Dear Especially Perky Baristas that Won't Leave Me Alone,
How are you this morning? OMG, like, I KNOW, right?
...
Do me (and your other terrified customers) a favor and remove the espresso I.V. from your vein for a moment. We need to have a chat - you know, one of those things you're so fond of having at O-Dark-Thirty in the morning...?
Your perkiness is at whole milk levels; something that no one should ever succumb to on a daily basis. If I were to be honest - which, let's face it, what's the point? You only remember me because of my tipping tendencies - I'd say that you'd need to knock it back to a watery, almost see-through 'skinny'.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. Your job is to supply me with caffeine in the form of my choosing.
2."Starbucks" isn't a language.
3. Judging your customer's drink is frowned upon.
4. Excessive perkiness doesn't improve the taste of the beverage.
I fail, then, to understand why I - and my java-fiending friends - are having to live in fear of your multiple personality ways! One second you're Chatty Cathy, the next you're Depresso Espresso.
However, since my love affair with the coffee bean is a deep, abiding one... and your stores are the most abundant (and freaking addictive)... I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Stop trying to change my freaking order.
(I know you have a sales goal to meet. I've worked retail, I've worked food service, I get it. What doesn't make sense to me is why, after I've ordered my usual (tall caramel macchiato - I LOVE YOU!!!!), you proceed to up-sell me.
"Would you like to try that with whole milk?"
"How about an apple fritter with that?"
"Ooh, would you like to add fifteen more shots?"
I'm sorry, Susie/Becky/Tiffany/Lucy/Cici/Katie/Ee-ee, but my ass would likely explode if I were to go on any of those detours. Let's stick with the order, m'kay?
2. I took German for 6 years and ASL for 3; I don't need to learn another language.
(Why must you correct me when I say "small", "medium", or "large", Oh Foamer of my Froth? YOU KNOW WHAT I'M REFERRING TO... I know you do, because you immediately - and ever so passionately - correct me with "tall", "grande", or "venti". Um, wha-? Are you going to make my drink wrong because of some (non-existent) language barrier? I'm sorry, but if the Latino gentleman making my Orange Chicken at Panda Express can understand me, I'm thinking you can, too. Unless using your branding terminology will magically take the burnt taste out of the espresso you're pulling, LET IT GO.)
3. Give me the stink-eye when I order my drink with whole milk one more time, and I will kick your breve-booty.
(Remember my first point, about not up-selling me? Well, when I DO decide to indulge a wee bit and order a grande (yes, terminology) whole milk eggnog latte with whip (ok, that's a crap-ton of indulgence, but I'MPREGNANTLEAVEMEALONE), don't you think it's a taaaaad rude to pointedly glance at my belly/hips/bat-wings? I don't need your judgement, Oh Size Two Mochachino Mistress... I don't need it one bit. What I do need is a double chocolate brownie to drown out the guilt I now feel.)
4. Greet. Take Order. Smile. Give Change. Lather, rinse, repeat.
(Close your eyes for a minute - you may need to step away from the bar for a second, I wouldn't want you to burn yourself - and take a journey with me. It's early on a Monday morning, it's raining, and the sun is refusing to make an appearance. Your store is full of what you first assume to be the walking undead... but, no, you realize... it's a crowd of overworked, under-rested adult members of society. Their slow 'shuffle-stomp-stop' pace to your counter does little to distract from the vast emptiness in their eyes. What is the proper way to greet said zomb-er, uh, customers?
A. "GOOOOOOOOD MORNING! Welcome to Starbucks!!! OMG, have you noticed this RAIN?! It's almost enough to make me kill myself, you know? Okay so, like, what can I get started for you?"
B. "Good morning, Ms./Mr. How are you? Oh, hold on, your sweater is aDORable... is that Vera Wang? No? Good, I hear she uses child labor, and my Econ. professor, who totally looks like a mixture between George Clooney and Diane Keaton, said that child labor is a result of globalization. Anyway, would you like try our new Latin American blend?"
OR...
C. "I'm sorry you have to be alive right now. What can I get you to make it better?"
I'll give you a hint: A and B are out.
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Magical Mocha-slinging Sirens that I know you have inside of you.
In all sincerity, I wouldn't keep coming back if I hated the service. I appreciate your ability to whip up some of the best caffeinated beverages this side of 4-LOCO... and still have the grace and patience to deal with some of the craziest customers in the world. My love affair with the caramel macchiato has gone on for over a decade (not at all worrisome), and I owe it all to the baristas who make it juuuuuust right.
Now, if you don't lower the price on your holiday drinks, I'm going to have to cheat on you with Tully's WAY more than I have been. I may be an enthusiastic drinker o' the java, but I am one slutty customer.
Keep it frothy,
Krystal
Friday, November 12, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Office Park Co-habitors (Pt. 1)
Dear Renters of Office Space Near Me,
How are you?
No, wait, don't answer that. I know exactly how you are (along with how many bowel movements you have, your favorite cheese, and the name of your grandfather's Proctologist), because you blab it in every open space near my office suite; the hallways, the bathrooms, the lobbies, the weight room... it's enough to make me want to pour Ex-Lax in your water cooler.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You have your own office.
2. You have access to cash with which to buy candy, and a bowl to put it in.
3. You have your own cell phone.
4. You have the ability to put your makeup on while parked as well as while driving.
I fail, then, to understand why you insist on plaguing me with your constant jibber-jabbering annoyances. There are over 100 different tenants in this office park; the least you can do is stick to some common courtesies.
However, since I am a conscientious Co-Inhabitant of Office Land, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Stop conducting business (or referencing your "biiiiidness") in the common areas of the office park.
(The lobby of our building, while generic and outdated, is a bright, open area where many of the tenants like to take their breaks, stretch their legs, and escape from office politics for a little while. Why, then, do you insist on conducting business calls in our Safe Place?! I have lost count of how many times I've been taking a breather or calming myself down over some new drama, when someone comes stomping in to the lobby, swearing on and on about the latest batch of financial reports.
This, Oh Ruiner of Times Enjoyable, is what my brain then runs through:
1. Oh JEEBUS, they're annoying.
2. Wait... did he just say "actuarial"?
3. Oh, shityshityshitshit, I haven't booked ____'s hotel room, and he's giving his presentation on Friday!
4. No! Friday is our executive meeting!! I haven't run financials or done the blanket approvals for AP/AR, and it's already 4:00!
5. WHY AM I NOT BACK AT MY DESK SLAVING AWAY?!?!
6. Ooh, a penny...!
This doesn't just extend to business calls - calls that you could be making IN YOUR OFFICE... the one you're paying RENT for - but to personal or side-business as well. For the 70th time, I do not want to buy Avon, host a Tupperwear party, join the La Leche League of Bellevue, co-sponsor your child's (likely crappy) soccer team, volunteer at Little People's Anonymous, or help you pick out scrapbook designs.)
2. Stop pretending to stop by to chat when your entire focus is on my candy dish.
(Don't make it dirty. Now... here's where you're really running into a problem: I'm a (part)Jewish girl, who happens to handle our organization's finances, and who also happens to have a 1.5 year old at home. Do you know what that means, Oh Eater of My Edible Excellencies? I can be the stingiest penny-counter you have ever met. Do you then think it wise to 'stop by for a quick chat' in order to consume handful after handful of the candy I just bought for our office and legitimate visitors? If so, keep eating... I've left a niiiice piece of strychnine in there for you.)
3. Instead of telling your coworker the details of last night's diarrhea marathon while walking down the hallway, up your text message allotment on your cell phone and take that route instead.
(Just this morning, I walked in to the Women's bathroom on the second floor of the 'B' building. Both stalls were occupied... but that didn't kill the conversation going on inside, nope. Two women were conducting verbal comparisons of the color of urine they had produced. Please, stop and contemplate what walking in on that conversation was like for me.
...
..
.
Just STOP IT!)
4. Repeat after me: "Drive... park... then apply mascara."
(Your boss would rather you show up alive and well (hooray, productivity!) than hobbling and bleeding (hooray, Krystal's temper!). I promise. You know what else I promise, Oh Swerver of the SUV? I promise that the next time I come grill-to-grill with your car in the parking lot because you didn't want to wait the 35 seconds it would take to park before applying your layers of makeup, I will not swerve out of your way. You'll get a to buy me a new car, and I'll never let you forget it. I mean, really... how good of a job are you going to do on your makeup if you're having the ever-so-inconvenient responsibility of operating a two-ton motor vehicle anyway? I'm just looking out for you.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Considerate Examples of Professional Neighbors that I know you have inside of you.
In all honesty, this is one of the nicest places - location and building-wise - I've ever had the privilege to work out of... second only to the Port of Seattle (but, really, who can compete with a saltwater stream running the length of the ground floor... or being on a pier in Seattle, with a view of the Blue Angels as they fly by... or being only 5 minutes from Pike Place... or - ah! Ok. Sorry...). I guess what I'm trying to say is that everyone has contributed to making this a safe, well-maintained place to work, and that is something I seriously appreciate.
Now, stop cat-calling to all the construction men outside. You're making it increasingly difficult for me to lure one back to my office.
See you in the bathroom,
Krystal
How are you?
No, wait, don't answer that. I know exactly how you are (along with how many bowel movements you have, your favorite cheese, and the name of your grandfather's Proctologist), because you blab it in every open space near my office suite; the hallways, the bathrooms, the lobbies, the weight room... it's enough to make me want to pour Ex-Lax in your water cooler.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You have your own office.
2. You have access to cash with which to buy candy, and a bowl to put it in.
3. You have your own cell phone.
4. You have the ability to put your makeup on while parked as well as while driving.
I fail, then, to understand why you insist on plaguing me with your constant jibber-jabbering annoyances. There are over 100 different tenants in this office park; the least you can do is stick to some common courtesies.
However, since I am a conscientious Co-Inhabitant of Office Land, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Stop conducting business (or referencing your "biiiiidness") in the common areas of the office park.
(The lobby of our building, while generic and outdated, is a bright, open area where many of the tenants like to take their breaks, stretch their legs, and escape from office politics for a little while. Why, then, do you insist on conducting business calls in our Safe Place?! I have lost count of how many times I've been taking a breather or calming myself down over some new drama, when someone comes stomping in to the lobby, swearing on and on about the latest batch of financial reports.
This, Oh Ruiner of Times Enjoyable, is what my brain then runs through:
1. Oh JEEBUS, they're annoying.
2. Wait... did he just say "actuarial"?
3. Oh, shityshityshitshit, I haven't booked ____'s hotel room, and he's giving his presentation on Friday!
4. No! Friday is our executive meeting!! I haven't run financials or done the blanket approvals for AP/AR, and it's already 4:00!
5. WHY AM I NOT BACK AT MY DESK SLAVING AWAY?!?!
6. Ooh, a penny...!
This doesn't just extend to business calls - calls that you could be making IN YOUR OFFICE... the one you're paying RENT for - but to personal or side-business as well. For the 70th time, I do not want to buy Avon, host a Tupperwear party, join the La Leche League of Bellevue, co-sponsor your child's (likely crappy) soccer team, volunteer at Little People's Anonymous, or help you pick out scrapbook designs.)
2. Stop pretending to stop by to chat when your entire focus is on my candy dish.
(Don't make it dirty. Now... here's where you're really running into a problem: I'm a (part)Jewish girl, who happens to handle our organization's finances, and who also happens to have a 1.5 year old at home. Do you know what that means, Oh Eater of My Edible Excellencies? I can be the stingiest penny-counter you have ever met. Do you then think it wise to 'stop by for a quick chat' in order to consume handful after handful of the candy I just bought for our office and legitimate visitors? If so, keep eating... I've left a niiiice piece of strychnine in there for you.)
3. Instead of telling your coworker the details of last night's diarrhea marathon while walking down the hallway, up your text message allotment on your cell phone and take that route instead.
(Just this morning, I walked in to the Women's bathroom on the second floor of the 'B' building. Both stalls were occupied... but that didn't kill the conversation going on inside, nope. Two women were conducting verbal comparisons of the color of urine they had produced. Please, stop and contemplate what walking in on that conversation was like for me.
...
..
.
Just STOP IT!)
4. Repeat after me: "Drive... park... then apply mascara."
(Your boss would rather you show up alive and well (hooray, productivity!) than hobbling and bleeding (hooray, Krystal's temper!). I promise. You know what else I promise, Oh Swerver of the SUV? I promise that the next time I come grill-to-grill with your car in the parking lot because you didn't want to wait the 35 seconds it would take to park before applying your layers of makeup, I will not swerve out of your way. You'll get a to buy me a new car, and I'll never let you forget it. I mean, really... how good of a job are you going to do on your makeup if you're having the ever-so-inconvenient responsibility of operating a two-ton motor vehicle anyway? I'm just looking out for you.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Considerate Examples of Professional Neighbors that I know you have inside of you.
In all honesty, this is one of the nicest places - location and building-wise - I've ever had the privilege to work out of... second only to the Port of Seattle (but, really, who can compete with a saltwater stream running the length of the ground floor... or being on a pier in Seattle, with a view of the Blue Angels as they fly by... or being only 5 minutes from Pike Place... or - ah! Ok. Sorry...). I guess what I'm trying to say is that everyone has contributed to making this a safe, well-maintained place to work, and that is something I seriously appreciate.
Now, stop cat-calling to all the construction men outside. You're making it increasingly difficult for me to lure one back to my office.
See you in the bathroom,
Krystal
Friday, June 11, 2010
Teenagers of Little Sense (Pt. 1)
Dear Teenagers of the 21st Century,
OMG, wtf is wrng wit u?
Whether it is your obvious lack of clothing practicality, your blatant disregard for personal hygiene, or your selfishly manic desire for the newest and best of everything you can get your hands on, I'm just plain tired of you whippersnappers and your idiocy.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. "Eighteen" is still a "teen"
2. Chat-speak is not a language offered in school
3. Respecting your elders = getting to live
4. Hormones are a part of life... not the POINT of it.
I fail, then, to understand why you are so extremely annoying. Here, I'll put it to you in the form of an "if/then" SAT question: "If THE WORLD IS DOING YOU A FAVOR BY LETTING YOU CONTINUE TO EXIST, then the following must also be true: A) YOU SHOULD PROBABLY KISS THE GROUND THE ADULTS WALK ON, B) YOU SHOULD STOP DRESSING LIKE A HOBO, C) YOU SHOULD THINK ABOUT SOMEONE WHO ISN'T YOU, or D) All of the above."
Guess which is the correct answer.
However, since I, too, was once an Annoying Mass of Adolescent Angst (hard to believe, I know), I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Until you are able to support yourself fully, just admit that you need your parents or other adults in your lives.
(Forgive me for failing to notice the cruel torture of having a place to live, free of charge. How could I have overlooked the depravity of having clothes provided to you, also free, and in the correct size and gender class. And, oh, let me not forget the food; how dare your parents or caregivers provide you with all of the meals, snacks, in-betweens-ies, and drinks that your exponentially morphing bodies need to survive and thrive. Seriously, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELVES! Ignoring the fact that it isn't cool to bitch and complain about how horrible your parents are (because, really, what does that accomplish?), it's just plain stupid. Do you honestly want them to never feed, clothe, or house you again?)
2. Unless your goal is to work at McDonald's when you're 40, stop incorporating chat-speak into your daily vocabulary.
(Dear, Sweet, Youth of America... you are quickly becoming the most unintelligent generation to ever gangsta-walk on this earth. It's one thing to send your friends a quick 'OMG', 'LOL', 'u r gr8' - filled text message in between class, but it becomes another thing entirely when I hear chat-speak come flying out of your mouth in an actual conversation. With a human. In the real world. I know we've all been taught that "it's what's on the inside that counts", but when the words you're using sound like a stroke victim attempting to spell their name, well, no one is going to care about what's on the inside. You may think you have a winning personality and enough charm/luck/money/intelligence to get you far in life, but the second a potential boss hears you bust out with "I saved the company over $3.2 million by catching a sales mistake last year and, OMG, let me tell you, Mr. Douchehammer, I was ROTFLOL," you're outta there.)
3. If you swear, glare, or "holla" at me on the bus one more time, I will drop you.
(I use profanity on a near regular basis, I admit it. The leg-up I have on you, however, comes from using it either accidentally/unconsciously (aka - spontaneously), or using it to emphasize a point I am trying to make. When you start dropping f-bombs like the conversation is an Iraqi war zone, you sound... well, like a teenager. And teenagers can sound preeeetty stupid. You do the math. Oh, and what's with the glaring, Oh Sulky of the Attitude Clan? When my only possible offense is breathing, I don't see how that earns you doing your best Mr. T impression at me from across the bus/room/store/city. Finally, I am way too old for your pimply, pubescent ass. If you really want a chick who digs much younger men, look up "Letourneau" in the phone book. Otherwise, show some respect.)
4. Keep. It. In. Your. Pants.
(Ignoring the fact that the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) reports that 19 million new STD infections occur every year... and nearly 50 percent of these new cases happen to young people between the ages of 15 and 24... and not only that, but the American Social Health Association (ASHA) reports that half of all new HIV infections occur in teenagers... well, no, wait; you can't ignore that. STOP GETTIN' FREAKY! It's, well, freaking us out. I won't be like some of your parents and tell you that sex is a dirty, gross thing that married couples "have to do", because that would promote its own set of problems, but what I will tell you is this: you only have so much time to be the age you're at right now. Why rush it?)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Upright, Non-Delinquent Youth of America that I know you have inside of you.
In all seriousness, you have so much potential. I am in awe of the talents that so many of you possess already at such a young age, and can't wait to see what kind of influence your voice has in the future.
Just... pull your pants up, okay? I don't want to see your boxers.
Get off my lawn,
Krystal
OMG, wtf is wrng wit u?
Whether it is your obvious lack of clothing practicality, your blatant disregard for personal hygiene, or your selfishly manic desire for the newest and best of everything you can get your hands on, I'm just plain tired of you whippersnappers and your idiocy.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. "Eighteen" is still a "teen"
2. Chat-speak is not a language offered in school
3. Respecting your elders = getting to live
4. Hormones are a part of life... not the POINT of it.
I fail, then, to understand why you are so extremely annoying. Here, I'll put it to you in the form of an "if/then" SAT question: "If THE WORLD IS DOING YOU A FAVOR BY LETTING YOU CONTINUE TO EXIST, then the following must also be true: A) YOU SHOULD PROBABLY KISS THE GROUND THE ADULTS WALK ON, B) YOU SHOULD STOP DRESSING LIKE A HOBO, C) YOU SHOULD THINK ABOUT SOMEONE WHO ISN'T YOU, or D) All of the above."
Guess which is the correct answer.
However, since I, too, was once an Annoying Mass of Adolescent Angst (hard to believe, I know), I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Until you are able to support yourself fully, just admit that you need your parents or other adults in your lives.
(Forgive me for failing to notice the cruel torture of having a place to live, free of charge. How could I have overlooked the depravity of having clothes provided to you, also free, and in the correct size and gender class. And, oh, let me not forget the food; how dare your parents or caregivers provide you with all of the meals, snacks, in-betweens-ies, and drinks that your exponentially morphing bodies need to survive and thrive. Seriously, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELVES! Ignoring the fact that it isn't cool to bitch and complain about how horrible your parents are (because, really, what does that accomplish?), it's just plain stupid. Do you honestly want them to never feed, clothe, or house you again?)
2. Unless your goal is to work at McDonald's when you're 40, stop incorporating chat-speak into your daily vocabulary.
(Dear, Sweet, Youth of America... you are quickly becoming the most unintelligent generation to ever gangsta-walk on this earth. It's one thing to send your friends a quick 'OMG', 'LOL', 'u r gr8' - filled text message in between class, but it becomes another thing entirely when I hear chat-speak come flying out of your mouth in an actual conversation. With a human. In the real world. I know we've all been taught that "it's what's on the inside that counts", but when the words you're using sound like a stroke victim attempting to spell their name, well, no one is going to care about what's on the inside. You may think you have a winning personality and enough charm/luck/money/intelligence to get you far in life, but the second a potential boss hears you bust out with "I saved the company over $3.2 million by catching a sales mistake last year and, OMG, let me tell you, Mr. Douchehammer, I was ROTFLOL," you're outta there.)
3. If you swear, glare, or "holla" at me on the bus one more time, I will drop you.
(I use profanity on a near regular basis, I admit it. The leg-up I have on you, however, comes from using it either accidentally/unconsciously (aka - spontaneously), or using it to emphasize a point I am trying to make. When you start dropping f-bombs like the conversation is an Iraqi war zone, you sound... well, like a teenager. And teenagers can sound preeeetty stupid. You do the math. Oh, and what's with the glaring, Oh Sulky of the Attitude Clan? When my only possible offense is breathing, I don't see how that earns you doing your best Mr. T impression at me from across the bus/room/store/city. Finally, I am way too old for your pimply, pubescent ass. If you really want a chick who digs much younger men, look up "Letourneau" in the phone book. Otherwise, show some respect.)
4. Keep. It. In. Your. Pants.
(Ignoring the fact that the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) reports that 19 million new STD infections occur every year... and nearly 50 percent of these new cases happen to young people between the ages of 15 and 24... and not only that, but the American Social Health Association (ASHA) reports that half of all new HIV infections occur in teenagers... well, no, wait; you can't ignore that. STOP GETTIN' FREAKY! It's, well, freaking us out. I won't be like some of your parents and tell you that sex is a dirty, gross thing that married couples "have to do", because that would promote its own set of problems, but what I will tell you is this: you only have so much time to be the age you're at right now. Why rush it?)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Upright, Non-Delinquent Youth of America that I know you have inside of you.
In all seriousness, you have so much potential. I am in awe of the talents that so many of you possess already at such a young age, and can't wait to see what kind of influence your voice has in the future.
Just... pull your pants up, okay? I don't want to see your boxers.
Get off my lawn,
Krystal
Friday, May 14, 2010
Bosses, Managers, Supervisors (Pt. 1)
Dear Bosses of the World,
Could you all step into my office for a minute? Thaaaaanks...
It has come to my attention, and the attention of thousands (plus or minus a few million) of other employees around the country, that you are getting really close to "intolerable". Whether it's your need to micromanage your staff, or your severely misplaced distrust of their capabilities, we are starting to notice a disturbing trend. We are confused. We are not pleased.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You get paid more than we do.
2. You (should have) more responsibility than your subordinates.
3. You agreed to abide by the same Employment Handbook that your employees did.
4. You should be a motivator to your employees, not a stumbling block.
5. You're human, like us. We hope.
I fail, then, to understand why your modus operandi is so different from ours. Is the exponentially higher pay scale that the company forks out for your "intellectual property" not a tidy enough sum for you? Are you out to prove that, yes, there is a "wrong side of the bed" and yes, you CAN wake up on it every single day?
However, since I am a hard working, committed, team-player of an employee, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Stop bitching about your salaries in order to be "on the same level" as your staff, unless you want us to mug you and take your "pitifully small" checkbooks.
(This is simple, Oh Commanders of the Cubicle, and will make for a happier team of workers who are less prone to key your Mercedes in the garage. Chances are, we know what you bring home on an annual basis... knowing you, you've probably blabbed about it on the phone to your significant other at a high volume so that we would just "happen" to hear the figure six or seven times. Are we supposed to be impressed, or feel sorry for you? When you try to commiserate with your employees over how little they are making in relation to their perceived worth and contributions, you don't come across as "one of the team" or "on the same level"... you come across as an "douche-waffle" who drives a freaking Mercedes SLR McLaren as your commuter vehicle.)
2. Stop delegating YOUR duties to your subordinates before we decide to rise up and eliminate your position altogether.
(See... this is the problem: Your employees already have enough on their plates without you cherry-picking your own tasks and dumping the rest of the steaming mass on their desks. Did you not get the memo about being replaceable?)
3. Stop bending the rules to fit your desires, unless you're also willing to grant an extra three weeks' vacation to everyone else.
(Whether you're playing FarmVille online, checking your stock purchases, or planning your next family trip to Disneyworld, chances are you're breaking the rules. We, your Employees of Inestimably Great Worth, don't care. We just want to be allowed the same privileges. What makes you all so special that you get to surf the web, file your toenails, or chat with your spouse while texting your side-action and we can't?)
4. Stop looking at, buying, displaying, and believing in those god-awful 'motivational posters' before we use them to cut you with... or start putting up our own.
(Is it really so hard to support your staff? Why else would you resort to posting a "Hang In There, Baby!" poster on your (perpetually closed) office door? Instead, try setting team goals, having a random 'pizza Friday' (which you pay for, not us), or even sending a quick "Thank you for making me look competent" email every once in a while. That instills a greater sense of workplace loyalty than that $3.99 poster ever could... and it isn't nearly as tacky or off-putting to our customers/visitors.)
5. Stop acting like you are infallible, or else we will stop supporting your delusions and you will find yourself naked in a world of hurt.
(Your WoW characters might be the most badass Rogue-Warlock-Mage-thingy ever, but you, Dear Incompetent Idiots in Charge, are not. You guys screw up the system more often than you facilitate progress, and even then make excuses for your lack of ability. The only reason we allow you to stay in power like we do is because we have no desire to lead for fear that your position is actually a curse, but that's a theory we're willing to test if you all don't slow down and listen to your workers. We're the ones in the trenches, carrying out your commands, meeting your objectives, and making your money. Listening to your breadwinners may be the smartest thing you've done since successfully emerging from the womb.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Less Annoying A.S.S.H.O.L.E.s (Arrogant Supervisors Stressing Honest Over-worked Laborers Endlessly) that I know you have inside of you.
Sincerely, I know it takes a lot to run a company. Whether you are a manager of a chain store or a CEO of a corporation, a lot seems to rest on your shoulders with more being added every day. What I have said in this letter isn't (entirely) meant to bash you down (well... yeah, it is), but instead, to point you towards a better vision of Boss-Employee relations.
Now, stop peering down my shirt during staff meetings or I swear that I will staple your man-parts to your leg.
See you at the water cooler,
Krystal
Could you all step into my office for a minute? Thaaaaanks...
It has come to my attention, and the attention of thousands (plus or minus a few million) of other employees around the country, that you are getting really close to "intolerable". Whether it's your need to micromanage your staff, or your severely misplaced distrust of their capabilities, we are starting to notice a disturbing trend. We are confused. We are not pleased. The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You get paid more than we do.
2. You (should have) more responsibility than your subordinates.
3. You agreed to abide by the same Employment Handbook that your employees did.
4. You should be a motivator to your employees, not a stumbling block.
5. You're human, like us. We hope.
I fail, then, to understand why your modus operandi is so different from ours. Is the exponentially higher pay scale that the company forks out for your "intellectual property" not a tidy enough sum for you? Are you out to prove that, yes, there is a "wrong side of the bed" and yes, you CAN wake up on it every single day?
However, since I am a hard working, committed, team-player of an employee, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Stop bitching about your salaries in order to be "on the same level" as your staff, unless you want us to mug you and take your "pitifully small" checkbooks.
(This is simple, Oh Commanders of the Cubicle, and will make for a happier team of workers who are less prone to key your Mercedes in the garage. Chances are, we know what you bring home on an annual basis... knowing you, you've probably blabbed about it on the phone to your significant other at a high volume so that we would just "happen" to hear the figure six or seven times. Are we supposed to be impressed, or feel sorry for you? When you try to commiserate with your employees over how little they are making in relation to their perceived worth and contributions, you don't come across as "one of the team" or "on the same level"... you come across as an "douche-waffle" who drives a freaking Mercedes SLR McLaren as your commuter vehicle.)
2. Stop delegating YOUR duties to your subordinates before we decide to rise up and eliminate your position altogether.
(See... this is the problem: Your employees already have enough on their plates without you cherry-picking your own tasks and dumping the rest of the steaming mass on their desks. Did you not get the memo about being replaceable?)
3. Stop bending the rules to fit your desires, unless you're also willing to grant an extra three weeks' vacation to everyone else.
(Whether you're playing FarmVille online, checking your stock purchases, or planning your next family trip to Disneyworld, chances are you're breaking the rules. We, your Employees of Inestimably Great Worth, don't care. We just want to be allowed the same privileges. What makes you all so special that you get to surf the web, file your toenails, or chat with your spouse while texting your side-action and we can't?)
4. Stop looking at, buying, displaying, and believing in those god-awful 'motivational posters' before we use them to cut you with... or start putting up our own.
(Is it really so hard to support your staff? Why else would you resort to posting a "Hang In There, Baby!" poster on your (perpetually closed) office door? Instead, try setting team goals, having a random 'pizza Friday' (which you pay for, not us), or even sending a quick "Thank you for making me look competent" email every once in a while. That instills a greater sense of workplace loyalty than that $3.99 poster ever could... and it isn't nearly as tacky or off-putting to our customers/visitors.)
5. Stop acting like you are infallible, or else we will stop supporting your delusions and you will find yourself naked in a world of hurt.
(Your WoW characters might be the most badass Rogue-Warlock-Mage-thingy ever, but you, Dear Incompetent Idiots in Charge, are not. You guys screw up the system more often than you facilitate progress, and even then make excuses for your lack of ability. The only reason we allow you to stay in power like we do is because we have no desire to lead for fear that your position is actually a curse, but that's a theory we're willing to test if you all don't slow down and listen to your workers. We're the ones in the trenches, carrying out your commands, meeting your objectives, and making your money. Listening to your breadwinners may be the smartest thing you've done since successfully emerging from the womb.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Less Annoying A.S.S.H.O.L.E.s (Arrogant Supervisors Stressing Honest Over-worked Laborers Endlessly) that I know you have inside of you.
Sincerely, I know it takes a lot to run a company. Whether you are a manager of a chain store or a CEO of a corporation, a lot seems to rest on your shoulders with more being added every day. What I have said in this letter isn't (entirely) meant to bash you down (well... yeah, it is), but instead, to point you towards a better vision of Boss-Employee relations.
Now, stop peering down my shirt during staff meetings or I swear that I will staple your man-parts to your leg.
See you at the water cooler,
Krystal
Monday, April 26, 2010
Things That Go... Crash.
Dear Operators of Motorized Vehicles ,
In a world where technology abounds, literature is engrossing, and applying ones makeup takes more time than can be scrounged before leaving the house, our vehicles seem to have become the 'catch-all' of our lives. Swerving by me in countless numbers, you astound me with the amount of circuitry protruding from your ears, newspapers and/or novels in your hands, and double cheeseburgers hanging from your mouths. Where do you find the attention or, rather, the ability to drive?
Oh, wait. You don't.
Guess what the green light means? (Here's a hint, it doesn't mean "adjust your cleavage", "update your Facebook status", or "stir another pack of sugar into your coffee".)
The following is a list of things that, to the best of my knowledge, apply to you and the Wonderful World of Driving:
1. Double-parking is fine... if you are driving a hearse.
2. "SUV" does not equal "Compact", nor does your "lack of brains" equal "handicapped".
3. You are not part-vulture.
4. Cutesy decals on your rear window is grounds for a rear-ending, "Baby on Board" or not.
5. Just because something looks funny (like, oh, a Roundabout), it doesn't mean that all bets are off.
I fail, then, to understand how things could have gotten so out-of-hand. Didn't we all have to take the same drivers' test? Shouldn't we be looking out for each other on this, the great Road of Life, instead of throwing back another coffee, flipping the bird, and playing I-5 bumper cars?
However, since I have pledged to forever don my Seat-belt of Safety, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions for you, Oh Operator of the Auto.
1. I don't care how nice your new ride is; keep it inside ONE parking space.
(I know what it's like to be in a hurry, I do; you overslept, your child is crying, there was a line of DMV-proportions at the drive-through Starbucks, and now your boss is calling, demanding that you pick up 10 boxes of toner for GodKnowsWhatCrazyProject... but parking your car in a dead straddle over the dividing line of two parking spaces? Not cool. The excuse of "Oh, I wasn't paying attention!" isn't very reassuring, either. I'm supposed to feel okay with that? Logic leads me to think that you probably "weren't paying attention" for the majority of your drive. *shudder* Oh, and I'm ever so happy that you have the funds to purchase and drive a Spyder convertible... but slanting your car across two slots just so no one dings your precious Penis Compensator? Sooooo not acceptable. Whenever I see an expensive car deliberately double-parked like that, my hands start twitching and making their way to the keys in my purse, almost begging me to write a nice "Hello, Douche-waffle" note on your door. Which leads me to...)
2. Stop thinking that the rules of parking don't apply to you.
(Yes... I know, Dear Driver, this point coincides rather closely with the previous, but you do know the reason for that, don't you? I can't take any more of this double-standard crap whilst on the road! It's enough that I had to live with it during my childhood... *cough*... anyway, I do not need it from you! I am an SUV-driver. I have a 2002 Saturn Vue that, while it may be labeled as a 'mid-sized SUV' and could, theoretically, fit into a compact space, I park in spaces that will not cause direct or indirect damage to those I have parked next to, or whom may choose to park next to me. It goes beyond common courtesy, m'dear... it's THE LAW. Those pretty markings on the ground aren't decorations meant to enhance the color of your pretty BMW - no, those are words... words that say "Compact Only". Oh, and just so we're clear, parking in a handicapped spot because you're "just going to be a minute", don't feel well, or are too stupid to read the sign isn't an excuse, either.)
3. Stop circling the parking lot like a bird about to dive.
(I know you really, really want that primo spot by the front of the store, but you're holding up fifteen other cars who don't have the maneuverability to get around you while you sit there with your hazards on. Believe me, honey; the only hazard here is that you sit there, pretending not to notice the backup, while gulping down your second quad-grande extra caramel Caramel Frappucino of the day. Your ass could use a little exercise - park a few rows back.)
4. ENOUGH with the stick-figure-families, already.
(Why, my Commuting Cutie, do you feel the need to cover your rear window in cheesy stickers that tell everyone everything about your family? Don't you already do this on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, etc...? Before you know it, your car will look like this, and I'll be forced to kill you to save my own sanity.
A couple of witty stickers or decals? Totally fine.
(I have one that talks about tattooed moms on the PTA. Gets a laugh every time.)
Row after row of "Baby on Board", "Save a horse, ride a cowboy", "Cowgirl up!", "The Hansen Family", and a sticker from every single concert you've seen...? Nutty.)
4. Just because a traffic function is idiotic, doesn't mean you get to ignore it.
(Sweet Steerer of my Soul, pay attention here. Roundabouts are the Department of Transportation's way of making sure you're paying attention... and then eating your soul if you are not. As my good friend Kim said, "(Roundabouts are) possibly the biggest waste of tax dollars ever because people are too retarded to figure out how to use them. Traffic lights are simple. Red means stop. Green means go. Yellow means floor it. Very simple. At the roundabout, people can't drive because they're too busy trying to decipher the heiroglyphics on the signs to see which lane they're supposed to be in. RE-TAR-DED." I will be the first (er, second) to say that these Whirly-Swirley Cycles of Death are about the stupidest traffic-control creation since crossing guards, but the fact is that they are here, and we have to live with them. Just because they look kind of fun and make you think back to doing donuts in the parking lot does not mean you can just catapult yourself into the intersection (which, yes, is exactly what this is) and think that you'll be fine. Maybe.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Glowing Example of Driver Safety that I know you have inside of you.
I know you're busy. I know you're stressed, you're tired, and you are most likely over-worked. I can understand how the brain can switch to auto-pilot when you start to do a familiar task such as driving; it's something that most of us have done since our teenage years. Just remember that driving safely and parking responsibly isn't just for you... it's for everyone else on the road, feeling just as stressed, tired, and over-worked as you are.
Like me, the girl with the really, really good aim... looking for just one more reason to get her concealed weapons permit.
Honk if you love kitties,
Krystal
In a world where technology abounds, literature is engrossing, and applying ones makeup takes more time than can be scrounged before leaving the house, our vehicles seem to have become the 'catch-all' of our lives. Swerving by me in countless numbers, you astound me with the amount of circuitry protruding from your ears, newspapers and/or novels in your hands, and double cheeseburgers hanging from your mouths. Where do you find the attention or, rather, the ability to drive?
Oh, wait. You don't.
Guess what the green light means? (Here's a hint, it doesn't mean "adjust your cleavage", "update your Facebook status", or "stir another pack of sugar into your coffee".)
The following is a list of things that, to the best of my knowledge, apply to you and the Wonderful World of Driving:
1. Double-parking is fine... if you are driving a hearse.
2. "SUV" does not equal "Compact", nor does your "lack of brains" equal "handicapped".
3. You are not part-vulture.
4. Cutesy decals on your rear window is grounds for a rear-ending, "Baby on Board" or not.
5. Just because something looks funny (like, oh, a Roundabout), it doesn't mean that all bets are off.
I fail, then, to understand how things could have gotten so out-of-hand. Didn't we all have to take the same drivers' test? Shouldn't we be looking out for each other on this, the great Road of Life, instead of throwing back another coffee, flipping the bird, and playing I-5 bumper cars?
However, since I have pledged to forever don my Seat-belt of Safety, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions for you, Oh Operator of the Auto.
1. I don't care how nice your new ride is; keep it inside ONE parking space.
(I know what it's like to be in a hurry, I do; you overslept, your child is crying, there was a line of DMV-proportions at the drive-through Starbucks, and now your boss is calling, demanding that you pick up 10 boxes of toner for GodKnowsWhatCrazyProject... but parking your car in a dead straddle over the dividing line of two parking spaces? Not cool. The excuse of "Oh, I wasn't paying attention!" isn't very reassuring, either. I'm supposed to feel okay with that? Logic leads me to think that you probably "weren't paying attention" for the majority of your drive. *shudder* Oh, and I'm ever so happy that you have the funds to purchase and drive a Spyder convertible... but slanting your car across two slots just so no one dings your precious Penis Compensator? Sooooo not acceptable. Whenever I see an expensive car deliberately double-parked like that, my hands start twitching and making their way to the keys in my purse, almost begging me to write a nice "Hello, Douche-waffle" note on your door. Which leads me to...)
2. Stop thinking that the rules of parking don't apply to you.
(Yes... I know, Dear Driver, this point coincides rather closely with the previous, but you do know the reason for that, don't you? I can't take any more of this double-standard crap whilst on the road! It's enough that I had to live with it during my childhood... *cough*... anyway, I do not need it from you! I am an SUV-driver. I have a 2002 Saturn Vue that, while it may be labeled as a 'mid-sized SUV' and could, theoretically, fit into a compact space, I park in spaces that will not cause direct or indirect damage to those I have parked next to, or whom may choose to park next to me. It goes beyond common courtesy, m'dear... it's THE LAW. Those pretty markings on the ground aren't decorations meant to enhance the color of your pretty BMW - no, those are words... words that say "Compact Only". Oh, and just so we're clear, parking in a handicapped spot because you're "just going to be a minute", don't feel well, or are too stupid to read the sign isn't an excuse, either.)
3. Stop circling the parking lot like a bird about to dive.
(I know you really, really want that primo spot by the front of the store, but you're holding up fifteen other cars who don't have the maneuverability to get around you while you sit there with your hazards on. Believe me, honey; the only hazard here is that you sit there, pretending not to notice the backup, while gulping down your second quad-grande extra caramel Caramel Frappucino of the day. Your ass could use a little exercise - park a few rows back.)
4. ENOUGH with the stick-figure-families, already.
(Why, my Commuting Cutie, do you feel the need to cover your rear window in cheesy stickers that tell everyone everything about your family? Don't you already do this on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, etc...? Before you know it, your car will look like this, and I'll be forced to kill you to save my own sanity.
A couple of witty stickers or decals? Totally fine.
(I have one that talks about tattooed moms on the PTA. Gets a laugh every time.)
Row after row of "Baby on Board", "Save a horse, ride a cowboy", "Cowgirl up!", "The Hansen Family", and a sticker from every single concert you've seen...? Nutty.)
4. Just because a traffic function is idiotic, doesn't mean you get to ignore it.
(Sweet Steerer of my Soul, pay attention here. Roundabouts are the Department of Transportation's way of making sure you're paying attention... and then eating your soul if you are not. As my good friend Kim said, "(Roundabouts are) possibly the biggest waste of tax dollars ever because people are too retarded to figure out how to use them. Traffic lights are simple. Red means stop. Green means go. Yellow means floor it. Very simple. At the roundabout, people can't drive because they're too busy trying to decipher the heiroglyphics on the signs to see which lane they're supposed to be in. RE-TAR-DED." I will be the first (er, second) to say that these Whirly-Swirley Cycles of Death are about the stupidest traffic-control creation since crossing guards, but the fact is that they are here, and we have to live with them. Just because they look kind of fun and make you think back to doing donuts in the parking lot does not mean you can just catapult yourself into the intersection (which, yes, is exactly what this is) and think that you'll be fine. Maybe.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Glowing Example of Driver Safety that I know you have inside of you.
I know you're busy. I know you're stressed, you're tired, and you are most likely over-worked. I can understand how the brain can switch to auto-pilot when you start to do a familiar task such as driving; it's something that most of us have done since our teenage years. Just remember that driving safely and parking responsibly isn't just for you... it's for everyone else on the road, feeling just as stressed, tired, and over-worked as you are.
Like me, the girl with the really, really good aim... looking for just one more reason to get her concealed weapons permit.
Honk if you love kitties,
Krystal
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Girly-men
Dear Metrosexual Twig-Men and/or Men Who Look Like Boys,
I am almost at a loss of words here... but, unfortunately for you, I will soldier on.
What. The. Hell.
I think that about covers it.
Whatever happened to embracing your masculinity, guys? When did it start becoming cool for guys to dress like a chick? Why are we so overrun with men who would rather scribble madly in their black spiral notebooks, or get a manicure, than go punch something/someone when they're upset?
The last I checked, the following is what most women find attractive about you/why we keep you around:
1. Your muscles are sexy
2. You look so, so good in jeans and a t-shirt
3. Your communication skills are... sparse
4. Your recreational choices befuddle us
I fail, then, to understand why you have decided to chop off your collective cojones and embrace the twisted world of emaciated, Emo fashion and high-priced cocktails. How am I, an intensely pro-sex, straight adult female, supposed to fantasize about a guy who looks like a jacked-up, butch lesbian or, at best, a teenage boy with whiskers? You're making this way, way too hard for me, fellas.
However, since I have a vested interest in seeing your ranks improve, Oh Twig-like Metrosexual Abomination, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Put down the eyeliner and pick up a barbell. And a hamburger.
(I don't care how nasty your gym bag smells after some time lifting weights, playing basketball with the guys, or a quick pick-up game of baseball, I would rather smell dirty-dirty man stink than some unisex cologne you dropped $100 on. Oh, and please... if anyone should be ordering a salad with the dressing on the side, it's me; I'm the girl in this relationship, m'kay... and I would likely order something with a little more punch. Unless you're really, really craving the dandelion greens with crumbled feta and an aged balsamic reduction, order the 'Entire Rib of Cow' special with a side of 'More Beef', roll up your sleeves, and tear into that sucker like a kid at Christmas. There's something primal and sexy about a guy who shows healthy-to-high levels of testosterone... one such exhibition being food choices. Now, I'm not a big girl by today's health standards, but I don't want to look at a man and think, "Hm... nice eyes, cute smile, but I'd break him in a second." I want a guy who has the muscle tone he should have for his age, not that of a high school senior.)
2. Put down (or burn) the skinny jeans, and put on some sweats.
(Why... WHY with the skinny jeans, guys? I see so many of you walking around with tattoos (a personal attractant for me, yes) on your arms and scruffy, sexy faces... only to find your man-junk all vacuumed sealed into these size 2 pants. It doesn't stop at skinny jeans, either. No, I like to call this craptastical wardrobe brainwashing the 'Jonas Brothers DiCaprio Effect'; khakis (not so bad, in moderation), a polo shirt (gag me), and/or a sweater vest (wave 'bye-bye' to your chances of getting laid), and some loafers (no words), and you've got yourself a Mr. Douche doll. I'll be completely honest and say that yes, this may seem like sex-on-a-stick for some women, but me? I'd rather see my guy in a pair of jeans (that don't advertise the size/lack of size of his unit) and a t-shirt... or, really, whatever he's comfortable in. That, to me, is incredibly sexy.)
3. Put down the notebook and raise your voice.
(Ah, poetry... the centuries-old method of self-expression, and super-romantic 'wooing tool'. I don't really know how to proceed with this one, Oh Man of Missing Masculinity, as I have some mixed feelings here. While I can appreciate the time, effort, and creativity that goes into writing a poem or love song for a girl, and have had a couple written for me that I treasured, it has always felt... off... to have a guy be that expressive. I'm sure I will get many an e-mail/comment about this from my male friends, but this is just what I feel. I like my men a little more closed-off; willing to cuddle after sex, but not wanting to immediately jump out of bed to write a sonnet (or ten) about my breasts. Hey, I like 'em too, fellas... but poetry as self-expression for a guy? If it's the only form that you're using, it's going to be a turn-off.)
4. Put down the gourmet Gouda and pick up a Wii controller.
(I'm sure you've heard plenty a stereotypical woman spout-off about "I just wish HE'D cook some of the meals", or have watched your fair share of The Food Network, but really...? When did the weekend plans of the (admittedly stereotypical) American male turn from video games, movies, sports, projects, etc. to sauteing, blanching, scrap booking, or intensive, voluntary manscaping? Stop taking over the woman's hobbies, damn it! Go back to your Wii's, your ESPN, your table hockey, and leave our stuff alone! Not only are you infringing on our millenia-old territory (what do you think cave drawings are, if not the earliest form of scrap booking?), but you're becoming too much like US. If we wanted to date other women, we would... hence lesbians. Totally fine, just not my bag. I want my man and I to have a few, key differences other than the obvious anatomical ones.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Strong and Mighty Tower of Masculinity that I know you have inside of you.
I love me some men-folk. I do. I also understand that men, like women, are multi-faceted creatures with widely differing personalities within their own subset. I respect the rights of each individual to pursue the lifestyle that makes them happy... I also happen to respect my own right to wonder what the hell they're thinking when they walk out the door looking and acting like a neutered version of themselves.
All of that being said, I'd still do you.
Stay out of my closet,
Krystal
I am almost at a loss of words here... but, unfortunately for you, I will soldier on.
What. The. Hell.
I think that about covers it.
Whatever happened to embracing your masculinity, guys? When did it start becoming cool for guys to dress like a chick? Why are we so overrun with men who would rather scribble madly in their black spiral notebooks, or get a manicure, than go punch something/someone when they're upset?
The last I checked, the following is what most women find attractive about you/why we keep you around:
1. Your muscles are sexy
2. You look so, so good in jeans and a t-shirt
3. Your communication skills are... sparse
4. Your recreational choices befuddle us
I fail, then, to understand why you have decided to chop off your collective cojones and embrace the twisted world of emaciated, Emo fashion and high-priced cocktails. How am I, an intensely pro-sex, straight adult female, supposed to fantasize about a guy who looks like a jacked-up, butch lesbian or, at best, a teenage boy with whiskers? You're making this way, way too hard for me, fellas.
However, since I have a vested interest in seeing your ranks improve, Oh Twig-like Metrosexual Abomination, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Put down the eyeliner and pick up a barbell. And a hamburger.
(I don't care how nasty your gym bag smells after some time lifting weights, playing basketball with the guys, or a quick pick-up game of baseball, I would rather smell dirty-dirty man stink than some unisex cologne you dropped $100 on. Oh, and please... if anyone should be ordering a salad with the dressing on the side, it's me; I'm the girl in this relationship, m'kay... and I would likely order something with a little more punch. Unless you're really, really craving the dandelion greens with crumbled feta and an aged balsamic reduction, order the 'Entire Rib of Cow' special with a side of 'More Beef', roll up your sleeves, and tear into that sucker like a kid at Christmas. There's something primal and sexy about a guy who shows healthy-to-high levels of testosterone... one such exhibition being food choices. Now, I'm not a big girl by today's health standards, but I don't want to look at a man and think, "Hm... nice eyes, cute smile, but I'd break him in a second." I want a guy who has the muscle tone he should have for his age, not that of a high school senior.)
2. Put down (or burn) the skinny jeans, and put on some sweats.
(Why... WHY with the skinny jeans, guys? I see so many of you walking around with tattoos (a personal attractant for me, yes) on your arms and scruffy, sexy faces... only to find your man-junk all vacuumed sealed into these size 2 pants. It doesn't stop at skinny jeans, either. No, I like to call this craptastical wardrobe brainwashing the 'Jonas Brothers DiCaprio Effect'; khakis (not so bad, in moderation), a polo shirt (gag me), and/or a sweater vest (wave 'bye-bye' to your chances of getting laid), and some loafers (no words), and you've got yourself a Mr. Douche doll. I'll be completely honest and say that yes, this may seem like sex-on-a-stick for some women, but me? I'd rather see my guy in a pair of jeans (that don't advertise the size/lack of size of his unit) and a t-shirt... or, really, whatever he's comfortable in. That, to me, is incredibly sexy.)
3. Put down the notebook and raise your voice.
(Ah, poetry... the centuries-old method of self-expression, and super-romantic 'wooing tool'. I don't really know how to proceed with this one, Oh Man of Missing Masculinity, as I have some mixed feelings here. While I can appreciate the time, effort, and creativity that goes into writing a poem or love song for a girl, and have had a couple written for me that I treasured, it has always felt... off... to have a guy be that expressive. I'm sure I will get many an e-mail/comment about this from my male friends, but this is just what I feel. I like my men a little more closed-off; willing to cuddle after sex, but not wanting to immediately jump out of bed to write a sonnet (or ten) about my breasts. Hey, I like 'em too, fellas... but poetry as self-expression for a guy? If it's the only form that you're using, it's going to be a turn-off.)
4. Put down the gourmet Gouda and pick up a Wii controller.
(I'm sure you've heard plenty a stereotypical woman spout-off about "I just wish HE'D cook some of the meals", or have watched your fair share of The Food Network, but really...? When did the weekend plans of the (admittedly stereotypical) American male turn from video games, movies, sports, projects, etc. to sauteing, blanching, scrap booking, or intensive, voluntary manscaping? Stop taking over the woman's hobbies, damn it! Go back to your Wii's, your ESPN, your table hockey, and leave our stuff alone! Not only are you infringing on our millenia-old territory (what do you think cave drawings are, if not the earliest form of scrap booking?), but you're becoming too much like US. If we wanted to date other women, we would... hence lesbians. Totally fine, just not my bag. I want my man and I to have a few, key differences other than the obvious anatomical ones.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Strong and Mighty Tower of Masculinity that I know you have inside of you.
I love me some men-folk. I do. I also understand that men, like women, are multi-faceted creatures with widely differing personalities within their own subset. I respect the rights of each individual to pursue the lifestyle that makes them happy... I also happen to respect my own right to wonder what the hell they're thinking when they walk out the door looking and acting like a neutered version of themselves.
All of that being said, I'd still do you.
Stay out of my closet,
Krystal
Friday, April 9, 2010
Evils of the Interwebs
Dear Social Networking Sites and Various Applications,
You have hooked me. You have hooked me, and I didn't even know I was being hooked. Now, unfortunately, I feel rather 'hooker'-ish, as I have so many johns, er, sites to keep track of, update, post on, and respond to a the beep of the pager, er, message notification. When did our relationship become so very, very complicated? What used to be a mutual understanding now seems like a one-sided arrangement and, believe me, E-PhoneChatFaceBlogGoogleE-list, it is time for some relationship counseling.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You exist for enjoyment.
2. Networking is encouraged.
3. Apps are for fun.
I fail, then, to understand why the I feel the vein on the left side of my temple start to spasm every time a new alert lands in my Inbox. Why are you intimidating me??
However, since I am a committed partner, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Stop stressing me out.
(Sure, I am - supposedly - in control of what content I see... how often I see it... yada yada yada. But that's like telling a fat kid that they're in control of what the put in their mouth; true, but ultimately inconvenient. I am a card-carrying member of the "microwave generation" who expects things to happen now, now, now, and who also likes to cram as much into that little microwave as possible. By having the ability to update a status from my iPhone on not one but three apps, receive e-mail notifications every time a "friend" posts/likes/unlikes/updates/pees, and sending me automated reminders when I haven't fed my pet dragon for over 90 days (I'm so sorry, Kindling... Mommy still loves you), I'm starting to feel smothered. This co-dependency thing has got to stop.)
2. Enable a 'beer goggles' feature.
(Nothing says "I'm professional, trust me with your business" like a 2:00 a.m. picture post of you throwing back your seventh shot of tequila, wearing that dress you always say makes you look like a hooker. Sure, there are different sites for professional networking vs. social networking... but when you've linked the two sites to automatically update each other...? Doesn't help. Since I want us to foster a healthy, balanced relationship, Oh Social Networking Sites and Various Applications, I am asking you to meet me half-way here; come up with some kind of feature that will block me from posting something insanely stupid and/or incriminating at oh-dark-thirty or after x-amount of adult beverages.)
3. Chill. The hell. Out.
(Vampire Wars... FarmVille... Mob Wars... Music Pet... Happy Island... Bejeweled... My Five... enough already! To each their own, yes, but you're creating some insanely scary Super Gamers who plague my Inbox with their impassioned messages of clan battles, "he-said/she-said" drama, and ramblings about their numerous hemorrhoids. Don't need it. I play Vampire Wars on occasion (OMG - Add me to your clan!!!! Assassin "(HW) Tempia" Level 64 Noble Vampire!!!!!), when I need a break from dealing with real people, or when I feel like breaking real people... not as a substitute for real life. Why would you allow such people to bond with you, E-PhoneChatFaceBlogGoogleE-list? It's like you have sprung from our bed of normalcy into their dungeon of depravity... and I just don't know what that means for us. Can our relationship recover? Should it recover? I don't know. I. Just. Don't. Know.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Not So All-Encompassing Time Wasting Distraction from Heaven that I know you have inside of you.
I have nothing 'meaningful' to say this time. There's no point; social networking sites aren't meant to be meaningful, and those who believe otherwise are likely a little off. Yes, I'm being extremely judgemental when I say this, but I get to say it because I know the difference between a Friend Request and a real, human friend. Instead of relying on automated update messages, beeps, and other alerts, I know how to pick up the phone and send someone a good, old fashioned text message (telling them, in 50 characters or less, how much I love, appreciate, and want to see them).
OMG... I wonder how many views this is going to get...
*Poke* (your turn),
Krystal
You have hooked me. You have hooked me, and I didn't even know I was being hooked. Now, unfortunately, I feel rather 'hooker'-ish, as I have so many johns, er, sites to keep track of, update, post on, and respond to a the beep of the pager, er, message notification. When did our relationship become so very, very complicated? What used to be a mutual understanding now seems like a one-sided arrangement and, believe me, E-PhoneChatFaceBlogGoogleE-list, it is time for some relationship counseling.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You exist for enjoyment.
2. Networking is encouraged.
3. Apps are for fun.
I fail, then, to understand why the I feel the vein on the left side of my temple start to spasm every time a new alert lands in my Inbox. Why are you intimidating me??
However, since I am a committed partner, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.1. Stop stressing me out.
(Sure, I am - supposedly - in control of what content I see... how often I see it... yada yada yada. But that's like telling a fat kid that they're in control of what the put in their mouth; true, but ultimately inconvenient. I am a card-carrying member of the "microwave generation" who expects things to happen now, now, now, and who also likes to cram as much into that little microwave as possible. By having the ability to update a status from my iPhone on not one but three apps, receive e-mail notifications every time a "friend" posts/likes/unlikes/updates/pees, and sending me automated reminders when I haven't fed my pet dragon for over 90 days (I'm so sorry, Kindling... Mommy still loves you), I'm starting to feel smothered. This co-dependency thing has got to stop.)
2. Enable a 'beer goggles' feature.
(Nothing says "I'm professional, trust me with your business" like a 2:00 a.m. picture post of you throwing back your seventh shot of tequila, wearing that dress you always say makes you look like a hooker. Sure, there are different sites for professional networking vs. social networking... but when you've linked the two sites to automatically update each other...? Doesn't help. Since I want us to foster a healthy, balanced relationship, Oh Social Networking Sites and Various Applications, I am asking you to meet me half-way here; come up with some kind of feature that will block me from posting something insanely stupid and/or incriminating at oh-dark-thirty or after x-amount of adult beverages.)
3. Chill. The hell. Out.
(Vampire Wars... FarmVille... Mob Wars... Music Pet... Happy Island... Bejeweled... My Five... enough already! To each their own, yes, but you're creating some insanely scary Super Gamers who plague my Inbox with their impassioned messages of clan battles, "he-said/she-said" drama, and ramblings about their numerous hemorrhoids. Don't need it. I play Vampire Wars on occasion (OMG - Add me to your clan!!!! Assassin "(HW) Tempia" Level 64 Noble Vampire!!!!!), when I need a break from dealing with real people, or when I feel like breaking real people... not as a substitute for real life. Why would you allow such people to bond with you, E-PhoneChatFaceBlogGoogleE-list? It's like you have sprung from our bed of normalcy into their dungeon of depravity... and I just don't know what that means for us. Can our relationship recover? Should it recover? I don't know. I. Just. Don't. Know.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Not So All-Encompassing Time Wasting Distraction from Heaven that I know you have inside of you.
I have nothing 'meaningful' to say this time. There's no point; social networking sites aren't meant to be meaningful, and those who believe otherwise are likely a little off. Yes, I'm being extremely judgemental when I say this, but I get to say it because I know the difference between a Friend Request and a real, human friend. Instead of relying on automated update messages, beeps, and other alerts, I know how to pick up the phone and send someone a good, old fashioned text message (telling them, in 50 characters or less, how much I love, appreciate, and want to see them).
OMG... I wonder how many views this is going to get...
*Poke* (your turn),
Krystal
Monday, April 5, 2010
Perfect Mothers
Dear Soccer/Hippie/Overly Opinionated/Overly Involved Moms,
I am finding it increasingly difficult to relate to, let alone tolerate, you... and it is leading to some pretty serious urges to slap your hand and tell you "NO" like I would to my own toddler. (Oh yes, you read that correctly; we use hand-slaps in my house. Feel free to report me to CPS.) Whether it is my own insecurities or not, I resent feeling inadequate when compared to your Mothering Might.
The last I checked, all capable, loving, sane and otherwise "good" mothers do the following with their children:
1. Feed them
2. Clothe them
3. Diaper them
4. Play with them
5. Watch them
I fail, then, to understand why there is a 'holier than thou' attitude amongst us moms. Aren't we all on the same, spit-up covered side?
Since I already have enough crap on my hands, what with my son's increasingly disturbing diapers, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of "behavior modification" suggestions.
1. Stop acting like the food you provide your child is the freaking Bread of Life.
(So what if you provide Jr. with all-organic, homemade, gluten-free mush? I'm guessing it comes out the same way that my frozen fish stick meals do. Don't believe me? Feel free to stop by Bruce's daycare in about, oh, 45 minutes... I'm sure he'll have a fresh example just for you.)
2. Making your child's clothing, or spending $50 on a name brand onesie does not a great mother make. Stop acting like it does.
(It does, however, make you come across as extremely condescending when you preach about this in chat rooms, at play dates, and in casual passing. I don't care if you raise the sheep, shear them, spin, dye, and weave the wool yourself; making your child's clothes is a great thing... for you. I, however, don't have the time or talent to do so. I also don't have the interest. When it comes to spending large amounts of money on something your child will grow out of in a month (if you're even that lucky), well, great. I think it's stupid but, most importantly, it's passing along the belief to your children that they just have to have whatever is most popular. I can't wait to see how THAT turns out.)
3. Preaching about your chosen method of diapering makes you sound like a freaking hippie.
(This is where my bias will come raging to the forefront. I, like most mothers-to-be, considered the pros and cons of cloth diapering vs. disposable diapers; the effect on the environment, the cost, the convenience and, most importantly, the effect on my child's butt. When Bruce was born, the choice was clear for my husband and I, and disposable it was (and is). Here is where I get a little pissed (pun intended):
Asking how another mom diapers her kid? Totally fine.
Proceeding to tell her, whether directly or passive-aggressively, about the evils of her chosen method? Grounds for throwing a mashed-banana diaper in her face.
You have your routes, I have mine. LEAVE IT ALONE ALREADY.)
4. Play should be fun... not dysfunctional.
(Whether on a play date or spending some good old fashioned 'tummy time' on the floor, do you know how to play with your child? I mean, actual play; that thing you do when your entire existence, for that moment, is comprised of trying to make your little tyke coo, laugh, or smile. That's it. When did the point of playtime become expanding your two month-old's vocabulary, or teaching your toddler the violin? Children only get so long to live life completely worry-free, so why would you cheat them of that simple, sweet quality time? Think back to when you were a kid, coloring in your favorite _____ coloring book (for me, it was Barbie). How would it feel if your mom took it away and replaced it with a book on fractions?)
5. Quit thinking that daycare is the devil.
(While I completely agree that the ideal situation would be for the mother and father of little Susie Homemaker or Jack Sixpack to stay home all day, every day with their child for the first year, that is next to impossible. Not only is there this small thing called "money" to consider, but you also have to take into account the mother or father's feelings on the matter. In our case, I HAD to go back to work full-time when Bruce was 7 months old; we needed the money, we don't believe in going on DSHS support while I could be working, and I need adult interaction to keep me sane. By looking down on moms who work outside the home, you come across as judgmental, lazy, or ignorant. My holding down an 8 - 5 job with travel and the occasional late-night required doesn't make me less of a mother than you, it just means I go about caring and providing for my son in a different way.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Relate-able, Less Egotistical Super Mom that I know you have inside of you.
Just like every child is different, every approach to mothering is going to differ as well. I respect the hard work and great effort that so many of you go through to provide what you feel to be the best possible environment for your child, and understand feeling so passionate about your chosen route toward child-raising. I hope that your children know how lucky they are to have someone who cares so much for their well-being. Your choices are your own, and no one should make you feel inadequate or unqualified for how you have chosen to raise your precious child.
Now, get ready for the first tattooed President of the PTA, 2014. It'll give you a whole new topic to gossip about, I'm sure.
See you on the playground,
Krystal
I am finding it increasingly difficult to relate to, let alone tolerate, you... and it is leading to some pretty serious urges to slap your hand and tell you "NO" like I would to my own toddler. (Oh yes, you read that correctly; we use hand-slaps in my house. Feel free to report me to CPS.) Whether it is my own insecurities or not, I resent feeling inadequate when compared to your Mothering Might.
The last I checked, all capable, loving, sane and otherwise "good" mothers do the following with their children:
1. Feed them
2. Clothe them
3. Diaper them
4. Play with them
5. Watch them
I fail, then, to understand why there is a 'holier than thou' attitude amongst us moms. Aren't we all on the same, spit-up covered side?
Since I already have enough crap on my hands, what with my son's increasingly disturbing diapers, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of "behavior modification" suggestions.
1. Stop acting like the food you provide your child is the freaking Bread of Life.
(So what if you provide Jr. with all-organic, homemade, gluten-free mush? I'm guessing it comes out the same way that my frozen fish stick meals do. Don't believe me? Feel free to stop by Bruce's daycare in about, oh, 45 minutes... I'm sure he'll have a fresh example just for you.)
2. Making your child's clothing, or spending $50 on a name brand onesie does not a great mother make. Stop acting like it does.
(It does, however, make you come across as extremely condescending when you preach about this in chat rooms, at play dates, and in casual passing. I don't care if you raise the sheep, shear them, spin, dye, and weave the wool yourself; making your child's clothes is a great thing... for you. I, however, don't have the time or talent to do so. I also don't have the interest. When it comes to spending large amounts of money on something your child will grow out of in a month (if you're even that lucky), well, great. I think it's stupid but, most importantly, it's passing along the belief to your children that they just have to have whatever is most popular. I can't wait to see how THAT turns out.)
3. Preaching about your chosen method of diapering makes you sound like a freaking hippie.
(This is where my bias will come raging to the forefront. I, like most mothers-to-be, considered the pros and cons of cloth diapering vs. disposable diapers; the effect on the environment, the cost, the convenience and, most importantly, the effect on my child's butt. When Bruce was born, the choice was clear for my husband and I, and disposable it was (and is). Here is where I get a little pissed (pun intended):
Asking how another mom diapers her kid? Totally fine.
Proceeding to tell her, whether directly or passive-aggressively, about the evils of her chosen method? Grounds for throwing a mashed-banana diaper in her face.
You have your routes, I have mine. LEAVE IT ALONE ALREADY.)
4. Play should be fun... not dysfunctional.
(Whether on a play date or spending some good old fashioned 'tummy time' on the floor, do you know how to play with your child? I mean, actual play; that thing you do when your entire existence, for that moment, is comprised of trying to make your little tyke coo, laugh, or smile. That's it. When did the point of playtime become expanding your two month-old's vocabulary, or teaching your toddler the violin? Children only get so long to live life completely worry-free, so why would you cheat them of that simple, sweet quality time? Think back to when you were a kid, coloring in your favorite _____ coloring book (for me, it was Barbie). How would it feel if your mom took it away and replaced it with a book on fractions?)
5. Quit thinking that daycare is the devil.
(While I completely agree that the ideal situation would be for the mother and father of little Susie Homemaker or Jack Sixpack to stay home all day, every day with their child for the first year, that is next to impossible. Not only is there this small thing called "money" to consider, but you also have to take into account the mother or father's feelings on the matter. In our case, I HAD to go back to work full-time when Bruce was 7 months old; we needed the money, we don't believe in going on DSHS support while I could be working, and I need adult interaction to keep me sane. By looking down on moms who work outside the home, you come across as judgmental, lazy, or ignorant. My holding down an 8 - 5 job with travel and the occasional late-night required doesn't make me less of a mother than you, it just means I go about caring and providing for my son in a different way.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the Relate-able, Less Egotistical Super Mom that I know you have inside of you.
Just like every child is different, every approach to mothering is going to differ as well. I respect the hard work and great effort that so many of you go through to provide what you feel to be the best possible environment for your child, and understand feeling so passionate about your chosen route toward child-raising. I hope that your children know how lucky they are to have someone who cares so much for their well-being. Your choices are your own, and no one should make you feel inadequate or unqualified for how you have chosen to raise your precious child.
Now, get ready for the first tattooed President of the PTA, 2014. It'll give you a whole new topic to gossip about, I'm sure.
See you on the playground,
Krystal
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Dental Professionals
Dear Dr. Z and Dental Assistant C.,
I am slightly at-odds with how to start this letter, as I am torn between feeling exceedingly grateful for the work that you perform and being mildly concerned over how you perform it. It may seem petty, but I generally appreciate walking away from a health care professional feeling secure instead of like I have been forced to down a pill comprised of Nerves, Fear, Condescension, and An Urge To Punch You In The Face.
The last I checked, the following are frowned-upon in dental care, whether in terms of practice or patient-relations:
1. Telling your patient something is going to hurt very, very badly.
2. Admonishing your patient for showing nerves and/or flat-out refusing said procedure.
3. Ignoring your patient's history with Novocaine.
4. Comparing dental work to a PAP-smear.
5. Referring your patient to a dental student, after telling the patient that the procedure is going to hurt very, very badly.
Because I am not one to point out flaws and jab at them with tiny, little periodontal instruments and make small noises of glee while the patient, er, reader twitches in pain - whoops, see, there's that 'Punch You In The Face' feeling I was mentioning earlier.
*Ahem*
Here are a few suggestions to help make our relationship a more pleasing, beneficial one, instead of one that is dreaded nearly as much as that PAP that you so strangely pointed out.
1. Lie to your patient, especially when it regards something that will be hurting them very, very badly.
(This will be of many, many benefits to you... first and foremost, it will bring you more money. The more comfortable I feel about a procedure you are about to perform, the more likely I am to allow it, and less likely I am to ignore the bill that you send me after the measly insurance coverage has kicked-in. Second, it will decrease my anxiety, which should have a positive effect on my already rampaging heart rate.) Which brings me to:
2. Lie to your patient, especially when you think they are being extraordinarily wimpy, child-like, or otherwise stupid.
(Sure, I may cry, moan, and blabber on and on about some dental procedure that scarred me for life, but if you can swallow that down (and maybe take it out on the next patient on your list) and tell me that being afraid to even open my mouth for you to look inside is completely normal, you'll have one happy Me on your hands. Oh, and 'happy Me' is, again, more likely to pay my bill. Just sayin'.)
3. Lying to your patient won't work here, so just freaking listen to them when they have something that seriously concerns them.
(I have a messed-up metabolism. My thyroid is under-active, practically to the point of being extinct. Have you ever seen "Office Space"? I'll assume that you have, as all of your side-bar conversations about your iPhone and Twitter account lead me to believe you consider yourself to be a trendy, culturally up-to-date person. (So what if it comes off a little douche-y? Not the point right now. You're safe.) Consider my thyroid to be like Milton Waddams in "Office Space"; the mumbling guy that no one really pays attention to... laid off years ago and never received the notice... who finally burns the place down after being messed with one too many times. The ol' thyroid likes to laze along, until something like, oh, Novocaine enters my system, and then it burns through it like a madman seeking revenge for his Swingline being stolen one too many times. The point to this rambling? What takes most people one or two shots of Novocaine to get through takes me SEVEN.)
4. Don't ever, ever again, tell me that a human mouth is as sensitive - if not more so - than a female's vagina, and then ask me to imagine having a Novocaine injection in Little Krystal.
(NOT. SOMETHING. I. WANT. IN. MY. HEAD.)
5. Lie to your patient, and tell them that the dental student is really a super-secret Dental Master with amazing pain-blocking powers from the planet 'Perfection'.
(That way, I won't be inclined to bring a cattle prod with me to the appointment with said dental student, with the point being to shock the hell out of them each time I feel they've screwed up.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the amazing Dental Professional that I know you have inside of you.
In all seriousness, I am grateful to have dental coverage. I understand that so many people in this world aren't nearly as fortunate as I am in this instance, and that is not something that I take for granted. I plan on taking better care of my teeth, and providing a healthy example for my son as he grows and learns what it means to be responsible for his own health.
Now, that being said, if you touch my tooth with the damn nitrous solution one more time, I'm shoving it in your eye.
Remember to floss,
Krystal
I am slightly at-odds with how to start this letter, as I am torn between feeling exceedingly grateful for the work that you perform and being mildly concerned over how you perform it. It may seem petty, but I generally appreciate walking away from a health care professional feeling secure instead of like I have been forced to down a pill comprised of Nerves, Fear, Condescension, and An Urge To Punch You In The Face.
The last I checked, the following are frowned-upon in dental care, whether in terms of practice or patient-relations:
1. Telling your patient something is going to hurt very, very badly.
2. Admonishing your patient for showing nerves and/or flat-out refusing said procedure.
3. Ignoring your patient's history with Novocaine.
4. Comparing dental work to a PAP-smear.
5. Referring your patient to a dental student, after telling the patient that the procedure is going to hurt very, very badly.
Because I am not one to point out flaws and jab at them with tiny, little periodontal instruments and make small noises of glee while the patient, er, reader twitches in pain - whoops, see, there's that 'Punch You In The Face' feeling I was mentioning earlier.
*Ahem*
Here are a few suggestions to help make our relationship a more pleasing, beneficial one, instead of one that is dreaded nearly as much as that PAP that you so strangely pointed out.
1. Lie to your patient, especially when it regards something that will be hurting them very, very badly.
(This will be of many, many benefits to you... first and foremost, it will bring you more money. The more comfortable I feel about a procedure you are about to perform, the more likely I am to allow it, and less likely I am to ignore the bill that you send me after the measly insurance coverage has kicked-in. Second, it will decrease my anxiety, which should have a positive effect on my already rampaging heart rate.) Which brings me to:
2. Lie to your patient, especially when you think they are being extraordinarily wimpy, child-like, or otherwise stupid.
(Sure, I may cry, moan, and blabber on and on about some dental procedure that scarred me for life, but if you can swallow that down (and maybe take it out on the next patient on your list) and tell me that being afraid to even open my mouth for you to look inside is completely normal, you'll have one happy Me on your hands. Oh, and 'happy Me' is, again, more likely to pay my bill. Just sayin'.)
3. Lying to your patient won't work here, so just freaking listen to them when they have something that seriously concerns them.
(I have a messed-up metabolism. My thyroid is under-active, practically to the point of being extinct. Have you ever seen "Office Space"? I'll assume that you have, as all of your side-bar conversations about your iPhone and Twitter account lead me to believe you consider yourself to be a trendy, culturally up-to-date person. (So what if it comes off a little douche-y? Not the point right now. You're safe.) Consider my thyroid to be like Milton Waddams in "Office Space"; the mumbling guy that no one really pays attention to... laid off years ago and never received the notice... who finally burns the place down after being messed with one too many times. The ol' thyroid likes to laze along, until something like, oh, Novocaine enters my system, and then it burns through it like a madman seeking revenge for his Swingline being stolen one too many times. The point to this rambling? What takes most people one or two shots of Novocaine to get through takes me SEVEN.)
4. Don't ever, ever again, tell me that a human mouth is as sensitive - if not more so - than a female's vagina, and then ask me to imagine having a Novocaine injection in Little Krystal.
(NOT. SOMETHING. I. WANT. IN. MY. HEAD.)
5. Lie to your patient, and tell them that the dental student is really a super-secret Dental Master with amazing pain-blocking powers from the planet 'Perfection'.
(That way, I won't be inclined to bring a cattle prod with me to the appointment with said dental student, with the point being to shock the hell out of them each time I feel they've screwed up.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were to read this, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the amazing Dental Professional that I know you have inside of you.
In all seriousness, I am grateful to have dental coverage. I understand that so many people in this world aren't nearly as fortunate as I am in this instance, and that is not something that I take for granted. I plan on taking better care of my teeth, and providing a healthy example for my son as he grows and learns what it means to be responsible for his own health.
Now, that being said, if you touch my tooth with the damn nitrous solution one more time, I'm shoving it in your eye.
Remember to floss,
Krystal
Monday, March 29, 2010
My Sweet Son (v.1)
Dear Bruce,
While I'm sure you have a very valid reason for standing up in your crib in the middle of the night, shaking the bars and screaming in a way to cause the cats to hide in fear, I simply do not get it.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You do not work in a sweat shop in Taiwan.
2. Your diapers are changed regularly.
3. Your food is not only non-toxic, it is not found in a trash can or other such receptacle, nor is it comprised of feces, the flesh of other babies, or anything containing olives (which are equally as disturbing to your dear Mother).
4. You have ready and immediate supply to Infant's Motrin for your teething concerns... which appear to be many.
5. Your bed is not made of rock, nor is it outside in the elements.
6. Your clothes are made from comfy things, such as 'cotton'... not 'barbed wire'.
I fail, then, to understand why screams of terror and perceived abandonment were flowing from your sweet, little toddler-sized mouth.
However, since I am a loving Mother, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Go work in Taiwan.
(That way, your screams of mistreatment will be justified.)
(Mommy and Daddy could also use even a fraction of the money spent on your diapers back, thankyouverymuch...) Which brings me to:
2. Potty-train yourself.
(That way, your diaper will not only NEVER be of concern again (and, believe me, my son... your diapers produce a stench that is of considerable concern)).
3. EAT. MORE.
(That way, you will stay full longer... and not feel the need to suck down more milk than a freaking newborn at 3:22 in the morning.)
4. I really do feel sorry for you about all those sharp little teeth pushing their way through your gums. I do. Could you just find some way of communicating that that is the cause of your tantrum?
(You've mastered the 'feed me' sound of smacking your lips... you have a great handle on the sign for 'please' and can even say the actual word from time-to-time (even if it does sound more like 'mezz')... so is pointing to your mouth while you scream really that hard?)
5. Consider using that nice crib of yours for something other than a podium from which to spout your shrieking monologues.
(That way, Mommy and Daddy will have had the chance to do one (or more) of the following - sleep, have sex for only the third time this year, and/or have conversations that don't necessarily revolve around how ketchup somehow got in our hair after your lunch, the consistency of your diapers, or our rapidly depleting bank account thanks primarily to your rapidly depleting wardrobe. Which brings me to:
6. Consider the fact that Mommy had two older brothers as well as an older sister, meaning that she got boy hand-me-downs as well as girl hand-me-downs... which means, ultimately, that Mommy had to freaking cross-dress for a couple of years. You, my sweet son, are so, so lucky you don't have an older sister.
(This does, however, pose a budgetary dilemma. The rate at which you are growing - lack of sleep and erratic eating habits apparently aside - is freaking us out. You're only 15 months old, and yet you're about one french fry away from 24 month old sizing. Easter is next weekend, and I'm starting to worry that you won't be able to fit into the nice Easter shirt that I bought you last month... even though I bought a bigger size than you currently were.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were able to read, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the shining Beacon of Babyhood that I know you have inside of you.
In all seriousness, I love you with all that I am and then some. You are the most amazing creature I have ever met, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life (and have a strong suspicion that I WILL...) looking after you in any way I can. You are the best son a Mommy could ever have, and I love you now and always.
Now, sleep through the night again or Mama is going to lose her damn mind.
Hugs and Lovies,
Your Mommy
While I'm sure you have a very valid reason for standing up in your crib in the middle of the night, shaking the bars and screaming in a way to cause the cats to hide in fear, I simply do not get it.
The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You do not work in a sweat shop in Taiwan.
2. Your diapers are changed regularly.
3. Your food is not only non-toxic, it is not found in a trash can or other such receptacle, nor is it comprised of feces, the flesh of other babies, or anything containing olives (which are equally as disturbing to your dear Mother).
4. You have ready and immediate supply to Infant's Motrin for your teething concerns... which appear to be many.
5. Your bed is not made of rock, nor is it outside in the elements.
6. Your clothes are made from comfy things, such as 'cotton'... not 'barbed wire'.
I fail, then, to understand why screams of terror and perceived abandonment were flowing from your sweet, little toddler-sized mouth.
However, since I am a loving Mother, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.
1. Go work in Taiwan.
(That way, your screams of mistreatment will be justified.)
(Mommy and Daddy could also use even a fraction of the money spent on your diapers back, thankyouverymuch...) Which brings me to:
2. Potty-train yourself.
(That way, your diaper will not only NEVER be of concern again (and, believe me, my son... your diapers produce a stench that is of considerable concern)).
3. EAT. MORE.
(That way, you will stay full longer... and not feel the need to suck down more milk than a freaking newborn at 3:22 in the morning.)
4. I really do feel sorry for you about all those sharp little teeth pushing their way through your gums. I do. Could you just find some way of communicating that that is the cause of your tantrum?
(You've mastered the 'feed me' sound of smacking your lips... you have a great handle on the sign for 'please' and can even say the actual word from time-to-time (even if it does sound more like 'mezz')... so is pointing to your mouth while you scream really that hard?)
5. Consider using that nice crib of yours for something other than a podium from which to spout your shrieking monologues.
(That way, Mommy and Daddy will have had the chance to do one (or more) of the following - sleep, have sex for only the third time this year, and/or have conversations that don't necessarily revolve around how ketchup somehow got in our hair after your lunch, the consistency of your diapers, or our rapidly depleting bank account thanks primarily to your rapidly depleting wardrobe. Which brings me to:
6. Consider the fact that Mommy had two older brothers as well as an older sister, meaning that she got boy hand-me-downs as well as girl hand-me-downs... which means, ultimately, that Mommy had to freaking cross-dress for a couple of years. You, my sweet son, are so, so lucky you don't have an older sister.
(This does, however, pose a budgetary dilemma. The rate at which you are growing - lack of sleep and erratic eating habits apparently aside - is freaking us out. You're only 15 months old, and yet you're about one french fry away from 24 month old sizing. Easter is next weekend, and I'm starting to worry that you won't be able to fit into the nice Easter shirt that I bought you last month... even though I bought a bigger size than you currently were.)
All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were able to read, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the shining Beacon of Babyhood that I know you have inside of you.
In all seriousness, I love you with all that I am and then some. You are the most amazing creature I have ever met, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life (and have a strong suspicion that I WILL...) looking after you in any way I can. You are the best son a Mommy could ever have, and I love you now and always.
Now, sleep through the night again or Mama is going to lose her damn mind.
Hugs and Lovies,
Your Mommy
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