STUPID Packers!!!

To: My Fellow NFL (Packers) Draftniks:

From: Sue Sent: Monday, April 30, 2007 1:50 PM To: Liz; Greg; Jeffrey; Kunle
Subject: STUPID Packers

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2007/writers/peter_king/04/29/draft/index.html

Note the reference to our idiots at the bottom of the page. Instead, we burn our #1 on an injured player! SOMEONE needs kicking!!!

From: Kunle Sent: Monday, April 30, 2007 1:53 PM To: Sue; Liz; Greg; Jeffrey
Subject: RE: STUPID Packers

I was thinking when they made the pick @ 16 that somewhere Sue was throwing something out of a window.. I hoped it wasn’t Rick… I can’t even make excuses for the Packers anymore… During the season can I wear Giants gear to work on Packer Fridays & Mondays? I shouldn’t be forced to wear green & gold.

I can’t believed they passed up ALL that

From: Sue Sent: Monday, April 30, 2007 2:01 PM To: Liz; Greg; Jeffrey; Kunle
Subject: STUPID Packers

At this point, yes, you may wear your Giants gear, though I must remind you what they gave up to get Peyton Lite (i.e., Eli). As for our pick, I was NOT a happy camper from that point on through the rest of the weekend (though the laptop did manage to survive the moment unmangled). This reminds me way too much of Wolf’s last draft with his right-hand man (Mike2) begging him to move up in the draft to take… ROBERT FERGUSON. Miami then POUNCED on Chris Chambers. Ack. That would be the same draft that produced our last #1 DE pick – Jamal Reynolds. ACK. ACK. Trained monkees could throw a dart and pick better. I was really worried when Buffalo rose up and snatched Lynch that the Packers brain trust would have a collective melt-down when their board was messed up. (Though they say he wasn’t ever going to be the #1 pick.) They make me crazy. Next year, we grid off Lambeau into, what, nearly 300 grids, write a name of a draft-eligible person in each grid and turn a cow loose. Wherever she plops, that’s who they pick. It’s got to be better than what happened this weekend, PLUS you can sell tickets and beer to lots more people than can be crammed into the Atrium at Lambeau.

MORONS.

NEVER Piss Off The Assistant

Getting Past The Watch Dog

Are you a salesperson? Do you DESPERATELY want to talk to a manager/director of a department? Here’s something you should know:

Your chances of talking to that person are DIRECTLY proportional to the amount of information you readily give to me, The Watch Dog at the Gate.

Let’s take a test:

You: Hello, may I speak to Ms. Smith?

Me: Whom am I speaking with?

You: Dave

Me (still nice): Dave….

You: Jones

Me: (nice with sugar on top): And you’re with…

You: Acme, Inc.

Me: (HEEPS of sugar): And this is regarding…

At this point, the odds of you getting through to talk to Ms. Smith are about the same as George W. Bush’s twin daughters enlisting in the Marines. If I have to drag information out of you kicking and screaming, you are NOT getting through. Beware of sweet Assistants. The sweeter they become in the course of a conversation with you, the higher the likelyhood that W and Nancy Pelosi will become BFF before you get to talk to the boss.


Let’s take another test:

You: Hello, may I speak to Ms. Smith?

Me: Whom am I speaking with?

You: This is a personal friend.

Me (still nice): I appreciate that, but I still need to tell her who is calling.

You: Dave Jones

Me: (nice with sugar on top): One moment, I’ll see if Ms. Smith is available.
(She’s sitting in her office, reading her e-mail and drinking a cup of tea. She is so available, it hurts).

Me: Jane, your close personal friend Dave Jones is on the line.

Ms. Smith Who?

Me (laughing): That’s what I thought!

Me: (HEEPS of sugar): I’m so sorry Dave, but Ms. Smith isn’t answering her page. Would you like to leave a message?

If you think I’m writing down a message to give to Ms. Smith, you probably think there are WMD in Iraq, too. Foolish, foolish you.


How about we take yet another test:

You: Hello, may I speak to Ms. Smith?

Me: Whom am I speaking with?

You: Dave Jones. I’m with Acme, Inc. and I’d like to speak with her about our new whatchamajiggy.

Me (Nice. Really): Dave, hold on a minute and I’ll see if she’s available.

Me: Jane, I have Dave Jones from Acme, Inc. on the line. Would you like to talk to talk to him about his new whatchamajiggy?

Jane: Oh, what the heck. It’s always good to keep up with new whatchamajiggies.

Me: Mr Jones, I’m transferring you to Ms. Smith.


You won’t always get through, because maybe we don’t need a whatchamajiggy or maybe the person you’d like to talk to really IS busy, but, your chances increase exponentially when you’re upfront and honest. Part of my job is to keep pests off the back of my boss. And I’m really good at it. I enjoy it. And if you get snotty or nasty or try to ignore my questions – you are NEVER getting through. But you will provide a few moments of entertainment to me.

Actually, if you’re REALLY snotty and insisting (without telling me why) to talk to my boss, you are going to be sent to “On Hold Purgatory”. I’ll put you on hold, and every time the call rings back to me, I’ll sweetly ask you if you want to continue to hold while I continue to page/track down/ etc. my boss. Meanwhile, I’m going about my business, but I’m not paging. I’m not trying to find my boss At All. Why? You were a snot. You’re going to get frustrated being kept on hold, but you’re not going to ever get through. When my boss walks through (or she may be in her office listening), I’ll explain that there’s a snot on the line who won’t give me any info and in fact has been abusive to me. The very best you can hope for at that point is to give up and let me put you in her voicemail. She’ll delete you for having been abusive to her assistant. Moral:

Never Piss Off the Assistant.

What Not To Do At Job Interviews

Part of the Belfry Cronicles is doling out advice to those who aren't seeking it. Today's topic:

What Not To Do At Job Interviews:

This is from a friend:

“I have been interviewing potential candidates for internships this summer at the office- here are some of the more qualified candidates.

1. A potential intern showed up in jeans and a polo with tennis shoes (he interviewed ok but I thought he was going to cry when he was talking about his childhood-- his father left when he was young-- which made me really uncomfortable – you know how I feel about crying). I feel like bringing up your terrible childhood should not be the answer to -"Tell me about yourself." Within the first minute I knew more about him that I do most of the men I date.
2. When I asked a potential intern "why would you like to work here?" he stated, "Well I am going to be here this summer and it would pretty much be AWESOME" emphasis on awesome.
3. A masters student who I kept telling her she was over qualified. She was so quiet and mouse-like I thought I would break her when I shook her hand. When I asked her what she wanted to do here, she said she really wanted to do outreach, PR, and events. When I asked her what a coworker would say about her she said "I am very quiet and shy". That is exactly what I am looking for – someone who is scared of people to go to events with people.
4. I asked one of the potential applicants, "What made you want to work for Jane Doe Smith?" he replied, "Who is Jane Doe Smith?"
5. At the end of a particularly bad interview I decided to be a little cruel because I am a little cruel. I said to the guy, "So I noticed from the 5th page of your resume that you enjoy playing disc golf with family and friends on weekends and nights because you find it enjoyable." (I was trying to hint that a resume should never be 5 pages, and the fact that you like disc golf and the details of your liking it– has no place on a resume) he responded, "In Europe they are asking for 4 page resumes now." Did the State of Wisconsin move to Europe without my knowledge?

Oh my god these people suck at life.”

If you are any one of these people… STOP IT. You will not be hired!!

You also will not be hired for 99.9% of professional positions if:
1. You show up in tennis shoes. Much less dirty ones.
2. You wear jeans. Extra demerit points if they are torn and/or dirty.
3. You wear t-shirts. Again, extra demerit points if it bears sexually suggestive slogans.
4. Inappropriate displays of skin, tattoos, piercings (especially the nose or lip) or hair colored or styled in avante garde ways to display your personality. If they wanted a unique personality, well… they don’t. Trust me, they don’t.
5. You show up in shorts.
6. You show up in shorts, a torn, dirty t-shirt, dirty tennis shoes with no socks, your hair not combed and garden gloves jammed in your back pocket. (Yes, this really was how someone showed up for a professional interview.)
7. Do not tell them your life story.
8. Keep the resume to no more than 2 pages. If you have to/want to, put under ‘References’ “References Upon Request”. Bring them with you, typed in the same style as the resume.
9. Be aware of your body language. If you look ready to bolt, they’ll let you. Relax. These are friends you just haven’t met yet.
10. Don’t look down. Look people in the eye. Practice firm handshakes.
11. If you don’t believe in yourself, why should they?

What Should You Do?

1. Invest in a good suit (goes for women too!), a nice pair of dress shoes, and a decent haircut.
2. Go to a stylist and have them dress you for success because unless your parents are white collar professionals, you probably haven’t had a role model to help you. And since you may not realize that your parents aren’t stupid yet, a stylist is a must. Someone who specializes in a professional look.
3. You don’t have to dress this way 24/7. It’s a role you have to play and look to get the job, be taken seriously, and get ahead.

The Multiverse

I just read Kurt Vonnegut, Jr’s “Slaughterhouse 5”. First off, this is an excellent book. Secondly, it got me thinking (I know, I know. NEVER a good thing). Specifically, about the whole Tralfamadorian concept of the fourth dimension of time, in which (as goes my understanding) that no one ever dies because they exist continually in moments of time. Billy Pilgrim became unstuck in time and frequently traveled back and forth in time from horrific moments he was enduring to moments he was happy about.

I’ve been a firm believer in Reincarnation since I can remember. I can remember sitting in church (Methodist) as a very small child, listening to the sermon and thinking “that’s not right! That’s not how it works” (heaven/hell). Surprisingly, I have no recollection of piping up with my observations, which means either I did and was promptly shushed and/or squashed (all things considered, the most likely scenario) or, I kept this to myself. Given the family propensity to be tact-free and allow whatever is in one’s head to go straight out into the world, it would be highly unlikely for any child related to my father to keep quiet about this radical notion. But then again, I grew up on a farm, and therefore saw cattle giving birth and came to the conclusion – all on my own – that since cows lick their newborn calves clean and then eat the afterbirth, humans do so as well. And therefore, I was NEVER going to have children. I figured this out at 8. It was about 20 years later when I finally mentioned this to my mother, who was horrified. WHY didn’t I ASK? Well, why would I? Every mammal on the place did this! (As it turns out, I was unable to have kids, so it was a moot point.)

The point being, there is a remote possibility that I kept my thoughts to myself realizing, even at the ripe old age of 3 or 4 that what I was thinking was not at all in tune with my fledgling Christian upbringing. And since the church was filled with very stern Methodists, maybe I should keep quiet. This was the same church where I learned in Sunday School about the differences between races. See, God, when he was making people, made them out of clay and baked them in an oven. The first batch came out too well done (i.e., burnt). These were the Negros. Someone asked what a Negro was (we grew up in a lily white area). Black skin. Oh. The next batch was underdone. These were the Chinese. The teacher hastily included ‘Yellow skin’. Oh. But the next batch was juuusssst right. And these were the white people. The lesson I took away from that: Stay away from ovens. I also thought that white people should have been the underdone group, but, who was I to argue with the teacher? Never argue with the teacher! (My mom was a teacher. We learned never to argue with your mom OR your teacher.) I didn’t mention this lesson either. Probably because it was so strange. Had anyone asked what happened in Sunday School, I’m sure I’d have mentioned learning about God and Ovens. I wonder if my parents would have asked the teacher why the Holocaust was being taught to 5 year olds? Probably not. They were too busy fighting each other to worry about something that happened nearly 20 years before. (And yes, I finally – 20 or 30 years later – mention this bizarre teaching to my mother who was absolutely horrified. I think she’s spent way too much time in her life horrified about things that nest in her children’s minds.)

So against this Methodist backdrop sat my idea that this was not my first life and wouldn’t be my last. Nor was it the ONLY life. One shot and done? Nope. Doesn’t work that way said my outraged new mind. You keep getting chances to make it right. I still believe that. I’m just wondering two things now. The “pre-Slaughterhouse 5” idea is – do you get to pick the time you want to be reincarnated in? In other words, is reincarnation linear? If you die in 1960, do you have to come back in the future? Or, can you choose to reincarnate in 20 AD? Or 2000 BC? In Crete? Before Thera blew up? (Though someone – a whole lot of someone’s – have to be around for that event.) Or Egypt during Pharonic times (though I must admit, my disdain bordering on strong dislike of all things “priestly” stems from there. There’s a search for a certain Egyptian Priest’s tomb right now and when I heard of it, I felt a chill inside and immediately thought ‘let him be. Don’t try to find HIM’). But not Rome. I Definitely do not want Rome. (I think I was a slave once during that time. Being a slave in the Roman Empire would not have been fun. I’ve always despised Rome.) And if the multiverse theory is correct, do your actions in a different place and time mean a different history in that timeline?

My other question (post-Slaughterhouse 5) is: If being reincarnated is the result of having to be re-born over and over again until you get it “right”, does that mean (multiverse theory again) you have to relive THIS timeline/life over and over again until you get IT right?

I really don’t like that idea at all. I do not want to relive the first 20 years of this life. Come to think of it, I don’t want to relive this life at all. It’s been a series of one stupid decision after the next served up on a bed of an unhappy (to say the least) childhood. Which makes it a prime candidate for me having to relive it. Yuck. I SO do not want to do that!!

The Karma of Diets

Pot Pies aside, I have a newly developing theory. I'm still fine tuning this theory, but it goes like this:

Diet = Karma.

Not quiet E=MC2, but close enough to rock 'n roll.

I'm 51 now. When I was 21, I was on a diet to GAIN weight. I am not kidding. This was before bulemia or anorexia, which was good, because I'm sure my mother would've been right there insisting I had one of these diseases. I didn't. I certainly don't now, even if I had, which I didn't. I simply wasn't interested in food. So my doctor set me up on a 3,000 calorie a day diet. After a month, I gave up. I simply could not eat that much food daily! Oh woe was me. Meanwhile, most of my friends and one of my sisters were life members already of the Sisters of Perpetual Dieting. I had no concept of what they were going through. And (here's where Karma began to take notice) I would intentially do rotten, torturess things like eat whatever I wanted (cake, pie, CHOCOLATE) and as much as I wanted right in front them KNOWING THEY COULDN'T. Ha Ha Ha!! Karma hates this sort of thing you know.

Then, at around 27, the clock struck 10pm. My metabolism when from 100mph to about 35mph overnight. I gained weight! Oh joy! I was thrilled. Finally! And I discovered food was good (I know, DUH!) about that same time. I continued to bask in the Dietless wildnerness. Happy with my extrra 20 pouncs (yes, I was THAT much under weight!)

Karma, meanwhile, had not forgotten the indescretions of my youth. Karma does that. It just lies in wait, and then one day, when you least expect it, WHAM. Karma smites thee (me). The clock, for me, struck eleven about 9 years ago when I had to have a partial hysterectomy. I gained more weight. Karma was now giggling. I on the other hand, was baffled. What do you mean I can't eat that? I've ALWAYS eaten that! Lots of that! And that too! Oh yeah (says Karma) go ahead. Ha Ha Ha!! Damned Karma.

Midnight struck right along with menopause. Do you have any idea how hard it is to battle Karma AND Menopause? Alone they are formidable. Together (coupled with the partial hysterectomy), weight gain is no longer a laughing matter to anyone BUT Karma. I still have no clue how to deal with this body that thinks it's a fat warehouse. Stupid body. Stupid Karma. Okay. I promise not to tease anyone EVER again about food they can't eat. So can I have my old metabolism back? Please?

Chicken Pot Pie

Chicken Pot Pie tops the list of comfort foods in my opinion. On any given cold, icy, nasty Wisconsin winter night, the crunch of pastry as I chop the crust up into the soppy "pie" is just heavenly. But why, I ask myself, do I like a Pot Pie so much? You've gotta ask when you admit to yourself that we're not talking homemade yumminess here. Nope, we're talking the bargain brand pot pie that's flour gravy insides filled with one or two tiny pieces of chicken, a microchip or two of carrots. Toss in essence of potatoe and zest of carrot and you've got the classic pot pie of my dreams.

Oh - be sure to burn the crust. My husband, Rick, is convinced my mother had to be a rotten cook because I prefer everything crunchy (i.e., burned). I think it has nothing to do with my mom (who, for the record is an excellent cook, though I must say, her occassional disasters are the stuff family legends are made of). I think it's just that I got used to my own cooking. I'm an okay cook. I do some things really, really well. Most things okay. And some things are requested never to be seen again. So it goes.

Then, there's tapioca pudding. The perfect antidote for nearly any illness not involving the digestive tract (since those types of illnesses are strickly NPO.) And poppyseed cake with White Mountain frosting. And ribs slow cooked All Day Long until they melt when you look at them. And mom's Gingersnap cookies. And lefse, because it reminds me of my Grandma. And mashed potatoes. Lots of mashed potatoes. (Sigh)

Why am I so interested in food you ask? Because I'm on a frickin' diet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This Thong's For You!

When I was learning the English language, a thong was something you wore, in pairs, on your feet. Now, I can't even think the word "thong" without having the image of a certain skimpy undergarment pop into my (too graphic) mind. I tried wearing one, once, just so I'd know if it feels as uncomfortable as it looks. It does. (I'm not wild about flossing my teeth, either ... but at least that has some redeeming social value.)

For the same reason that I don't like thong underwear, I have never been a fan of thong footwear -- or what are now commonly referred to as "flip-flops." I don't like things between my toes (or other parts of my body), and all the flip-flops I've ever tried have literally rubbed me the wrong way, giving me blisters and sore arches. They also tended to fall apart easily, leaving me worse than barefoot.

Thongs are on my mind today because I had to wear a pair for about an hour over the weekend. Oi!

I should explain that Sue and I luxuriated in a tandem pedicure on Saturday, enjoying the lavender scrub and shimmering nail polish while we chatted with the technicians. It was heavenly -- until we realized that neither of us had brought open-toed shoes to wear while the nail polish dried! So we each bought a disposable set of thongs and strolled carefully down the street for 1/2 hour to prevent smudging. Fortunately, the weather was perfect for walking arm in arm, reminiscing and continuing to catch up on 10 years of each others' lives.

But, oh! My feet did NOT enjoy those pedicure thong slippers! For one thing, the sole is about a sixteenth of an inch thick, with no support -- it's just a thin sheet of foam between me and the street. For another, the piece of plastic stuck between my toes was KILLING me ... digging into tender skin that had been left untouched for, lo, these 30 years, since last I wore a shoe which forced itself between my first and second toes.

My dilemma was this: I loved the pedicure. But I owned no shoe that would leave the nail polish unspoiled and allow me to leave the premises without hurting myself -- either between the toes, or by stepping on a sharp object that would cut through the sole of these flimsy flip-flops like a hot knife through butter.

So I went looking for a sturdier alternative. I justified this extravagant purchase by reasoning that I could also wear them as shower shoes when (if) I (ever) went back to the health club.

Surprise! I can't believe what I found! Check out the Okabashi! I never dreamed there was a thong built so sturdy and shaped with the support my feet need, which would also be inexpensive and waterproof! Best of all, the piece that goes between my tender little toes is nicely smooth and rounded, and doesn't hurt at all.

These could be my new favorite pair of summer shoes.

Now I'm thinking I might need a pair in turquois, and one in black, and one in white ....

Oh, and one for the beach, like the woman in this cartoon? Whaddya think?

The Belfry Cronicles

My friend and co-contributor Sharon decided I too need to enter the 21st Century. Therefore, I need something to Blog. What's a Blog, I ask. After being virtually smacked upside the head, Sharon explained the Blog concept to me.

Great! What do I say? Anything you want, she says. Great! Will you help? Sure! What should we call it? She comes up with Cronicles. Which I love, because at least technically, we are. But that doesn't seem enough. So I come up with Belfry (as in Bats In), and so, here we are.