I don't know about you, but I always thought it was total bull when I was younger and was told that, "No matter how rude someone is, smile and be pleasant and maybe you'll make their day." My response in my head was usually, "Yeah right." I was trapped in the fundamental attribution error, meaning that when someone responded negatively to me, instead of assuming they'd had a bad day, I usually just chalked it up to that person being a total ass-hat.
As I started working in customer service, that feeling occasionally strengthened itself. Grouchy people only served to make me grouchy, and with retail being a fairly thankless job to begin with, it didn't endear me to the career field.
But the more time that went on, the more I saw that smiling, and being friendly...DID have an impact on people. Not always. Sometimes people left even crabbier than they walked in. But those few people, who left a little happier than they arrived, it became worth it.
So today, when I had to call my internet providers' customer service I had a pleasant surprise. We all know what it's like calling customer service for a phone/internet company. 20 minutes on hold, terrible muzzak, representatives that struggle to communicate, and usually a difficulty in getting the resolution you seek.
Today, at 8:30 am, there was no waiting, no holding, no transfering. The service rep was polite, she was friendly, funny, excellent at communicating, and had my problem solved in less than 5 minutes. She laughed when she misheard information, made sure I had all the information I needed if another problem arose, used my name and was positive and confident throughout the entire conversation.
Honestly? She started off my whole day on an awesome note. So thanks customer rep. Being friendly and positive, really does pay off. :)
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Trapped in 4/4 Time
My life seems to follow a rather similar pattern each year, strong in the first, weak on the second, medium half way through, and weak at the end. Although I prefer it to a 3/4 time of Strong-Weak-Weak, the pattern is getting repetitive.
Consciously trying to break the pattern doesn't seem to work, tried that, because it's a fail if one can't get it to work.
So I've decided to allow life to break the cycle for me....by trapping myself in by another set of 4.
*shakes fist impotently at the heavens* NOT feeling trapped would be nice for a change. But I think that's just the problem with my brain. I'm not paranoid, I don't think people are out to get me. I just feel...smothered easily I suppose.
I guess it's why relationships freak me out. I feel like it's a loss of control over my own life. Didn't help that some of my exes were extremely overbearing and made the words "trapped in a box for all eternity" a gross understatement. It's rather a conundrum. To be afraid of emotional attachment and yet tired of casual flings. I need a vacation. With a sexy man wench. Who'll spend the entire time rubbing my feet and fetching my drinks. That seems like a nice compromise.
On a brighter note, I did help someone's vengeance plan by suggestion utilizing the wrath of bullet ants. While that may sound strange, death by ants that shriek and jump down on you from trees to sting you....would be kind of hilarious to watch from a distance. By distance meaning behind 10 feet of solid steel reinforced concrete. Through a window made of 10 layers of bullet proof glass. With roving death squads of exterminators guarding the perimeter. 10 miles away from the site of said death. Watching through a telescope. With the jet on standby.
These are really creepy ants.
Consciously trying to break the pattern doesn't seem to work, tried that, because it's a fail if one can't get it to work.
So I've decided to allow life to break the cycle for me....by trapping myself in by another set of 4.
*shakes fist impotently at the heavens* NOT feeling trapped would be nice for a change. But I think that's just the problem with my brain. I'm not paranoid, I don't think people are out to get me. I just feel...smothered easily I suppose.
I guess it's why relationships freak me out. I feel like it's a loss of control over my own life. Didn't help that some of my exes were extremely overbearing and made the words "trapped in a box for all eternity" a gross understatement. It's rather a conundrum. To be afraid of emotional attachment and yet tired of casual flings. I need a vacation. With a sexy man wench. Who'll spend the entire time rubbing my feet and fetching my drinks. That seems like a nice compromise.
On a brighter note, I did help someone's vengeance plan by suggestion utilizing the wrath of bullet ants. While that may sound strange, death by ants that shriek and jump down on you from trees to sting you....would be kind of hilarious to watch from a distance. By distance meaning behind 10 feet of solid steel reinforced concrete. Through a window made of 10 layers of bullet proof glass. With roving death squads of exterminators guarding the perimeter. 10 miles away from the site of said death. Watching through a telescope. With the jet on standby.
These are really creepy ants.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saying Goodbye
Sad news coming a few days late. On Friday at 4pm, my wonderously smelly, evil but loveable bullterrier Roxy slipped quietly away from us, surrounded by her family and cuddled in blankets after a good long sun-bathing.
It's been two days, and it's hard to believe she's gone. Partially, since her decline has been coming for a good 6 weeks, I only saw her a few times a day anyway, the rest of the time she was sleeping, so it's almost like nothing has changed. Until I see her empty crate, or watch my poodle Hudson lying on the floor and sighing (he knows she's gone, he said goodbye to her the day before it happened).
Roxy is the second dog I've lost, the first being Phoebe, another bullterrier when I was 10. We lost my grandfather that same year. It's hard to say that Phoebe's death was far more traumatic, but it's true.
Our dogs are a part of our family. They slept on our beds, they kept us warm when we were sick, they barked and looked stupid and acted like clowns when we were sad. They loved us unconditionally no matter what. They loved us when we were angry, or sad, or insane. They loved us even when we hated ourselves. They knew what we needed from them before we did. Love, comfort, companionship, a good laugh and more entertainment than any of modern technologies can provide.
Roxy.....was all those things, and yet still managed to be the most evil dog ever. From the moment she burst out of her crate when she was brought to us from Halifax at 8 weeks old, like a psychotic Tasmanian devil, bowling full grown adults over like they were made of styrofoam, trying to bite tires and people and anything else she could get a hold of, we knew she'd be trouble. The image of my grandmother (who spent the first week of our life with Roxy with us), sitting with her feet up on a chair and her housecoat wrapped around her legs tight enough to mummify herself to keep it out of Roxy's clutches, will stick with me forever.
Within days she had earned the names Hoover and Jaws. Fighting her for dominance meant 40 mintues in the backyard holding her on her back with all the strength my 10 year old self could drum up while she shrieked and thrashed and gnawed at me like a rabid raccoon. When she was 12 weeks, she knocked over a chair made of hard maple, and scraped her teeth over it until she created a hollow of grooves probably a 1/4 inch deep.
She ate EVERYTHING, nearly killing herself when she was 2 and a bit when she swallowed something rubber that got stuck and required surgical intervention. I still find books with covers and page corners missing. She would cruise by a table, see something on it, and sometimes without even stopping, just roll her eyes over like a shark and take a bite out of it. She ate cardboard and paper and shoes and underwear and socks and chairs and door frames if she was frustrated enough. She could bite through a can of dog food in a single go. The big cans, like of Science Hill dog food. Tennis balls? Two bites and she would have popped them and started chewing the fuzz off them.
When she was three, we brought Hudson into her life, and prayed to God she wouldn't eat him. She did body slam him hard enough into the wall to punch a hole in it once, but they were the best of friends from that moment on.
One Christmas she found the headless carcass of a rabbit (the head taken away by a Great Horned Owl), and decided she was going to try and eat it anaconda style while my mom tried to pull it away from her (in vain). There was blood flying and scarfing sounds that can never be duplicated until mom and I combined finally won the battle. We kill ourselves laughing about it now.
Her nemesis was a friend of the family who decided early on that she was Trouble and wanted nothing to do with her. To a total hedonist like Roxy, that was not acceptable. So she toppled a large metal candle pillar with a big candle on it....onto his head while he was taking a nap on our couch.
Watching her try and steal food from the table was like watching Shark Week. In a heartbeat she'd jump up and throw her head back, mouth open, and just close it on anything she could reach. Hudson only helped facilitate this. He could pick up an entire pot of macaroni and set it down on the floor for the two of them to pig out on. She loves any and all food, though has a particular taste for lettuce and popcorn. She can hear it a mile away and wasn't shy about biting us on the butts to try and get a taste.
We have babygates on nearly every bedroom/bathroom in the house, just to protect all of the stuffed animals, garbage, clothes and books from her. She was the mighty hunter of the household, and we were her servants, catering to her pleasure or subject to her mighty wrath of impressive vocalization variety (always at maximum ear piercing volume).
The only time she cornered a cat face to face though, under our deck back when we lived in the city (she was about...2 probably), all she did was bark her fool head off while the cat clawed the living daylights out of her.
She was a drunken, hedonistic, rock-star, clownish toddler that required constant supervision and feeding. And she smelled. Look up smelly bullterriers. There are gas issues. Good lord are there gas issues.
But....she was widely loved but almost everyone who met her. She was endearing in ways unable to be explained in rational human words, adorable, mischievious and always smiling. She was the worst dog we've ever had, and our best friend in the world.
Her life will never be forgotten, and the hilarity of her antics will be recounted for years to come.
Roxanne, I love you. I know you're up there in your heaven now, eating everything, chasing bunnies, and frolicking with Phoebe and Barcley. 3 bullterriers in one place....whoever runs dog heaven must be cursing us right about now. :) I know you're at peace, you didn't suffer. So all I can say with my goodbye, is eat some couch stuffing for me, sunbathe every chance you get and know that you were loved here and always will be.
Goodbye puppy.
It's been two days, and it's hard to believe she's gone. Partially, since her decline has been coming for a good 6 weeks, I only saw her a few times a day anyway, the rest of the time she was sleeping, so it's almost like nothing has changed. Until I see her empty crate, or watch my poodle Hudson lying on the floor and sighing (he knows she's gone, he said goodbye to her the day before it happened).
Roxy is the second dog I've lost, the first being Phoebe, another bullterrier when I was 10. We lost my grandfather that same year. It's hard to say that Phoebe's death was far more traumatic, but it's true.
Our dogs are a part of our family. They slept on our beds, they kept us warm when we were sick, they barked and looked stupid and acted like clowns when we were sad. They loved us unconditionally no matter what. They loved us when we were angry, or sad, or insane. They loved us even when we hated ourselves. They knew what we needed from them before we did. Love, comfort, companionship, a good laugh and more entertainment than any of modern technologies can provide.
Roxy.....was all those things, and yet still managed to be the most evil dog ever. From the moment she burst out of her crate when she was brought to us from Halifax at 8 weeks old, like a psychotic Tasmanian devil, bowling full grown adults over like they were made of styrofoam, trying to bite tires and people and anything else she could get a hold of, we knew she'd be trouble. The image of my grandmother (who spent the first week of our life with Roxy with us), sitting with her feet up on a chair and her housecoat wrapped around her legs tight enough to mummify herself to keep it out of Roxy's clutches, will stick with me forever.
Within days she had earned the names Hoover and Jaws. Fighting her for dominance meant 40 mintues in the backyard holding her on her back with all the strength my 10 year old self could drum up while she shrieked and thrashed and gnawed at me like a rabid raccoon. When she was 12 weeks, she knocked over a chair made of hard maple, and scraped her teeth over it until she created a hollow of grooves probably a 1/4 inch deep.
She ate EVERYTHING, nearly killing herself when she was 2 and a bit when she swallowed something rubber that got stuck and required surgical intervention. I still find books with covers and page corners missing. She would cruise by a table, see something on it, and sometimes without even stopping, just roll her eyes over like a shark and take a bite out of it. She ate cardboard and paper and shoes and underwear and socks and chairs and door frames if she was frustrated enough. She could bite through a can of dog food in a single go. The big cans, like of Science Hill dog food. Tennis balls? Two bites and she would have popped them and started chewing the fuzz off them.
When she was three, we brought Hudson into her life, and prayed to God she wouldn't eat him. She did body slam him hard enough into the wall to punch a hole in it once, but they were the best of friends from that moment on.
One Christmas she found the headless carcass of a rabbit (the head taken away by a Great Horned Owl), and decided she was going to try and eat it anaconda style while my mom tried to pull it away from her (in vain). There was blood flying and scarfing sounds that can never be duplicated until mom and I combined finally won the battle. We kill ourselves laughing about it now.
Her nemesis was a friend of the family who decided early on that she was Trouble and wanted nothing to do with her. To a total hedonist like Roxy, that was not acceptable. So she toppled a large metal candle pillar with a big candle on it....onto his head while he was taking a nap on our couch.
Watching her try and steal food from the table was like watching Shark Week. In a heartbeat she'd jump up and throw her head back, mouth open, and just close it on anything she could reach. Hudson only helped facilitate this. He could pick up an entire pot of macaroni and set it down on the floor for the two of them to pig out on. She loves any and all food, though has a particular taste for lettuce and popcorn. She can hear it a mile away and wasn't shy about biting us on the butts to try and get a taste.
We have babygates on nearly every bedroom/bathroom in the house, just to protect all of the stuffed animals, garbage, clothes and books from her. She was the mighty hunter of the household, and we were her servants, catering to her pleasure or subject to her mighty wrath of impressive vocalization variety (always at maximum ear piercing volume).
The only time she cornered a cat face to face though, under our deck back when we lived in the city (she was about...2 probably), all she did was bark her fool head off while the cat clawed the living daylights out of her.
She was a drunken, hedonistic, rock-star, clownish toddler that required constant supervision and feeding. And she smelled. Look up smelly bullterriers. There are gas issues. Good lord are there gas issues.
But....she was widely loved but almost everyone who met her. She was endearing in ways unable to be explained in rational human words, adorable, mischievious and always smiling. She was the worst dog we've ever had, and our best friend in the world.
Her life will never be forgotten, and the hilarity of her antics will be recounted for years to come.
Roxanne, I love you. I know you're up there in your heaven now, eating everything, chasing bunnies, and frolicking with Phoebe and Barcley. 3 bullterriers in one place....whoever runs dog heaven must be cursing us right about now. :) I know you're at peace, you didn't suffer. So all I can say with my goodbye, is eat some couch stuffing for me, sunbathe every chance you get and know that you were loved here and always will be.
Goodbye puppy.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
HA!
I wasn't the most popular kid in high school. I mean, I was pretty much friends with everyone, but I had my nose in a book more often than not, and doing well in school was a bigger focus for me than partying. This meant that particularly with the older high schoolers, I wasn't around much.
But yesterday night I was informed that one of them has been crushing on me for a good long while, and is very intimidated by me. I find this amusing, since the boy's a genius, and being like.....8 feet tall. Which I am not.
Apparently now that I'm older though, I'm still intimidating, just more appealing (I was 14 when we met. He was 18).
Yes, I am definately preening like a narcissist. And you know what? It feels pretty alright! :D
Go me.
Though....he did confirm the intimidation theory my mom always tells me about in terms of guys not approaching me. Which I don't really know how to change. I hardly think I'm scary.
Maybe I should wear a clown nose or something. Or....be happy with making big strong boys feel small and scared.
Yes...I'll take option number 2 thank you! Bwahaha.
But yesterday night I was informed that one of them has been crushing on me for a good long while, and is very intimidated by me. I find this amusing, since the boy's a genius, and being like.....8 feet tall. Which I am not.
Apparently now that I'm older though, I'm still intimidating, just more appealing (I was 14 when we met. He was 18).
Yes, I am definately preening like a narcissist. And you know what? It feels pretty alright! :D
Go me.
Though....he did confirm the intimidation theory my mom always tells me about in terms of guys not approaching me. Which I don't really know how to change. I hardly think I'm scary.
Maybe I should wear a clown nose or something. Or....be happy with making big strong boys feel small and scared.
Yes...I'll take option number 2 thank you! Bwahaha.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Quicksand Dreams
First off: I'M ALLLLIIIIVVVVVEEEEE!!!!!!
Phew. Mono, BLOWS, but I'm pretty much over this round. Hopefully my body will figure out how to crush it so it doesn't haunt me for what remains of my summer.
But that's not really why I wanted to write about.
I had an AH HA moment the other day. You know those ones, where for the split second after you answer your own question, you're immensely proud, only to nearly immediately sink into a pit of "Well....duh. I'm a tardface." then to rise momentarily when you figure that maybe other people have thought of the same and there's bonafide research, only to sink back down to "well....other people are tardfaces too."
Said AH HA moment, came shortly after listening to Dane Cook describe his super large, loafer wearing, lightening spitting crab dream on his album Harmful if Swallowed and his rather impressive bitch fest about how everything in dreams moves at light speed, but you (meaning the person having the dream), can hardly move at all.
To be precise, the moment came exactly after I woke up from my 5th unintentional nap (thanks Epstein Barr virus!) in one of my sick days, where I had been attempting to move chairs with the Joker, apparently to fulfill his nefarious plot of removing all of the chairs from Gotham, when I realized that not only was I not helping at all in the moving, but it was because I COULD HARDLY MOVE! All of my limbs were like filled with lead, or chocolate pudding, or something else heavy and strangely unwieldy.
I woke up, pissed, thinking about Dane Cook and running through quicksand, and my ah ha moment occurred.
REM is an incredibly powerfully brain-wavey part of sleep, where you're actually closer to being awake than at any other point, except instead of awareness, you get psychedelic, non-acid induced dream mayhem. Which, since being so close to awake, if it had a choice, your body would more than love to participate in.
Until of course that giant monster you were karate chopping? Turned out to be your significant other, now with a broken nose, and that piece of wood you kicked out of your way earlier in the night was your cat. Also, don't look in the kitchen. It's not worth the heartbreak.
So to prevent us from attempting to be like Jackie Chan wearing teddy bear pj shorts and a moo cow t-shirt, our body puts itself into a form of sleep paralysis. While in REM, your muscles are essentially unhooked from communication with your brain, so you can only act out your dreams where it's safe to....inside your head. This doesn't usually happen during any other phase of sleep, which is why sleepwalkers are rarely attempting to swing dance with hippos when they go for a midnight stroll, because they're in a phase of sleep where their muscles are able to move, but usually too sleepy to but also ergo not dreaming.
Despite this necessary paralysis, my theory, is that if you're having a particularly scary/exhilarating/irritating dream, the part of your brain that tells your body to move around, probably is really really trying to get your body to move! The harder it wants you to move and realizes your muscles have their headphones on and can't listen, the slower and more painful movement in the dream becomes as you try and fight muscles that physically can't work. (Dunno about you, but I tend to incorporate sounds and things in the outside world into dreams without knowing it, like my arm falling asleep turning into it being bitten by a snake or a clap of thunder translating into my awesome drum solo while on tour with Three Days Grace, etc.)
Basically, you're dreaming, you want to move around, you can't move around, dream you stops being able to move around, you wake up frustrated and agitated and wondering why you couldn't outrun the firebreathing squirrel, possibly not realizing that it's the very mechanism that keeps you safe that also kills you every night in your sleep.
It's just a theory. I tried to research it, but I kept getting dream journals like: "What does running slowly mean for your life...you're pregnant" and so on and so forth. So until someone has a better reason...I kind of like mine.
Phew. Mono, BLOWS, but I'm pretty much over this round. Hopefully my body will figure out how to crush it so it doesn't haunt me for what remains of my summer.
But that's not really why I wanted to write about.
I had an AH HA moment the other day. You know those ones, where for the split second after you answer your own question, you're immensely proud, only to nearly immediately sink into a pit of "Well....duh. I'm a tardface." then to rise momentarily when you figure that maybe other people have thought of the same and there's bonafide research, only to sink back down to "well....other people are tardfaces too."
Said AH HA moment, came shortly after listening to Dane Cook describe his super large, loafer wearing, lightening spitting crab dream on his album Harmful if Swallowed and his rather impressive bitch fest about how everything in dreams moves at light speed, but you (meaning the person having the dream), can hardly move at all.
To be precise, the moment came exactly after I woke up from my 5th unintentional nap (thanks Epstein Barr virus!) in one of my sick days, where I had been attempting to move chairs with the Joker, apparently to fulfill his nefarious plot of removing all of the chairs from Gotham, when I realized that not only was I not helping at all in the moving, but it was because I COULD HARDLY MOVE! All of my limbs were like filled with lead, or chocolate pudding, or something else heavy and strangely unwieldy.
I woke up, pissed, thinking about Dane Cook and running through quicksand, and my ah ha moment occurred.
REM is an incredibly powerfully brain-wavey part of sleep, where you're actually closer to being awake than at any other point, except instead of awareness, you get psychedelic, non-acid induced dream mayhem. Which, since being so close to awake, if it had a choice, your body would more than love to participate in.
Until of course that giant monster you were karate chopping? Turned out to be your significant other, now with a broken nose, and that piece of wood you kicked out of your way earlier in the night was your cat. Also, don't look in the kitchen. It's not worth the heartbreak.
So to prevent us from attempting to be like Jackie Chan wearing teddy bear pj shorts and a moo cow t-shirt, our body puts itself into a form of sleep paralysis. While in REM, your muscles are essentially unhooked from communication with your brain, so you can only act out your dreams where it's safe to....inside your head. This doesn't usually happen during any other phase of sleep, which is why sleepwalkers are rarely attempting to swing dance with hippos when they go for a midnight stroll, because they're in a phase of sleep where their muscles are able to move, but usually too sleepy to but also ergo not dreaming.
Despite this necessary paralysis, my theory, is that if you're having a particularly scary/exhilarating/irritating dream, the part of your brain that tells your body to move around, probably is really really trying to get your body to move! The harder it wants you to move and realizes your muscles have their headphones on and can't listen, the slower and more painful movement in the dream becomes as you try and fight muscles that physically can't work. (Dunno about you, but I tend to incorporate sounds and things in the outside world into dreams without knowing it, like my arm falling asleep turning into it being bitten by a snake or a clap of thunder translating into my awesome drum solo while on tour with Three Days Grace, etc.)
Basically, you're dreaming, you want to move around, you can't move around, dream you stops being able to move around, you wake up frustrated and agitated and wondering why you couldn't outrun the firebreathing squirrel, possibly not realizing that it's the very mechanism that keeps you safe that also kills you every night in your sleep.
It's just a theory. I tried to research it, but I kept getting dream journals like: "What does running slowly mean for your life...you're pregnant" and so on and so forth. So until someone has a better reason...I kind of like mine.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Uggghhhhh
Uggh. I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Worst part is, I didn't do this one to myself. There were actually no hangover effects from my weekend of awesomeness. But I've been having reoccurring tonsil infections for the past 2 months that seem to kick off everytime I spend a night at this one house.
No no, I'm not BLAMING the house. I just find it odd. Though, if these infections are being caused by a virus like Mono (when I went to the ER the first time, they said it was a viral infection), fatigue can bring it out again. It was a fantastic weekend, but I didn't sleep well or long for most of it. So maybe it's just that.
Either way, I feel crappy, and while I should probably go back to the ER and demand a mono test to at least figure out what's going on, I might not. I'm so tired, going back home and just laying on the couch like an invalid sounds like a much better idea than sitting in a freezing cold ER for 2+ hours.
You know....it's funny, I don't like when people moosh at me when I'm sick. The whole, "Awww, baby, what can I do for you? My poor little girl", BLEH. But when I am this sick? That's about the only time I really wish there was someone I could just put my head down on their lap and just be silently petted.
Maybe I should commission someone to build me a robot. Or buy a really fuzzy, fluffy pillow.
Bleargh.
No no, I'm not BLAMING the house. I just find it odd. Though, if these infections are being caused by a virus like Mono (when I went to the ER the first time, they said it was a viral infection), fatigue can bring it out again. It was a fantastic weekend, but I didn't sleep well or long for most of it. So maybe it's just that.
Either way, I feel crappy, and while I should probably go back to the ER and demand a mono test to at least figure out what's going on, I might not. I'm so tired, going back home and just laying on the couch like an invalid sounds like a much better idea than sitting in a freezing cold ER for 2+ hours.
You know....it's funny, I don't like when people moosh at me when I'm sick. The whole, "Awww, baby, what can I do for you? My poor little girl", BLEH. But when I am this sick? That's about the only time I really wish there was someone I could just put my head down on their lap and just be silently petted.
Maybe I should commission someone to build me a robot. Or buy a really fuzzy, fluffy pillow.
Bleargh.
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