It's 4:30 AM and I'm writing. Not because I want to, but I did wake up, and this, among other things, was on my mind. Quite active is the mind when sleeping, I gather, dealing with all sorts of issues as we snore, toss, and turn.
This is the thing: I think a friend of mine has a fear of commitment. Or else, she badly needs an appointment book. Or, well, I suck so bad I don't warrant a commitment. Or, maybe, that's just the way things work on the west coast.
My friend moved to California months ago. When she came home months later, she and I could never pin-down a particular time/date to see one another. "Let's hang out..." Yeah, let's, but after first establishing a time frame, she found other plans during the same time and went to play poker.
I wasn't too bothered by it, because I planned to visit her in California in a few weeks. And I did--and it was a great time.
Now she's back for Christmas, and has left me two messages "let's get together." Okay, and through instant messages, I let her know that I was available on or after December 27. So, when we chatted, she told me her free times were Saturday "before the football game" and "all day Friday."
I proposed making dinner on Friday because she could never figure out when this game aired on television. For all I knew, she was a cheerleader and had to be there, live and in person.
But she wouldn't commit to this--her Internet connection was flakey.
So, I call her the next day and leave a message. Felt so formal. Her voice mail kicks in... and I once again formally propose Friday evening. She calls me back in 25 minutes, and we chat for some time. "Hey, dude... Friday night isn't going to work... I am going to play poker!"
Okay, poker again. Deja-vu.
"But I can do lunch on Saturday." Getting to that Saturday lunch part took time. I tried confirming this Saturday time three times. I agreed it would be nice to see her on Saturday, and lunch would be great, yadda, yadda, yadda.
So when the phone call finally closed, this is what she said:
"Hey, so I gotta go... I'm going to a friend's house. So, like, call me sometime if you want to hang-out on Saturday or eat lunch, or whatever."
I was stupefied. All I could say was: "Ah, okay. Goodbye."
Now I mention this in the following context. Just the evening before, she told me I "was so organized," which I am not, but she feels I am. I told her I like to establish points along a timeline where I've committed myself to appointments and obligations, which allows me to have personal time around. This allows me to have "cubbies of time" to do things.
I was trying to establish a time with her on the preverbal, everlasting timeline of our lives. I had told her just 23 hours prior about this practice, yet, even when talking on the phone just some 33-40 hours before a potential meeting, no commitment could be made.
I could have stood my ground, of course, and said "I'm sorry. I need a commitment from you now," but I fear this would have been too harsh.
Of course, her reading this online won't likely sit too well, but I am sorry. It bothers me so to present itself to me in a night of insomnia. and whatever my brain thinks is important bullies itself out of concern for politeness.
So, here are again those concerns:
- Does she fear a commitment of time?
- Is this now her new, adopted way of establishing social events?
- Did she consider my first proposal before poker, and then when weighing the two options choose poker?
- Do I need to be more forward and arrest time commitments from her?
- Am I overreacting to a newly instituted, California-style state of mind?
I don't watch the so-called program "The O.C." so I do not know.
She might say "Dude, you're overreacting, take a pill of chill!" After all, if she perceives my discomfort of not establishing fixed dates in time as moody, she'll likely drop me from her A-list. Maybe that's what it is... I'm not on the A-list. A-list friends get firm commitments of her time, and B-list friends get wishy-washy "so call me if you want to hang out" type of commitments.
Who knows. But writing this helps my mind by putting this to at least some state of rest. I cannot change, I like my fixed points in time.
My mom pulled a classic gift gag this year, by buying us picture frames filled with home-printed photos. Except, her frugality made the entire enterprise an insult. Let me explain.
First, she must have picked up these picture frames in bulk someplace. They are the roughest (read: splinters in my hands) Mexican-made frames I ever did see. And what did she put inside?
For me, she includes a (bad) photo of the three of us from our summer vacation. "That was the only photo with just you, your dad, and I." "Yeah, mom," I thought to myself, "the whole point was to meet your extended family there... just the three of us together seems like you're wishing we were still separate."
Whatever.
For X, she printed a photo of him and his parents. For some reason, they looked like American Indians. What was wrong? Upon further inspection, everything was dark, and especially, red. In my photo, my mother's white blouse was pink. There was something weird going on in these home-printed photos.
Upon close scrutiny, we noticed that the ink was pooled-up for some colors (like black), and splochy and shiny/dull in others. My assessment is that the printer she has (HP) and the paper (Kodak) were not compatible. She needed to match the better paper with her printer. But, she gifted us these lackluster photos that I took, printed to laughable quality.
One rule of thumb about gifting: don't let people notice the bad quality.
So, with splinters in hand, and determination in my mind, we re-printed photos to go into the frames. Mind you, we didn't use all the same photos. X demanded the same one, so I complied, since I did feel it was a good photo. But for mine, I instead selected one of him and me, which when completed, looked like "real" photos using my Canon photo printer.
When I took out the one glass, I realized it was filthy. Yes, my mother neglected to wash-off the spotted and grimy glass. Who knows how it got so nasty. Now, our finished products look good, despite the cheap frames. But this little gift now will cost me another $22, to replace the ink cartridges spent in re-printing the gifted photos.
This is the first, in what may be several tales dedicated to my parents' visit to town for Christmas.
You may have read my comments made earlier on my distaste for the word "supple." For the record, I still hate it.
At a store today, while holiday shopping, I overheard a store clerk talking about his focus is on "customer service," but then delivered poor customer service to me. Maybe I wasn't buying as much. But once he started my transaction, his focus got diverted to another customer being helped by another salesman.
He asked me later to go to their website, and take the survey on him and the service today. "I will," I said in a menacing tone. It wasn't that he was mean or inconsiderate. But, as the customer, I want to feel I have your attention for the full 5 minutes it takes to make a purchase.
At another, similiar retailer, the experience was much more professional.
At yet another, the Apple Store, they seemingly have tried to organize the store for holiday shopping, but it's too small. Or too popular. iPods stacked up here, MacBooks, over there. While I think their ability now to check you out anywhere in the store with their wireless-PDAs is cool, I think it is also a tad impersonal.
"I want an iPod."
"Here. Gimme your credit card, others are waiting."
"E-mail or printed receipt?"
It's all very fast, but I also felt like they were trying to get my money as quickly as possible, then send me out, too. Efficiency isn't always the best ingredient, perhaps, for superior customer service.
not stiff or hard; easily manipulated : this body oil leaves your skin feeling deliciously supple.
I hate this word with a vengence. I just watched a news report that says using lotion during the winter months can make your skin feel supple. Yowsah, the heebie-jeebies set in.
What are the things in life that you're truly passionate about?
Submitted by Jess.
Computers, Macintosh, music, good food, diet Coke.
I'm also passionate about procrastination, some times. Currently, I'm finding it difficult to focus on things, such as Christmas shopping and the like. I have a few good books in queue to read, but the computer sucks up my time too often. Currently am in the midst of a major ripping campaign on the computer, and trying to jump-start my online publishing empire with 2 (new) blogs.
Want to satisfy my creative urges with an Internet-channeled cooking show but need some better equipment. Need to learn more about lighting and a good camera. Passions: creative technology.
Happy Christmas.
Today at work, while eating lunch, someone opened the refrigerator in our kitchen, and said "Holy Moly! That's the biggest sausage I ever saw!" We all peered sheepishly inside, to find the world's longest Hickory Farms summer sausage. "If I had known about that summer sausage, I would never have bought a lunch," one lady said. I echoed the same thought, although I harbored it silently as I chewed my sandwich. "That's enough meat to feed a small army," I mused, as others scrupulously eyed the accompanying sweet and spicy Hickory Farms-branded mustards. "The benefits company brought us that, along with a truckload of cheese." Cheese and sausage, it reminded me of our high school marching band fund raisers.
Except that sausage stunk, and the cheese was rancid.
I said to the ensemble before leaving the table: "Perhaps for an afternoon snack today, I ought to have some of that summer sausage!" "Uh, huh!" they proclaimed, much like praisers of Jesus at a religious rally of born-agains.
As the afternoon approached, and I returned to the area where the same coworkers congregated, I eyed one, who asked "Are you going to break into that big summer sausage?" Since I was coaxed, I yelled back, "Why not?"
They all ran after me, like kids on a playground. I wrestled the large summer sausage from the refrigerator. Sitting now on the table, we all admired its giant size. Not only was it long, but this was no pepperoni... it was prodigious in every direction.
Summer sausages have a thick, outer casing you don't eat. I fished around in the drawer for a knife. Damn! Every knife was smooth like butter. Butter knives, that is. I wrestled this large, wood-handled, wide steel knife from the drawer, but it was no match for the sausage. It was devoid of any blade, as if some metalsmith had practiced smoothing techniques with any blade that once existed. You couldn't cut anything with this knife, you might as well have called it a pastry knife for spreading pastry creams on dry-crumb cupcakes.
"I'll find you a knife!" yelled a hungry secretary, who managed to find a small, yet able black-handled Ginzu-style steak knife. "It's the only knife left with teeth!" I proclaimed, as I held it to the light to admire this newfound cutlery.
"Slice that bad boy open!" another woman yelled, hungry for moist slices of the encased sausage. First I split the waxy outer hull, and then began to cut slice after slice of the summer sausage on the plate, each one glistening with either moisture or fat.
Fingers immediately began flashing before my eyes, as different on-lookers skirted with death and finger injury as they all fought for the next succulent slice of summer sausage. "Mmmmm," they bemoaned in pleasure, chewing with both élan and passion. "No one makes a summer sausage like Hickory Farms!" "Oh yes, this is quite a fine sausage..."
I was so shocked that slice after slice, they disappeared. As the Ginzu felt as if it was finally losing its cut and pull across the meaty cylinder, the fingers subsided, the passionate hunger settled, and I was able to finally procure my own private slices.
I then packaged the sausage back up, for the refrigerator, and augmented the plate with a trio of special mustards. It was a fitting snack. And all free!
I walked into the hall, with this platter of freshly-sliced summer sausage and the extra-fancy accouterment of mustards, and down the stairs in my lair of work. As I troubleshooted technical issues and took business calls, I gingerly yet freely placed slice after mustard-coated slice of summer sausage in my mouth, too-appreciating its special qualities that make summer sausage an especially tasty treat.
Who knew so many folks loved the venerable meat snack that is the summer sausage. As the mustards out-lived the slices of sausage, I began to muse as to why it was called "summer sausage" in the first place. I found that summer sausages are cooked (not dried) like hot dogs, and can last for weeks in a good refrigerator. Now we know, thanks to my personal butler, Jeeves. Must have been the $63 Gold Miner.
