So when I tell people that I'm blogging these days, I usually get one of three responses:
1. Something positive. Either "oh, I'll check it out" or "that sounds fun" or something else harmless and indifferent.
2. Something annoying. Like an Urban Hipster op-ed piece on blogging. Usually something about blogging being "inherently narcissistic." That's eight syllables in two words, so I don't pay attention to these types of comments - usually made by intellectual types. I don't hear them. I'm too busy thinking about me.
3. Something honest, like "That sounds like a waste of time." This one is true. Blogging is nothing if not a waste of time.
That said, I think it's a pretty good waste of time. I think blogging has saved me from wasting time doing things that are an even bigger waste of time. Here are a few things that I've thought of doing recently, but have instead chosen to 'waste time' blogging:
The Vytorin Petition: I've considered starting a petition aimed at the Vytorin Marketing Department - or the agency that is trying to squeeze additional value out of this one idea. They're the people that have the marathon advertising campaign about the two sources of cholesterol (food and family). So the petition would basically state that a) we get it - everyone in your target demographic realizes that there are two causes of cholesterol AND b) stop it - nobody has an aunt named 'Arjuna' and if we did, she wouldn't look like 'spicy tuna'. You've run out of foods that look like people, and you've run out of names that rhyme with foods.
As you can see, I'm pretty passionate about this one. It'll probably get done, even though blogging has stopped me from starting this campaign for the past couple months.
Impulse buys: This didn't used to be such a big deal. Back in the day, this was just a copy of US Weekly at the grocery store checkout. These impulse buys will still happen (how else would I know who wore it best). The impulse buys that blogging stops are the more dangerous, online impulse buys. Like a few nights ago when something made me think of the original New York Seltzer (see 12 oz glass bottles, 1988 - 1993). This random thought led to Google, which led to some discussion board filled with people who think about New York Seltzer way more than they should, which led to an overpriced case of black cherry original New York Seltzer on Craig's List. Keep in mind that this product has not been produced since 1993. Anyway, blogging stopped my quest for seltzer short of providing my MasterCard security code.
Thinking about things that I'll never understand: I'll still overthink small, unimportant things (see last post). But I think the blog stops me from thinking about some of the mysteries of life. Things like "how do fax machines work" or "why doesn't cow waste contain more visible corn - it's pretty much all they eat" or "what goes through a person's head when they decide to buy sweatpants with writing on the butt." These are questions that I've struggled with for quite some time. I used to think about them during long runs in the country (that explains the one about cows). Now I just think about my next blog topic instead. If I'm not blogging enough, that probably means that I'm not running enough.
So thanks for reading this narcissistic waste of time. Oh, and don't try to explain how fax machines work, I enjoy the mystery. If you grew up on a farm and have a decent grasp on the cow/corn thing, feel free to explain. Or if you want to start the Vytorin petition, I'll be the first to sign.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
YIFY Goes Global
I wish I had a unifying theme for this post, but I really don't. Other than: I'm in Europe. Here are a few stories that I'll share via blog so Nate doesn't have to hear me repeat them when I get back next week. . .
I walked into the Haagen-Dazs and in my best Spanish, asked for a chocolate ice cream cone. As with most of the Spanish people I've encountered in the service and foodservice industries, this guy spoke English and replied to me in English, as if he was embarassed at my attempt at the foreign language. But how did he know that I was an English speaker?
Clue #1: I over-do it. Comparative example:
Me (in Barcelona, in translation): "Excuse me, sir, please. I would like chocolate."
Me (at the South Bend Chocolate Company in Indianapolis, in English): "Chocolate."
Clue #2: I try to order way over at the side of the ice cream shop, down toward the end of the ice cream case. Since the scooper is typically centered, this requires an awkward movement for the scooper. But this spot is where I'm out of earshot of other store patrons. No comparative example can be achieved in written form.
Clue #3: I have a bad accent.
He handed me the cone and asked, "Vote for Obama, Hillary or McCain?"
I replied, "How did you know I was American?" This guy knew I spoke English, but I could have been British, right? As much as I try to look and play local, I think I'm as American as they come. So we ended up talking a little about politics, and it's nothing new to say how surprised I was that this Spanish guy knew so much about the American election. But this guy was 17 or 18.
I just arrived in Barcelona via Frankfurt, where I was visiting a college friend, Jens. Jens was a fraternity brother of both Nate and mine, and we keep in semi-contact that grants us just enough permission to call each other up when we're in town in our respective cities. Or in my case, to stay at his house for three days when I'm in Germany.
On Sunday, Jens and I went to cheer on his friend, Fabian, in an adult soccer league. Afterwards, we drove Fabian home, and Fabian asked me what were some differences between the US and Germany. Here's what I came up with:
Pork: the German word for pork is spelled a lot like "swine." Germans eat a lot of pork, and German restaurants feature a lot of different types of pork on their menus. Especially since the word "swine" is unappetizing, I steered clear of this menu item. I told Fabian that in Germany, it's chicken that's the "other white meat." He didn't get the joke.
Hatchbacks: because of space constraints (streets are small) and gas prices (they're at almost $10/gallon. . .), most Germans drive hatchbacks. [I'd insert a joke about hatchbacks here, but this just makes sense].
Screens for Windows: at least in Frankfurt, every house had their windows open without concerns for bugs and mosquitoes flying in. Jens' dad explained that their climate isn't good for mosquitoes, but he anticipates that the climate change is going to affect that.
I hope Europe brings me some sort of ironic or sarcastic realization that will drive my next themed blogpost, but this will have to do.
Any suggestions from you, loyal reader, on hotspots to visit whilst in Barcelona?
I walked into the Haagen-Dazs and in my best Spanish, asked for a chocolate ice cream cone. As with most of the Spanish people I've encountered in the service and foodservice industries, this guy spoke English and replied to me in English, as if he was embarassed at my attempt at the foreign language. But how did he know that I was an English speaker?
Clue #1: I over-do it. Comparative example:
Me (in Barcelona, in translation): "Excuse me, sir, please. I would like chocolate."
Me (at the South Bend Chocolate Company in Indianapolis, in English): "Chocolate."
Clue #2: I try to order way over at the side of the ice cream shop, down toward the end of the ice cream case. Since the scooper is typically centered, this requires an awkward movement for the scooper. But this spot is where I'm out of earshot of other store patrons. No comparative example can be achieved in written form.
Clue #3: I have a bad accent.
He handed me the cone and asked, "Vote for Obama, Hillary or McCain?"
I replied, "How did you know I was American?" This guy knew I spoke English, but I could have been British, right? As much as I try to look and play local, I think I'm as American as they come. So we ended up talking a little about politics, and it's nothing new to say how surprised I was that this Spanish guy knew so much about the American election. But this guy was 17 or 18.
I just arrived in Barcelona via Frankfurt, where I was visiting a college friend, Jens. Jens was a fraternity brother of both Nate and mine, and we keep in semi-contact that grants us just enough permission to call each other up when we're in town in our respective cities. Or in my case, to stay at his house for three days when I'm in Germany.
On Sunday, Jens and I went to cheer on his friend, Fabian, in an adult soccer league. Afterwards, we drove Fabian home, and Fabian asked me what were some differences between the US and Germany. Here's what I came up with:
Pork: the German word for pork is spelled a lot like "swine." Germans eat a lot of pork, and German restaurants feature a lot of different types of pork on their menus. Especially since the word "swine" is unappetizing, I steered clear of this menu item. I told Fabian that in Germany, it's chicken that's the "other white meat." He didn't get the joke.
Hatchbacks: because of space constraints (streets are small) and gas prices (they're at almost $10/gallon. . .), most Germans drive hatchbacks. [I'd insert a joke about hatchbacks here, but this just makes sense].
Screens for Windows: at least in Frankfurt, every house had their windows open without concerns for bugs and mosquitoes flying in. Jens' dad explained that their climate isn't good for mosquitoes, but he anticipates that the climate change is going to affect that.
I hope Europe brings me some sort of ironic or sarcastic realization that will drive my next themed blogpost, but this will have to do.
Any suggestions from you, loyal reader, on hotspots to visit whilst in Barcelona?
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Pleased to Meet You
I have a bad habit of overthinking things that could be classified as unimportant and then making big decisions without really thinking about them. My college decision was based on the golf coach. The golf coach who retired before I started college. We bought our house (or the dirt where we would have the house built) on the first morning of our house hunt. We didn't even make it to the suburb where we were planning to look.
One of the seemingly unimportant things that I spend lots of time thinking about is how to introduce Kate when she meets people that I already know. Most people would classify this as unimportant or just reactionary. Most people would just say "Hi (insert acquaintance name), this is my wife, Kate." I've never really liked this approach. It seems old-fashioned and possessive to me. Like it's some kind of code for saying "This is the woman who cooks the family supper while I tend to the land." Also, of all of the things that she does and is, I don't think being "my wife" is the most impressive. It isn't something she'd put on her resumé. So "this is my wife, Kate" is out.
I've also tested out "Hi (insert acquaintance name), this is Kate." What I've found is that when I avoid using any label/title, people start thinking that you have some kind of complicated relationship that is too complex to sum up in one word. Like we're some kind of Jerry and Elaine or Ross and Rachel or Dawson and Joey or Seth and Summer couple. This is clearly not the case. So using no title/label won't work.
Lately I've gone with "Hi (insert acquaintance name), this is Kate, my wife. This method puts her in front of the possessive "my wife" but the downside is that usually as soon as someone hears the name, they don't wait through the comma pause to hear the title - they just usually go in for the awkward handshake or side-hug. So even though this is the method that I'm going with right now, I'm not convinced that it's the best.
There are definitely worse introduction techniques. Kate and I had a former coworker who always led with "This is my Beautiful Wife [pause] (insert wife's name). That one was really bad. Whenever I'd see her around the office, I'd just think of her husband's introduction and I'd throw up a little bit. We had another coworker who was in her mid 30s and thought that the term 'boyfriend' seemed too high school, so she'd just refer to him as her 'partner'. That one would lead to people making false assumptions about her sexual orientation. I guess 'partner' is one of those words that no longer means what it used to mean - sort of like 'urban' no longer has anything to do with living in a city.
So if you've met me and you haven't met Kate, just come right up and say "oh you must be Kate - I've heard so much about you." Or I guess you can just stand there and watch me struggle through the introduction - that's probably what I'd do. If you have any suggestions on this one, let me know. Even if you're suggestion is for me to stop thinking about stuff like this.
One of the seemingly unimportant things that I spend lots of time thinking about is how to introduce Kate when she meets people that I already know. Most people would classify this as unimportant or just reactionary. Most people would just say "Hi (insert acquaintance name), this is my wife, Kate." I've never really liked this approach. It seems old-fashioned and possessive to me. Like it's some kind of code for saying "This is the woman who cooks the family supper while I tend to the land." Also, of all of the things that she does and is, I don't think being "my wife" is the most impressive. It isn't something she'd put on her resumé. So "this is my wife, Kate" is out.
I've also tested out "Hi (insert acquaintance name), this is Kate." What I've found is that when I avoid using any label/title, people start thinking that you have some kind of complicated relationship that is too complex to sum up in one word. Like we're some kind of Jerry and Elaine or Ross and Rachel or Dawson and Joey or Seth and Summer couple. This is clearly not the case. So using no title/label won't work.
Lately I've gone with "Hi (insert acquaintance name), this is Kate, my wife. This method puts her in front of the possessive "my wife" but the downside is that usually as soon as someone hears the name, they don't wait through the comma pause to hear the title - they just usually go in for the awkward handshake or side-hug. So even though this is the method that I'm going with right now, I'm not convinced that it's the best.
There are definitely worse introduction techniques. Kate and I had a former coworker who always led with "This is my Beautiful Wife [pause] (insert wife's name). That one was really bad. Whenever I'd see her around the office, I'd just think of her husband's introduction and I'd throw up a little bit. We had another coworker who was in her mid 30s and thought that the term 'boyfriend' seemed too high school, so she'd just refer to him as her 'partner'. That one would lead to people making false assumptions about her sexual orientation. I guess 'partner' is one of those words that no longer means what it used to mean - sort of like 'urban' no longer has anything to do with living in a city.
So if you've met me and you haven't met Kate, just come right up and say "oh you must be Kate - I've heard so much about you." Or I guess you can just stand there and watch me struggle through the introduction - that's probably what I'd do. If you have any suggestions on this one, let me know. Even if you're suggestion is for me to stop thinking about stuff like this.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Seat's Saved
People make a big deal about seating assignments. Everyone has an airplane story about being stuck between the wrong seatmates which, OMG, made it the longest ride of their lives!!!! But it's true--the wrong seat assignment can ruin a trip or any situation, really. Nowadays, I avoid flying Southwest altogther to ensure I can reserve a window or aisle (depending on the length of the trip). Even knowing you're stuck in the middle is worse than getting on the plane and being forced into it. But getting a good seat assignment is worth bragging about; just ask me about my first class trip to Buenos Aires.
Outside of airlines, seating assignments are important, too. In grade school, classmates wished they had my last name--mine starts with "T"--because it earned me a consistent spot in the fourth or fifth row back from the teacher. Out of the teacher's eye, you could get away trading Garbage Pail Kids and playing pencil pop.
But you know me; I wasn't throwing spitwads with the Smiths, Thomases and Youngs. No, I was taking notes and tucking in my collared shirt. Sidenote: the one time I took advantage of my back-of-the-class last name position, I folded and flicked a paper football. Just my luck: it landed near the eye of this girl named Kathryn. She claimed it hit her in the eye and blinded her. No worries, gentle readers: her eyes are fine. I see her walking around downtown without the aid of eyeglasses, or even contacts. My punishment for launching this "missle" ("missle" was the word used on the "Pink Slip" I carried with me) in the seventh grade was my first trip to the principal's office. For those curious, I received my one (and only) in-school punishment. My assigned seat for the following day was ISS, or "in school suspension" with the vice principal. Kathryn, I hope you're happy.
In middle school gym class, we started every class by sitting in assigned rows on the gym floor. This seated line-up eased the attendance process for our gym teachers before we embarked on learning a new hybrid ball sport that the gym teacher made up (e.g. basketrugby). I'm not making this up. The worst part was that we had multiple-choice (remember ScanTron?) tests on the rules to the gym teacher's fake game. You know me; I could have used some more practice on basketball.
Swimming competitively earned me a pass out of high school gym class, though the assigned seat concept was fairly consistent in classes through high school. I went to a high school of 3,000+ students, and I wonder if my seating assignments for four years resulted in my knowing the R, S, U, and V last namers moreso than the those with last names starting with the beginning letters of the alphabet. Probably not, because at my high school graduation, I sat next to a guy I'd never met in my four years of going to high school. His last name also started with "T-A."
The idea of assigned seats faded in college, but my assigned seat at my college graduation was next to my ex-girlfriend. Those four-and-a-half hours passed with a little awkward small talk and a lot of sweating under my black cap & gown.
Assigned seats give everyone a sense of belonging, a spot in the world. Just think how many awkward tray-holding moments I'd have avoided by having an assigned seat in the middle school lunchroom. My parents knew the potential trouble with unassigned seats at mealtime, and assigned my three sisters and me to permanent spots around our kitchen table (we also had assigned spots in the family station wagon). But people crave routines, and I think we prefer assignments to a free-for-all. Just think: people tend toward sitting in the same spot, even when it's not assigned.
My first job out of college, I had an assigned desk in an abandoned floor of the bankrupt company's headquarters. I shared the full floor with four other people. The desk (and the entire company) felt like a jail cell. Ironically, my first seating assignment at my current company was in a large, windowless closet. Despite the size, we had some good times there. We named it "The Den," and on Fridays, I'd blast "Do You Realize??" by the Flaming Lips on my sweet computer speakers. I miss those days.
I'm switching to a new job at work. And the new job is in a different department, which means a new desk assignment. This might end up being great. But I'm just so used to walking into work, saying hey to my workboo, hugging Nate (see earlier post), then powering up my brain and computer at my assigned desk. Nate and I sit next to each other. We have postcards of our travels on the wall. We know "who tall" people are. We have The Abuse Robot as a pet. We like our neighbors.
So now it's new job, new seat. I'll let you know how the new assignment sits with me.
Outside of airlines, seating assignments are important, too. In grade school, classmates wished they had my last name--mine starts with "T"--because it earned me a consistent spot in the fourth or fifth row back from the teacher. Out of the teacher's eye, you could get away trading Garbage Pail Kids and playing pencil pop.
But you know me; I wasn't throwing spitwads with the Smiths, Thomases and Youngs. No, I was taking notes and tucking in my collared shirt. Sidenote: the one time I took advantage of my back-of-the-class last name position, I folded and flicked a paper football. Just my luck: it landed near the eye of this girl named Kathryn. She claimed it hit her in the eye and blinded her. No worries, gentle readers: her eyes are fine. I see her walking around downtown without the aid of eyeglasses, or even contacts. My punishment for launching this "missle" ("missle" was the word used on the "Pink Slip" I carried with me) in the seventh grade was my first trip to the principal's office. For those curious, I received my one (and only) in-school punishment. My assigned seat for the following day was ISS, or "in school suspension" with the vice principal. Kathryn, I hope you're happy.
In middle school gym class, we started every class by sitting in assigned rows on the gym floor. This seated line-up eased the attendance process for our gym teachers before we embarked on learning a new hybrid ball sport that the gym teacher made up (e.g. basketrugby). I'm not making this up. The worst part was that we had multiple-choice (remember ScanTron?) tests on the rules to the gym teacher's fake game. You know me; I could have used some more practice on basketball.
Swimming competitively earned me a pass out of high school gym class, though the assigned seat concept was fairly consistent in classes through high school. I went to a high school of 3,000+ students, and I wonder if my seating assignments for four years resulted in my knowing the R, S, U, and V last namers moreso than the those with last names starting with the beginning letters of the alphabet. Probably not, because at my high school graduation, I sat next to a guy I'd never met in my four years of going to high school. His last name also started with "T-A."
The idea of assigned seats faded in college, but my assigned seat at my college graduation was next to my ex-girlfriend. Those four-and-a-half hours passed with a little awkward small talk and a lot of sweating under my black cap & gown.
Assigned seats give everyone a sense of belonging, a spot in the world. Just think how many awkward tray-holding moments I'd have avoided by having an assigned seat in the middle school lunchroom. My parents knew the potential trouble with unassigned seats at mealtime, and assigned my three sisters and me to permanent spots around our kitchen table (we also had assigned spots in the family station wagon). But people crave routines, and I think we prefer assignments to a free-for-all. Just think: people tend toward sitting in the same spot, even when it's not assigned.
My first job out of college, I had an assigned desk in an abandoned floor of the bankrupt company's headquarters. I shared the full floor with four other people. The desk (and the entire company) felt like a jail cell. Ironically, my first seating assignment at my current company was in a large, windowless closet. Despite the size, we had some good times there. We named it "The Den," and on Fridays, I'd blast "Do You Realize??" by the Flaming Lips on my sweet computer speakers. I miss those days.
I'm switching to a new job at work. And the new job is in a different department, which means a new desk assignment. This might end up being great. But I'm just so used to walking into work, saying hey to my workboo, hugging Nate (see earlier post), then powering up my brain and computer at my assigned desk. Nate and I sit next to each other. We have postcards of our travels on the wall. We know "who tall" people are. We have The Abuse Robot as a pet. We like our neighbors.
So now it's new job, new seat. I'll let you know how the new assignment sits with me.
Friday, May 16, 2008
House For Sale
As many of you already know, Kate and I are selling our house. I guess we technically aren't 'selling' it, but we are decorating our lawn with a big sign and cleaning more often than we usually do. There are a few positives that have come out of this whole house selling experience:
1. Our house always smells like chocolate chip cookies
2. I'm able to spend more time and money on my lawn and chalk it up as an investment in 'curb appeal'
3. Gilbert is getting more exercise. I have to walk him during showings, and for some reason people like to spend lots of time in our house. 45 minutes to see our house? Seriously...I don't think I spent that much time touring Graceland.
Anyway, if I've learned anything from HGTV and TLC, it's that selling a house is usually a sentimental time for the house sellers. For some reason it doesn't really feel like that for Kate and I. Maybe it's because we're not really sentimental people. We always mention that when we watch Wife Swap or The Biggest Loser and the reunited couples always freak out like the husband has been in Iraq for 12 months, as opposed to just being in Cleveland for the past 2 weeks or being at adult fat camp for 10 weeks. I think we'd just say "hey, how's it going" and then Kate would probably start telling me stories about what happened at her work while I was away in reality television land.
I also think that the non-sentimental move might be a result of our experience in our house. It has been a good house. Nothing has really gone wrong. I don't have any stories about when the pipes burst, or when the basement flooded. Also, we don't know our neighbors at all. I've met them a few times over the past four years, but still don't know their names. I've considered stealing the neighbor's mail just long enough to get his first name, but I hear that's a federal offense.
We also don't really have any of those coffee commercial memories in our house. No Christmas mornings or family Thanksgivings or anything like that. We do have a few lasting memories:
1. The time the church bus stopped at our house and asked Kate if her parents were home and if she would be interested in going to Jesus Camp for the summer. I think she was 25 at the time.
2. The two times that our rural Indiana, cookie-cutter neighborhood has been featured on the local news station. Once for a neighbor shooting her boyfriend and the other time for people breaking into cars and stealing purses and iPods. We were so proud. Since we don't really talk to our neighbors, we probably wouldn't have known about either of these occurrences if it wasn't for our 90 seconds of fame on the Indy news.
Thanks for stopping by for this trip down memory lane. Oh, and if you're looking for a new house, just let me know. You can help yourself to a cookie.
1. Our house always smells like chocolate chip cookies
2. I'm able to spend more time and money on my lawn and chalk it up as an investment in 'curb appeal'
3. Gilbert is getting more exercise. I have to walk him during showings, and for some reason people like to spend lots of time in our house. 45 minutes to see our house? Seriously...I don't think I spent that much time touring Graceland.
Anyway, if I've learned anything from HGTV and TLC, it's that selling a house is usually a sentimental time for the house sellers. For some reason it doesn't really feel like that for Kate and I. Maybe it's because we're not really sentimental people. We always mention that when we watch Wife Swap or The Biggest Loser and the reunited couples always freak out like the husband has been in Iraq for 12 months, as opposed to just being in Cleveland for the past 2 weeks or being at adult fat camp for 10 weeks. I think we'd just say "hey, how's it going" and then Kate would probably start telling me stories about what happened at her work while I was away in reality television land.
I also think that the non-sentimental move might be a result of our experience in our house. It has been a good house. Nothing has really gone wrong. I don't have any stories about when the pipes burst, or when the basement flooded. Also, we don't know our neighbors at all. I've met them a few times over the past four years, but still don't know their names. I've considered stealing the neighbor's mail just long enough to get his first name, but I hear that's a federal offense.
We also don't really have any of those coffee commercial memories in our house. No Christmas mornings or family Thanksgivings or anything like that. We do have a few lasting memories:
1. The time the church bus stopped at our house and asked Kate if her parents were home and if she would be interested in going to Jesus Camp for the summer. I think she was 25 at the time.
2. The two times that our rural Indiana, cookie-cutter neighborhood has been featured on the local news station. Once for a neighbor shooting her boyfriend and the other time for people breaking into cars and stealing purses and iPods. We were so proud. Since we don't really talk to our neighbors, we probably wouldn't have known about either of these occurrences if it wasn't for our 90 seconds of fame on the Indy news.
Thanks for stopping by for this trip down memory lane. Oh, and if you're looking for a new house, just let me know. You can help yourself to a cookie.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Voluntelling
Nate posts more than me. I admire his commitment to the yourselfinfiveyears readers. I also admire Nate's ability to stay direct with me in his attempts to get me to blog more.
"Did you blog?" he'll ask me in the morning (post-hug). Other times, he'll say, "you need to blog tonight. Blog about [insert topic]."
That's something you have to admire about Nate: he's direct. Me? I'm more passive aggressive. It's a skill (?) that I learned over time that helps me to fulfill my lifelong quest to avoid controversy. (As a sidenote: earlier this year, I dedicated myself to "boldness" in 2008. I'm attempting to embrace the benefits that can result from speaking your mind. So far, that boldness has landed me with exactly zero dates, and some upset friends and family members). But, back to 'voluntelling.' Here's an example.
Last week, I was on a client call, and it went something like this:
Me: "Sorry to volunteer you, Charles, but I'm wondering if you could [insert task]"
Charles: "Sure, no problem."
Client: "Um, I don't think that's called 'volunteering,' R. J., I think that's called 'voluntelling.'"
Since then, this hybrid verb, 'voluntelling,' has shown up repeatedly in my life. I submitted an entry to Urban Dictionary for it. Not only because it's funny, but because there are so many times throughout a day that voluntelling is used as a way to instrust, ask or demand someone to do something.
I got a taste of my own medicine last week when I was voluntold to share my allotment of two swimming lanes at the weekly swim lesson I teach. In this instance, the aquatics director approached me on the pool deck:
Her: "Hi R. J."
Me: "Hi"
Her: "I wanted to run something past you"
Me: "Sure, what's going on?"
Her: "You don't mind giving one of your swim lanes to Peter"
Me: ". . . "
I had no response.
Because there was no response; there was no question! To voluntell is to make a statement that's cleverly diguised as a question, but it's positioned in a way you can't refuse. Or if you do refuse, you're going to later say, "you know, that really wasn't worth it." Because it just wasn't. So instead, you agree. Or don't say anything in response. Because the voice and inflection made you think it was a question. And you were momentarily under the spell. A swaying pocketwatch. You're getting sleepy. You've been told. Voluntold.
So this week, be on the look out for:
"you wouldn't mind if. . . "
"sorry to volunteer you. . . "
"you can't see. . ."
"you probably wouldn't. . . "
"you don't care. . ."
"sorry that I didn't mention it earlier. . . "
I'm sure there are others. Sorry to ask, but you wouldn't mind commenting on what I'm missing on this list.
"Did you blog?" he'll ask me in the morning (post-hug). Other times, he'll say, "you need to blog tonight. Blog about [insert topic]."
That's something you have to admire about Nate: he's direct. Me? I'm more passive aggressive. It's a skill (?) that I learned over time that helps me to fulfill my lifelong quest to avoid controversy. (As a sidenote: earlier this year, I dedicated myself to "boldness" in 2008. I'm attempting to embrace the benefits that can result from speaking your mind. So far, that boldness has landed me with exactly zero dates, and some upset friends and family members). But, back to 'voluntelling.' Here's an example.
Last week, I was on a client call, and it went something like this:
Me: "Sorry to volunteer you, Charles, but I'm wondering if you could [insert task]"
Charles: "Sure, no problem."
Client: "Um, I don't think that's called 'volunteering,' R. J., I think that's called 'voluntelling.'"
Since then, this hybrid verb, 'voluntelling,' has shown up repeatedly in my life. I submitted an entry to Urban Dictionary for it. Not only because it's funny, but because there are so many times throughout a day that voluntelling is used as a way to instrust, ask or demand someone to do something.
I got a taste of my own medicine last week when I was voluntold to share my allotment of two swimming lanes at the weekly swim lesson I teach. In this instance, the aquatics director approached me on the pool deck:
Her: "Hi R. J."
Me: "Hi"
Her: "I wanted to run something past you"
Me: "Sure, what's going on?"
Her: "You don't mind giving one of your swim lanes to Peter"
Me: ". . . "
I had no response.
Because there was no response; there was no question! To voluntell is to make a statement that's cleverly diguised as a question, but it's positioned in a way you can't refuse. Or if you do refuse, you're going to later say, "you know, that really wasn't worth it." Because it just wasn't. So instead, you agree. Or don't say anything in response. Because the voice and inflection made you think it was a question. And you were momentarily under the spell. A swaying pocketwatch. You're getting sleepy. You've been told. Voluntold.
So this week, be on the look out for:
"you wouldn't mind if. . . "
"sorry to volunteer you. . . "
"you can't see. . ."
"you probably wouldn't. . . "
"you don't care. . ."
"sorry that I didn't mention it earlier. . . "
I'm sure there are others. Sorry to ask, but you wouldn't mind commenting on what I'm missing on this list.
The Notebook
Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a tribute to the Nicholas Sparks novel, or a tribute to the dreamy Ryan Gosling. This is a post about the notebook that one of my friends keeps on her desk at work.
The notebook is a list of words that shouldn't be used. Ever. There are all kinds of words in the notebook. Some are corporate buzzwords, while others are just words that give you a sick to your stomach feeling when you hear them. Here is a random sample of words that are currently listed in the notebook:
Crisp
Chutney
Secrete
Morsel
Curdle
The notebook has been a part of our office culture for years. I say 'years' because it was there when I started, and I'm too lazy to find out when the notebook was actually created. I think 'years' also adds to the legend of the notebook.
The notebook is democratic. Anyone can offer a word to add, and submissions are rarely vetoed. Words don't even have to be used in the office to be added. The creator of the notebook went to the pet store with her daughter over the weekend, and that's how 'newt' was added to the list.
I think everyone has a notebook in their head. Just a list of words that you don't use for whatever reason. When you hear these words, you stop listening to the notebook violator. If you'd like to share some of the words in your notebook, post them as comments. There's a good chance that they are already in the notebook. Oh, and keep it clean...this is a family blog. Seriously...my parents read this stuff.
The notebook is a list of words that shouldn't be used. Ever. There are all kinds of words in the notebook. Some are corporate buzzwords, while others are just words that give you a sick to your stomach feeling when you hear them. Here is a random sample of words that are currently listed in the notebook:
Crisp
Chutney
Secrete
Morsel
Curdle
The notebook has been a part of our office culture for years. I say 'years' because it was there when I started, and I'm too lazy to find out when the notebook was actually created. I think 'years' also adds to the legend of the notebook.
The notebook is democratic. Anyone can offer a word to add, and submissions are rarely vetoed. Words don't even have to be used in the office to be added. The creator of the notebook went to the pet store with her daughter over the weekend, and that's how 'newt' was added to the list.
I think everyone has a notebook in their head. Just a list of words that you don't use for whatever reason. When you hear these words, you stop listening to the notebook violator. If you'd like to share some of the words in your notebook, post them as comments. There's a good chance that they are already in the notebook. Oh, and keep it clean...this is a family blog. Seriously...my parents read this stuff.
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