My car was rifled through last night. No big deal — I must have failed to lock it, because there weren’t any signs of forced entry. It was ransacked, but nothing was destroyed or broken. I think all they took was my CDs, meter change, and maybe a blanket. The funniest part is the visual of a homeless person or ‘hood making off with my fluffy white Hello Kitty CD case filled with folk music. Enjoy, thief!

in the cubicle next to me at work…

“I failed to notice that on your application you checked you had been convicted of a crime.”
pause
“No, that doesn’t necessarily prevent you from being hired, but I can’t read the explanation underneath.”
pause
“Possession of a deadly weapon? Oh. I see. Uhm. What was the weapon?”
pause
“A rooster? Did you just say a rooster?”
pause
“Someone from Texas sent your son a rooster for Easter?”
pause
“The SPCA did what? They came to your house and killed the rooster?”
pause
“They put you in jail for 8 days? For possession of a rooster? Okay.”

A likely story. I can’t wait to meet our new Bird Lady employee. Awesome.

Maggie came up with the idea.

“The de Young is reopening this weekend, and to celebrate, they’re staying open all night long on Saturday night. Admission is free, and I have an idea.I think we should get dressed to the nines, and head over at 3 a.m. on Saturday night. We’ll meet up around midnight for drinks and then head over in the wee hours. Maybe we could even have a picnic on the front steps afterward. What say you?”

The best idea EVER.

A fellow southerner and I recently prepared for our non-Southern friends a feast that rivaled the best post-church Sunday dinner. Fried chicken, cheese grits, collard greens, biscuits, fried okra, and the mandatory ‘nana puddin’ for dessert. We were comparing cookbooks (his from Texas, mine from North Carolina) when I noticed the directions for frying chicken included this: The pan should contain enough oil so that the chicken floats freely (Crisco preferred). It wasn’t until we had used an entire 48 oz. bottle of Crisco, and our chicken still was not floating freely, that I realized the magnitude of that directive. Southerners love their oil.

“So how do you build rapport with groups you have to work with on a regular basis?”

He stared at me for a few seconds, then turned his gaze to the window. “It’s all about credibility. Today I’ll tell you the sky is blue. Tomorrow I’ll tell you the sky is blue. The next day I’ll tell you the sky is blue. Then you trust me. I’ve established credibility with you.”

I stared back at him. Thankfully the words only played in my head, and not out of my mouth. “No, you’ve either stated the obvious, or more likely, if you’re in San Francisco, are oblivious to the weather.”

“You should come to our anniversary party tomorrow night…”

It sounded like fun. I had heard of their website, back when I worked in tech. I had seen them at awards shows. They seemed like fun people. They seemed like they would have a fun party.

“So, like, when everyone walks in, their picture gets taken, and then it’s posted to the web, and it can be rated, hot or not, real time, and we’ll scroll people’s pictures and their scores on the wall, live time. Isn’t that awesome?”

I looked at him in disbelief. Awesome? So not. That was, without a doubt, my absolute worst nightmare. To have someone take a random picture of me, unsuspecting, post it to the web, and then have anyone and their brother rate me? Oh, please no.

But yes. It did happen. Tonight. And as my picture scrolled, 10 feet high, against the barren wall, I noticed (though I tried not to) my score. And smiled. I guess I was hot after all.

Setting:
Interviewing an internal candidate for a job opening.

Characters:
Her, just graduated form college, with our company for about 5 months.
Me, HR Rep, in the workforce for about 15 years.

Scene:
Me: Tell me about a major accomplishment and your role in it.
Her: In college, my advertising club worked on a project for a contest sponsored by Yahoo! We identified an underulitized market, 13-17 year old teens, and came up with a strategy to get them to use more of Yahoo’s services.
Me: Which services did you focus on?
Her: Well, Yahoo! has an instant messaging service, kind of like AOL AIM.

She paused here. I motioned for her to continue, to go on. “It’s a computer service…” I looked at her, about to tell her that I know what it is (how could anyone not???) and she floored me with this comment:

“Maybe your kids know what it is.”

What??? She thinks I have 13-17 year old children. She thinks I don’t know what instant message is? Such a career limiting move.

When Emily sent me the class description, my immediate thought was, “We must do this. Either it’s going to be so wonderfully awful that we’ll laugh about it or it will be so dreadfully fun that we’ll laugh about it. Either way, laughter is guaranteed to ensue.”

The line snaked down the sidewalk, all women, of all varieties. Shy, quiet, girl-next-door fresh faced brunettes. Tragically hip women sporting velour sweats and kohl rimmed eyes. Older women with smart short hair cuts and sensible shoes. Tattooed women with multiple piercings and visually shocking hair. Hippy girlfriends with long unruly locks curling down their peasant bloused backs. And us.

The doors opened a few moments before 11 and we climbed the stairs to the dance studio on the 2nd floor. Once in, Miss Indigo Blue, in red bandana covering her pigtails, obscene rhinestones gracing her earlobes, instructed us to get bare foot and spread out. Her sweet voice and spunky demeanor put us all at ease. She began by teaching us bumps and hip rolls. “Bigger! Bigger!” she encouraged, “Make your butt fill the room!”

Next came the art of the shimmy. “Society’s constantly holding us in. A bra to keep your boobs in place. Being told to tighten your butt. Not here. In burlesque if you’ve got it, shake it.” And she instructed us, step by step, how to make our breasts reverberate, no matter what the size.

Next came tutelage in the sexy walk, both with high heels and without. “Step, pause. I want to see big hips. Huge. Knock over a glass of water on the table with those hips. Bigger! Bigger!” she admonished us. We walked across the room in 3 lines, bumping, twisting, undulating, and surprisingly, comfortable. There was no tension in the air, no uncomfortable, these women from all different walks of life smiling and laughing as we sashayed past each other, embracing our inner burlesque diva.

As a joke, Stas set my cell phone ringer to meow. I abhor ring tones. I don’t want a song to play every time someone calls me; I don’t want an obnoxious racket. I rarely hear my phone when it rings; I’m much less likely to realize I’ve got a call if I don’t hear a traditional ring, ring, ring. I haven’t figured out how to change the ring tone, so for now I’m stuck with a cat in my bag.

While riding BART, I received a call. As I unzipped my purse, the annoying meowing got louder and louder. As I fumbled to open my flip phone, I noticed the passengers near me glancing around and questioning, “Do you hear a cat?” “I didn’t realize animals were allowed on BART.” “Where’s that coming from?”

That settled it. I’m not changing my ring tone. Because now, even when I don’t hear my phone, I’ll know I’ve got a call when people start looking for the cat.

I recently had the opportunity to drive hours through central California with nothing but the radio to entertain me. In one particularly remote area, my channel selection was limited to 4 choices: country, country, country, or country. I chose country. One song captured my attention, not just for its catchy tune, but also because of its delightful lyrics:

She’ll start by kicking out of her shoes
Lose an earring in her drink
Leave her jacket in the bathroom stall
Drop a contact down the sink

Them pantyhose ain’t gonna last too long
If the dj puts Bon Jovi on
She might come home in a tablecloth
Yea, tequila makes her clothes fall off.
Yea, tequila makes her clothes fall off.