, so when I read a book written by someone younger than me, I need to spend some time wallowing. And then more time reading And wallowing. Vicious cycle.

Wah.

So, I guess all this bitching means this isn't going to be a productive post. Hmm.

I has a blog.

So apparently, I am now a blogger.

Of course, if merely signing up for a blog and giving it a completely non-creative name makes you a blogger, I've probably been a blogger ten times over by now. Remember old school LiveJournal? Well, I was a little punk kid, so I had a DeadJournal. Plus something called mydiary. I've had real blogs, fake blogs, blogs that I have proabably forgotten.

If I ever become rich and famous there is probably a shitload of blackmail on the internet. Most likely, I'll never become rich and famous. But hey, a girl can dream right? Some day, a girl who secretly hated me in elementary school will realize that I'm a best selling author/Academy Award winner/nuclear scientist, and try to make a profit off my misguided ramblings.

And I'd be okay with that.

So yes. Blogging. Tally ho.