Thursday, May 28, 2009

Lola vs. SBS

Am I the only one here who turns a little green when their friends get fired due to the crashing economy but somehow manage to get, like, ridiculously sweet severance packages out of it? I mean, seriously, at this point I would completely revel in doing nothing for about six months. Think of all the video games I could actually finish. And the writing I could get done!

So, in order to combat my emerging jealousy, I like to think of inventive ways to get "let go".

Unfortunately I respect (ugh, it's so annoying to like people sometimes) my colleagues so not doing work is out of the question since they will likely bear the brunt of my screwing off. Coming in late isn't really too inventive since most likely my nagging sense of responsibility will rear its ugly head and then I would have to work late to compensate.

Developing tourettes might be interesting. I think for the first day shouting out random strings of curses when someone walks by my office would be really fun. But then it would get pretty exhausting to keep up repetitive involuntary movements for an extended period of time. I could House it up and develop a rare auto-immune disease like sarcoidosis. I chose sarcoidosis because it is very fun to say. Each day I could present a new symptoms and watch my colleagues (with witty repartee and undisguised suspicion over the fact that ALL patients lie) try and diagnose me by using what they have learned from Web MD.

I could go the sexual harassment route but I'm kind of a walking human resource violation to begin with. And since I haven't gotten any slaps on the wrists due to it yet, I guess that's ruled out.

But I think I have found a solution. Sick Building Syndrome (SBS)! I know, it's awesome. Apparently SBS can be linked to time spent in a building, but no specific illness or cause can be identified. All you have to do is prove that the environment in the building is worse than outside the building. Symptoms include headaches; eye, nose, and throat irritation; a dry cough; dry or itchy skin; dizziness and nausea; difficulty in concentrating; fatigue; and sensitivity to odors.

I bet I could get people in on this plan. We could all revolt. One day, one of us could faint. The next day one of us could vomit all over the photocopier. A chorus of, "What is that smell?!! Oh god the humanity!!" would occur at least once every day. And as long as we feel relief once we exit the building, we are home free.

And the best part about SBS is that people have actually sued over it and won!

Now that "going green" is being marketed at every government level, it would be the perfect time to start claiming that you are suffering from SBS. Who's with me?

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Lola vs. The Spider Incident of 2009

As most of you are aware, I'm not the most girliest of girls. (if you're not aware then I refer you to my first post about my teenage boy like tastes) But there are still two things about me that make me a girl. The second I joyously came upon quite recently.
  1. I actually look like one. (Hooray boobs!)
  2. I dissolve into a puddle of incoherent goo when faced with a giant insect, staring me down at 2:33 am.
I now know that the insects in/around my house are conspiring against me. The cricket attack of 2008 had already left me raw and unnerved. But the ginormous hairy black spider incident of 09 was much more insidious. Well versed in the field of mind game tactics, it made the cricket's attempt at head-butting me in my bathroom look like child's play.

A few nights ago during a bout of insomnia, I stumbled out of my room; annoyed, hungry, and bleary-eyed. In the midst of making myself a protein shake, I slowly turned around and my eyes found it. I froze. The monstrosity was fist-sized with a wet, black sheen and as I looked at him; his fangs, I swear, protracted.

I emitted a slow, breathy "Oh my god." At least in my head it sounded slow and breathy. In reality, it was more in the range of a horrified, piercing shriek.

Revulsion shivered across my skin and I panicked. It salivated in between the tops of my cabinets and the ceiling and I couldn't reach it. I blindly searched for a weapon. I grabbed a paper towel roll but I knew, I knew, that if I swatted at it, it would come flying at me. I couldn't see the underbelly of this beast but in my sleep deprived I-have-to-get-up-in-four-hours-to-make-an-early-
mind I imagined that it had a red hour glass on it. So after I was bitten, I would surely lapse into a black-widow coma and expire.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. I would suck it up with my vacuum cleaner! I inwardly rejoiced. Without taking my eyes off of the thing, I inched towards the other side of the room, my arms braced against the sides of the counter top like I was on the ledge of a skyscraper. I turned, opened the door to the broom closet, and grabbed the vacuum. I whirled around-vacuum in hand- and brandished it like a sword.

The spider was gone.

Oh. My. God. I streaked pass the cabinet, jumping up to see if I could see the monster and vaulted into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My eyes drifted to the small space in between my door and the carpet. In my mania, I actually leaped off the bed, procured a dirty towel from my laundry basket, and shoved it violently under the crack. The enemy now had me cornered in my room with my pillow tucked underneath my chin and my knees hugged tightly against my chest.

I had been reduced to a simpering, witless moron. By a spider.

It occurs to me now that if it had been a black widow spider (and it was not- wiki just told me so) paranoid girls everywhere would have celebrated my demise. I mean, seriously, how appropriate! Lola done in by her own nefarious M.O.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Lola vs. Simple Dating Rules Part Deux

Recently I have been accused of attracting the criminally insane. Or at least I find the guy that is just peering over the edge of the crazy abyss and with a saccharine smile and a wave, I shove him right off the precipice. C'est la vie.

That's not entirely true. I just happen to write about the disasters. Simple Dating Rule #2 is thus: The more socially awkward the date is, the more entertained your friends are by your experience. Let's try it out and you can decide which one makes the better story.

Conversation A

Setting: Outside Lola's front porch. Dusk. A slightly nervous, but cute man rings the front door bell. Lola opens the door with a welcoming smile.

Man A: (sincerely) Wow, Lola you look amazing.
Lola: (modestly) Thanks! Where are we off to tonight?
Man A: Well, I wasn't sure what food you liked so I made reservations at two places just in case. An Italian restaurant and an Asian fusion place that got pretty good reviews.
Lola: (pleased) How very planning aheady of you!
Man A: (laughing) Don't give me too much credit. I know we talked about it over the phone and I completely forgot which one you said you liked better.
Lola: (smiling along with Man A) Okay, so I'll revise the previous statement to: How very honest of you! How about Italian?
Man A: I was kinda in the mood for Italian.
(The two then exit, chatting excitedly)

Conversation B

Setting: Lola's living room. She is getting ready for a date when the phone rings.

Lola: (recognizing the caller) Oh Hello Man B. I'm just getting ready.
Man B: (loudly) that you? ... Lola?
Lola: (straining to hear) Yes, it's Lola. Wow, it sounds like you're in a wind tunnel.
Man B: (louder) Lola???? Are you there? Awww, fuck. (hangs up)
(Lola's phone rings again.)
Lola: (answering the phone) Hello?
Man B: Lola! Finally. (pause) What are you wearing?
Lola: Um...what?
Man B: What are you wearing? You know for our date.
Lola: (pausing awkwardly) Black Pants and a top.
Man B: (disappointingly) Oh. (another pause) Well I guess that's OK. (car horn honking) Get out of that lane you- (insert derogatory racial slur here)-! I'm running late.
Lola:(taken aback) Okay, how late?
(unintelligible voices in the background and a string of curses)
Man B: (shouting) Will you be quiet?
Lola: Um... what?
Man B: (annoyed) I wasn't talking to you.
Lola: Who were you talking to, then?
Man B: (pointedly) You just get right to the heavy stuff, don't you? My son, he's in the backseat. I'm dropping him off at my mom's right now.
Lola: I'm sorry, it's just that I can hear him in the background. You never mentioned that you had a son.
Man B: I thought I would ease into that maybe on the third date. (accusatory now) Wait a minute. Are you one of those women who won't go out with a single father?
Lola: (completely and utterly disgusted) No. (severely awkward pause) But since you're running so late, why don't we just do this another time?
Man B: (sarcastically) Yeah, right.

The moral of Conversation B is to never pick up a guy at a chili eating festival. Even if he's a hot firefighter. But I digress!

Hearts and flowers are nice and everything but racism and I-forgot-to-mention-I-had-a-son-that-I-curse-in-front-of makes for a more entertaining story. Wouldn't you say?

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Lola vs. Fat Sundays

This past Sunday Lola's Hang-Over Scale was set to an unusual zero jigawatts due to the fact my recovery from the aforementioned pandemic severely inhibited my going-out quotient for the week. I generally wake up feeling happy that it is a Sunday but this time I had the added bonus of not wanting to vomit out the alcohol from the night before so it was even more glorious! Unfortunately this alcohol-free haze lead me to a sad realization.

Sundays have the unique ability to make you hate and love life at the same time.

Sleeping in and not having to work on a Sunday is possibly one of the best and most enriching experiences that life has to offer. (If you are one of those irritating people who are actually productive on a Sunday, then eff you because you make the rest of us look like slobs.) Knowing that you aren't obligated to do anything besides watch TV, go to the movies, or play video games is like a heavenly slice of heaven-cake, floating on top of heaventastic (Take that, spellcheck!) fluffy clouds.

And speaking of cake, another added and delectable bonus about Sundays is that it is usually considered an all out cheat day. Awhile ago, my siblings and I coined the phrase: Fat-Sunday. This refers to the activity of watching football all day while completely and utterly gorging yourself on fried food, wings, brownies, pizza, mozzarella sticks, gummi bears, Chinese food, and the occasional drum-stick ice-cream cone. Yeah, it's absolutely disgusting. And yet simultaneously, oddly fulfilling.

This Fat-Sunday euphoria lasts until about five o'clock. That's when you start watching the clock, sweating nervously as the time continues to tick away and you get closer and closer to Monday. It goes lightening fast too, as if the rest of the day had been on an entirely different space/time continuum. Up until now, Fat-Sunday has been pure stress-free bliss. But as you rush headlong into night- if you're anything like me- you actually start to get angry and resentful. Because deep down you know that you have to get up early Monday morning; eat grilled flavorless, healthy effing food; and go to that mindless soul-sucking, hell-hole you refer to as a job.

Being a grown-up sucks.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Lola vs. Pandemic Paranoia

So it's been awhile. I'd apologize for it but I was swabbed for the swine flu last week and was unable to make it near any sort of computer due to my insufferable-102-degree-fever-complete-with-night-terrors (or is that sweats?)-and-whooping-cough affliction. Yup, you read it right. I was swabbed for the paranoia-packed pig pandemic (ahhh... alliteration, my old friend, it's been far too long!) that has been causing mass hysteria among both local and national news channels. Yay me!

My plague lasted a total of 8 days. During this time I couldn't read, play video games (death sentence), or use a computer. The only activity I participated in was watching four complete seasons of the West Wing on DVD. I learned something incredibly important about the art of DVD television show watching. Never use the dreaded PLAY ALL feature when you are sick. This only ends up with you falling asleep during one of the shows only to wake up later to find out one of your favorite characters has died. Or is in jail for leaking national security secrets.

In between episodes of the West Wing, I was allowed only minimal human interaction. In fact the only human contact I was able to wring out of my friends and relatives were several trips to my front porch. These trips consisted of them flinging provisions- in most cases fluids and Dole™ strawberry ice pops- onto the steps and then fleeing in abject terror.

My brother was particularly inventive. He tossed the West Wing season 6 onto the porch and then screamed," SWINE FLU!" at the top of his lungs while my neighbors looked on apprehensively. One small, rotund Chinese man actually leaped across the street after my brother's proclamation, dragging his little schnauzer behind him. The only reason why I did not stumble across the street and follow him around the corner with my arms outstretched while emitting a zombie-like wail, was because I only had enough energy left to pick up the DVD and get back on my couch. I actually had a moment of profound sadness when I realized I could not scare the beejeezus out of my neighbor. Does that make me a bad person?

Besides giving me a disturbing need to frighten people, this experience has taught me the value of friendship. For example, my friend Kane promised to be the one to take a shotgun to my zombie face if the Zombie Infection were to, in fact, take over my body. Like some bizarro undead version of Ol' Yeller.

My heart is still all aflutter with your solemn declaration of devotion, Kane.