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New Year's Predictions

12/30/2016

This week, a friend of mine, Tracy, posted this picture on Facebook:

What did you see?

Now, I’m not one to judge whether or not this is truly a magical Word Seek puzzle, but it looks like this is what I have to look forward to in 2017:

1. Fulfilment
Now, while the Merriam Webster Dictionary does list this as an acceptable variant to “fulfillment,” it still looks like a typo to me. I’ve found over the years that when Mitzi lists something as a variant, it translates to “it’s not technically a typo, but everyone will think you spelled it wrong, so just go ahead and change it to the more commonly accepted spelling before the other copyeditors and proofreaders make fun of you.”
So what I think the universe is trying to tell me is that there are many, many editing jobs coming my way in 2017.

2. Beach Body
This may come as a surprise, because I have zero self-confidence and I’m a woman living in a society that constantly tells us we’re fat, hideous trolls, but I’m okay with my body right now. See, the colitis, while kind of awful what with the constant stomach pain and the inability to do everyday things like go out for a meal or take a walk (can’t be that far away from a bathroom), is great for maintaining weight loss. So thank you, Word Seek magician, for promising me a killer bod, but what it sounds like you’re promising me is more colitis in 2017.

3. Happiness
Hey, happiness! Who couldn’t use more of that? This is good news, right?
. . . But here’s the thing. Aren’t we kind of in control of our own happiness?

Don’t get me wrong. Bad things happen all the time. But it’s our reaction to those bad things that determines our mental well-being, isn’t it? Now I know this might seem ridiculous, coming from Gloomy McCrankypants here, but I do believe we make our own happiness. Take a look at those last two entries. Now, both my husband and my editing partner can attest that I certainly could’ve gone off on a rant for hours about that missing L in fulfillment. Or I could’ve lamented how absolutely crappy (pun intended) colitis is. But if we tweak our responses, just a little bit, to the stimuli around us, our whole world can change. More typos means more work for me, doing one of the things I love most in the world: correcting other people’s grammar. Colitis means a closet full of skinny jeans, and the perfect excuse to eat jelly beans for dinner. So yes, magic 2017 Word Seek puzzle, I believe you. Happiness is attainable in 2017.

I hope the new year brings all of you happiness. And if it doesn’t, well, then, in the words of Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, you lay the smack down on 2017’s candy butt* (*edited for Mom) and make it make you happy. (Because if nothing else, Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson also makes me happy.)

Happy Holidays!

12/23/2016

Merry Christmas, everyone!

I've been running around all day, have baking and wrapping to do tonight, and this weekend belongs to family, so I'm taking this week off from blogging. But in the spirit of the holiday, I'll leave you with this: my absolute favorite Christmas cartoon ever, a Foxtrot strip from way back in 1997 (copyright Bill Amend, please don't sue me, sir). It's Jason's line in the last panel that cracks me up every time.

A Very Longo Christmas

12/15/2016

I suspect I wasn’t always a grinch at the holidays. (Maybe I was; I do have a reputation among my family for being cranky, but I think that’s an everyday thing, not just around Christmas.) Let’s travel back in time to when I was a kid, when we’d celebrate the holidays on the farm.

Decorating the house was always something we girls did together—Dad was a farmer, after all, and had to work a lot. So Mom, my sister Kim, and I would climb up in the attic, sort through the boxes of old baby clothes (really, Mom, I think it’s safe to toss those now) and magazines (ditto those, Mom) until we found the one we needed. Marked “Xmas” with a Sharpie and held together with dusty masking tape, this was our box of holiday cheer.

If you haven’t gotten a sense of this yet, my mother is not one to throw things out. A construction-paper Santa face with cotton balls glued on for the beard that Kim made in nursery school? That can go on the window in the kitchen! A wreath made out of Play-Doh and toothpicks that looks nothing like a wreath and very much like a mutated hedgehog? Perfect for the front door! With our house now properly festooned in “kindergarten tag sale” décor, we were ready to go get a tree.

Dad had planted some Christmas spruces out in the back—the way, way back, as this was a farm with lots of land—so getting a tree should’ve been fairly easy. Hop in the truck with a chainsaw, pick one out, and haul it up the driveway, right? Not so much. First off, everyone had to go. It didn’t matter if you were deathly ill or unwilling to leave the house in -20 degree weather or that the truck really sat three, not four. We all had to go or face my mother’s wrath, something we’ve tried to avoid most of our lives. So we’d pile in, me with Kim on my lap (her bony butt digging into my thighs are a painful memory to this day) and drive out back over rugged terrain. Kim and I would shiver, tears frozen to our face, as Mom would pick out a tree, then Dad would say, “Too tall. What about this one?” to which Mom would reply, “Not full enough.” What should’ve taken ten minutes often took three hours, a family excursion in which the only input Kim and I had was to occasionally comment, “Mom, I think Kim has hypothermia. She might be passing out . . . she’s down . . . Mom!”

Once our tree was selected and hauled back to the house, out came the ornaments. Again, anything we’d ever made in grade school was carefully wrapped and saved, so you never knew what would come out of the ornament box: a Styrofoam ball with a shoelace glued to it; Popsicle sticks colored with markers and nail polish. Our ornaments were hideous and tacky. Makes me a bit misty-eyed remembering them now, I’ll admit, but I’m just a sentimental fool when it comes to Elmer’s glue and felt scraps.

Once everything was up, decorated, wrapped, and ready to go, the waiting started. And the worrying. I wasn’t always the best kid. One time, I threw a tap shoe at my sister. Another time, I swiped a can of rubber cement from my third-grade classroom and made a giant rubber cement ball. Would Santa forgive me these egregious errors in judgement and bring me a gift? Or would I be looking at a lump of coal come Christmas morn? (“Do you know what the price of coal per short ton is these days?” Dad would say. “We should all be so lucky to get coal in our stockings!”) I’d toss and turn Christmas Eve, practicing my “I’m not bothered that Kim got all the cool gifts and all I have is this combustible rock that Dad wants to sell on the black market” face. Eventually, I’d pass out from exhaustion.

Christmas morning, I’d wake up early, creep down to Kim’s room, and fall asleep again in her bed. We weren’t allowed to wake up Mom before six or seven, and Dad would be out milking, so it seemed like the thing to do. Eventually, we’d rouse our mother, who would get a cup of coffee, say “Merry Christmas!” in a sing-song voice, and sit at the kitchen table to wait for Dad to finish his morning chores. Though the wait was agonizing, it wasn’t all bad—Mom was okay with letting us eat popcorn balls and cookies while we sat.

There was nothing sweeter than the sound of Dad’s work boots coming up the back stairs those mornings. Usually after having milked cows and fed heifers for three hours, Dad would want to clean up a bit, but I don’t think we let him do much more than run his hands under cold water for 3.3 seconds before we pestered him into the living room. I had to know: did Santa come? Or was my rubber-cement ball too great a sin to forgive?

Kim and I unfolded the accordion-style living room door. There, on the table, was a Hot Wheels race track for her, and . . . what was that? Could it be? A Strawberry Shortcake snail cart, complete with Huckleberry Pie?

Thank you, Santa. Thank you for still loving me despite my imperfections. And thank you, Mom and Dad, for making a grinchy, cranky kid feel pretty darn special every Christmas.

I am glad we have a fake tree now, though.

Also, we were *very* cool.

Most Wonderful Time, My Fanny

12/8/2016

Whenever I hear “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” (or, to be honest, any holiday song) on the radio, it makes my eyeballs ache. Who came up with this lie? Christmas (or Hanukkah, or whatever holiday you celebrate in which money must be spent) is most definitely not the most wonderful time of the year. There’s snow on the ground, the roads are icy, the pipes often freeze, the toilet seat is so cold in the morning I’m afraid my skin will stick, and winter clothes are bulky and unflattering, not cute and chic. How Andy Williams could possibly think December compares favorably to, say, July, with the delightful heat and the sandy beaches and the ice cream, is unfathomable. I can only speculate that he is an idiot.

I also don’t appreciate that line “Be of good cheer.” I do not like being told what to do. Don’t tell me how to feel, Andy, you psychotic control freak. In fact, because you ordered me to be of good cheer, I’m going to do the exact opposite, just to spite you. How do you like them snowflakes, Andy?

Andy also “promises” that there will be “parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting . . .” and his tone implies that these are good things. So you’re telling me I have to host a party? This means that on top of shopping, wrapping, writing out cards, and putting up the tree, I also have to clean my house, probably repaint the walls in the living room (they really do need it), and prepare food for what? Thirty? And they’ll probably expect alcohol. Who’s going to pay for that? And who’s going to find and buy the toilet-seat warmer, Andy? Are you? Plus, I’m an introvert. Hosting a party and socializing pretty much describes my worst nightmare. Thanks a bunch, you sadistic jerk.

And you’re saying marshmallows have to be on the menu. Where would you like people to toast them, Andy? Are you going to install a fireplace in my home before the party? Stop telling me what to do!

At least the kids will be entertained with the jingle belling. (What does that even mean? Do you hear yourself? The cold has numbed your brain to the point where you’re not even making sense, Andy!)

The only good part of the song is where Andy croons, “There’ll be scary ghost stories.” I can get on board with that. He’s probably talking about A Christmas Carol, that old Christmas trope where Scrooge’s heart grows three sizes after being visited by the ghost of Hermie the Dentist. But I’m going to choose to believe he’s talking about “The Christmas Spirit” by Rob Smales (available now in Triplicity) or Rob’s other murderous holiday tale, “Carol of the Bells.” Why do I only have one friend who writes scary Christmas stories? Were you suggesting the party to expand my social circle, Andy? . . . You might have a point.

Here’s my point: if I want to be a shut-in throughout the holiday season, that’s my choice, Andy. Stop ordering me around. If you need me, I’ll be hibernating--not jingle belling, not mistletoeing—until July, truly the most wonderful time of the year.

You can tell he's a sadistic control freak just by looking at him.

Open Office Space

12/1/2016

In the history of workplaces, I have found nothing more counterproductive to actually getting work done than the “open” office space layout.

Perhaps you’ve seen this. It’s where all the desks are in one big room, with either very low or no cubicle walls. This design is used to “encourage staff to visit their coworkers, collaborate, and share ideas.” This is a load of crap. What it really promotes is anger, noise, and distraction.

Nothing is private in the open office environment. You might hope the person sitting across from you will spark your creative mind and offer great suggestions on a project you’re working on. This will not happen. You will instead hear every phone conversation he has, from the Italian sub, no cheese, no mayo, that he orders every day at 11:52 AM, to the bunion surgery he has to schedule right before the holidays. You will hate him.

No worries: he’ll hate you, too. Nothing is more effective for making enemies in the workplace than the open office environment. Did you know you hit the keyboard too loudly when you type? Don’t worry; Italian-sub-no-cheese-no-mayo will tell you. He’ll also point out that you blow your nose too much, get up from your seat too often, and while he’s at it, he’s tired of you using up all the Splenda next to the coffee pot. You will find yourself putting three Splendas in your coffee the next morning just to spite him.

It’s not just Italian-sub-no-cheese-no-mayo who will drive you nuts. You can hear everyone’s conversations, and sometimes, they’ll stop right behind your seat to have lengthy discussions about things that have nothing to do with you, nor with the job or the company in general. While they’re there, they’ll look over at your computer screen—because everyone can see everyone else’s monitors in the open office environment, there is no privacy to be had here—and ask what you’re working on, right at the moment when you’re taking five minutes to order your mother’s Christmas gift on Amazon because you couldn’t find it anywhere when you went shopping on Black Friday (hypothetically speaking).

What you will not do is get any work done unless you have sound-cancelling earphones, because the noise. Never. Stops. Need to concentrate? Your best bet is to take your laptop out to your car and work from there, but as it turns out, a lot of companies don’t allow this. It is a nice place to hide on your lunch break, though.

Because of the constant noise and people randomly stopping right behind your work area, you will quickly develop anxiety. Seriously, you cannot work for eight to ten hours a day without even a few precious seconds of silence and alone time. You will start grinding your teeth at night. You’ll burst into tears when you realize there’s no Splenda at the coffee pot one morning. Italian-sub-no-cheese-no-mayo will point and laugh at you. Your hair will start falling out from stress (hypothetically speaking). Someone in manufacturing will complain that the balding girl keeps leaving her hair everywhere.

You know what the simple solution is? Walls. Tall, sound-muffling, lovely, inanimate cubicle walls. Walls that promote isolation and privacy and discourage conversation. Walls that will let you work in a happy box where thoughts about how anyone can even stand eating a sandwich without condiments never enter your head.

I don’t know who invented the open office layout, but whoever they are, I can promise you this: they never actually worked in an office. And if I ever find out who this mastermind architect of office space was, I’m going to his house and stealing all his Splenda.

Italian-sub-no-cheese-no-mayo says if I can find the culprit before his bunion surgery, he’s in, too.

Here I am at my "open" office. See? Cueball.

New Year's Predictions

Happy Holidays!

A Very Longo Christmas

Most Wonderful Time, My Fanny

Open Office Space

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