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I love nothing more than getting comments on the posts that I write. That is absolutely counterintuitive to my typical self, which seeks to avoid any recognition or feedback on anything that I do. I am one of those people who would almost forgo the raise associated with my annual performance review if it meant that I didn’t have to sit there and suffer through a review. You know, one filled with horrible torture, like GREAT JOB and ROLE MODEL and SUCCESS. Yeah, I’ve got issues. So, it is slightly disconcerting that I enjoy comments on my blog so much.
Where is Freud when you need him? Let’s be honest, what good would Freud be anyway? We can all just assume that somehow it is related to repressed memories from childhood, right? Or maybe in some previous life I was a motivational speaker who was heckled off the stage?
Anyway, I have to admit, I am lousy at leaving comments. I just am. I read a laundry-list of great blogs every day. Rarely do I leave a comment. I am not sure why. Sometimes I can’t think of anything clever. Othertimes I am on my phone, which doesn’t allow comment posts. Other times, I can’t quite figure how to disguise that pop-up window on my browser to look like work. You know, since I am at work and all.
That does not mean that I do not love certain blogs, or certain posts. I like some blogs so much that my day wouldn’t quite be the same without them. First of all, I love to read. Second of all, I love to laugh. Third, I love things that are well written. I’ve been a reading junkie all of my life; you know, the kid that would wake up on a Saturday morning and read in my room. Is someone searching for my pocket protector? I seem to have misplaced it along with my TI-83. Blogs are so much better though, because in most cases, they don’t end. Let’s be honest, how annoying is it to find yourself totally invested in a book, the storyline, the characters, then it is over. O-V-E-R, over. Are you kidding me? I am totally wrapped up in their life and they are gone. Poof.
What, are you thinking that requires another psychoanalysis? I can’t trust you people with any secrets, can I?
My point? I swear, I have a point. My point is that while I don’t comment often, I have many bloggers I love and many posts that make my day. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve added a great little section over on the right side of my blog to highlight links that I love. It's right there above my godawful mug shot. I encourage you to check each of them out when I add a new link. I won’t disappoint, I swear. If I do, then maybe your taste is in question. I'm just sayin'
If you ever have a post of your own, or someone else’s that you’d like me to check out, email me at lyndsay@iusedtobewitty.com, or leave me a comment. It's my one-cheek (half-assed) way of making up for my comment-delinquency. I pinky-swear to read all of your recommendations. I’ve got to warn you though, I am pretty damn picky.
Okay, I’ve sufficiently avoided homework long enough, back to the grind!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
When all else fails
My name is Lyndsay and I am an anti-exercise-aholic. Even thinking about exercise makes my stomach churn and my feet cement themselves to the ground in protest. I’ve tried very unsuccessfully to engage in some degree of physical activity numerous times over the past few years. I just don’t think I have it in my genetic make-up. In fact, there are few things I find less enjoyable than exercise. I swear my body hates exercise too. Historically, when I have made an attempt to exercise, it rebukes by failing to yield ANY results and taunts me with hallucinations of other ways I could be spending that time. One time last year, my body laughed at me and gained weight when I tried to exercise. Uninformed people try to say that is because your body is gaining muscle. I know better, it is my body telling me hard work, sweat, and sore muscles won’t be tolerated.
This year, I’ve tried to look at exercise in a different way. Yes, I tried. However, it still sucks. It is still work. It is still about as much fun as a lobotomy. However, there is something about creeping towards 30 that makes your metabolism rebel. I think mine naps most of the time, waking up to half-heartedly engage in work a few measly hours of the day. Then there is the whole conundrum of the post pregnancy stomach. The last three years of threatening it, ignoring it, and hoping wishful thinking would abolish it have not been fruitful. That mind over matter crap doesn’t deserve the hype it gets. The trifecta of this dilemma came in the form of an angry right hip. Yes, at 29 I have a hip problem. I am not sure what I did to make it so uncooperative. I am expecting the Red Hat Society invitation in the mail any day. So, here I sit out of shape, with a beer belly stomach, and a wobbly right hip, finding myself in the middle of a Onethird Life Crisis.
So, I did what any insane, self-punishing, irrational person who hates exercise would do. I hired a personal trainer. I committed to an eight-week program. I paid for all eight-weeks in advance. For those of you wondering if I’ve lost my mind, I think we can enter this decision into evidence as Exhibit A (or possibly Z if any of you are keeping track). Do you think they have a non-exercise related program? I'm going to try to enroll in that one.
I am thinking my typical axiom of needing to live up to other people’s expectations will return the benefit to me with this approach. What do you think?
This year, I’ve tried to look at exercise in a different way. Yes, I tried. However, it still sucks. It is still work. It is still about as much fun as a lobotomy. However, there is something about creeping towards 30 that makes your metabolism rebel. I think mine naps most of the time, waking up to half-heartedly engage in work a few measly hours of the day. Then there is the whole conundrum of the post pregnancy stomach. The last three years of threatening it, ignoring it, and hoping wishful thinking would abolish it have not been fruitful. That mind over matter crap doesn’t deserve the hype it gets. The trifecta of this dilemma came in the form of an angry right hip. Yes, at 29 I have a hip problem. I am not sure what I did to make it so uncooperative. I am expecting the Red Hat Society invitation in the mail any day. So, here I sit out of shape, with a beer belly stomach, and a wobbly right hip, finding myself in the middle of a Onethird Life Crisis.
So, I did what any insane, self-punishing, irrational person who hates exercise would do. I hired a personal trainer. I committed to an eight-week program. I paid for all eight-weeks in advance. For those of you wondering if I’ve lost my mind, I think we can enter this decision into evidence as Exhibit A (or possibly Z if any of you are keeping track). Do you think they have a non-exercise related program? I'm going to try to enroll in that one.
I am thinking my typical axiom of needing to live up to other people’s expectations will return the benefit to me with this approach. What do you think?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
RU4Real? WTH? SOS!
Last week, Craig nonchalantly informed me that he could no longer use his cell phone for texting. He has had a work cell phone for almost as long as I can remember, so much so that I sometimes forget it isn’t technically his. Apparently they’ve switched business plans and the new plan does not offer free texting. I am not sure why the regression, it is sort of like sending your DSL back because you’d prefer that good ole’ dial up connection.
When he shared this earth shattering news, I shrugged, asked why, and then moved on. Initially I did not recognize the impending crisis. Since that time, I’ve changed my mind and have determined that it is cruel and unusual punishment and I should be seeking damages for restricting me to such barbaric means of communication. Texting provides an easy way to ask a simple question, without all of the unnecessary pleasantries expected in a phone call. Texting is the perfect accompaniment to any multi-taskers agenda. I mean, how else can you sit in a meeting and make dinner plans? How else do you keep in contact with a significant other who often isn’t in the same zip code? How else do you delegate tasks to an unsuspecting husband who can't debate very well via text?
Our texts are never-ending, but generally go something like this:
You getting Kate, or I?
Me.
What’s for dinner?
Dunno. Go somewhere?
Yes.
Have you left yet?
Yes, be there in 45.
K, see u there.
I think I am going to die.
Call 911 before you do.
But I can’t lift the phone to my ear.
Bummer.
Swine flu feeling better?
No.
Oh, go back to bed.
In a matter of two or three texts, we were able to coordinate travel arrangements for our toddler, finalize dinner plans, synchronize our schedules to arrive home together, save my life after a day at the gym, and offer treatment and remedy for a pandemic flu. Does life get any better than that? So, instead of the benefit of these micro-conversations, designed to minimize interruption and formalities, we have regressed to phone conversations.
{Ring, ring, ring}
CRAIG: Hello
ME: Hi, how are you? I don’t really have time to listen to your answer, but I am supposed to ask, right?
CRAIG: Fine, how are you? I don’t really care, I need to get back to work, but you asked, so I’ll ask.
ME: What are you doing? Seriously, could I be asking a more ridiculous question?
CRAIG: Working. She is blonde. She called me at work, what does she think I am doing at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning. What are you doing?
ME: Um, working. Did he really just ask me that question? How annoying is this?
CRAIG: So, what’s up? Why is she calling me, my boss is standing here waiting for me, I’m hoping this is important.
ME: When are you coming home this week, Thursday or Friday? Don't act irritated I called, I am the one handling life here without any assistance from you thankyouverymuch.
CRAIG: Thursday I think. Couldn’t this have waited until later?
ME: Okay, thanks. Is it acceptable to hang up now, or do I need to proceed with some additional conversation?
CRAIG: Okay, loveya, bye.
I much preferred:
Home Thursday or Friday?
Thursday I think.
Cool, call u later.
I’m revolting, boycotting the text-ban. I don’t think I am going to survive this torture.
When he shared this earth shattering news, I shrugged, asked why, and then moved on. Initially I did not recognize the impending crisis. Since that time, I’ve changed my mind and have determined that it is cruel and unusual punishment and I should be seeking damages for restricting me to such barbaric means of communication. Texting provides an easy way to ask a simple question, without all of the unnecessary pleasantries expected in a phone call. Texting is the perfect accompaniment to any multi-taskers agenda. I mean, how else can you sit in a meeting and make dinner plans? How else do you keep in contact with a significant other who often isn’t in the same zip code? How else do you delegate tasks to an unsuspecting husband who can't debate very well via text?
Our texts are never-ending, but generally go something like this:
You getting Kate, or I?
Me.
What’s for dinner?
Dunno. Go somewhere?
Yes.
Have you left yet?
Yes, be there in 45.
K, see u there.
I think I am going to die.
Call 911 before you do.
But I can’t lift the phone to my ear.
Bummer.
Swine flu feeling better?
No.
Oh, go back to bed.
In a matter of two or three texts, we were able to coordinate travel arrangements for our toddler, finalize dinner plans, synchronize our schedules to arrive home together, save my life after a day at the gym, and offer treatment and remedy for a pandemic flu. Does life get any better than that? So, instead of the benefit of these micro-conversations, designed to minimize interruption and formalities, we have regressed to phone conversations.
{Ring, ring, ring}
CRAIG: Hello
ME: Hi, how are you? I don’t really have time to listen to your answer, but I am supposed to ask, right?
CRAIG: Fine, how are you? I don’t really care, I need to get back to work, but you asked, so I’ll ask.
ME: What are you doing? Seriously, could I be asking a more ridiculous question?
CRAIG: Working. She is blonde. She called me at work, what does she think I am doing at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning. What are you doing?
ME: Um, working. Did he really just ask me that question? How annoying is this?
CRAIG: So, what’s up? Why is she calling me, my boss is standing here waiting for me, I’m hoping this is important.
ME: When are you coming home this week, Thursday or Friday? Don't act irritated I called, I am the one handling life here without any assistance from you thankyouverymuch.
CRAIG: Thursday I think. Couldn’t this have waited until later?
ME: Okay, thanks. Is it acceptable to hang up now, or do I need to proceed with some additional conversation?
CRAIG: Okay, loveya, bye.
I much preferred:
Home Thursday or Friday?
Thursday I think.
Cool, call u later.
I’m revolting, boycotting the text-ban. I don’t think I am going to survive this torture.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Dear Lyndsay ...
Today’s guest post is written by the lovely and brilliant Ann, from Ann’s Rants. I’ve been a regular reader of Ann’s blog since our blogs were in their infancy. She is an outstanding writer and has humor that rivals anyone else out there in bloggyland. If you haven’t visited Ann’s blog before, I highly recommend that you immediately do. Side note: I don’t say that about too many blogs, do I? Besides, as an EOB (Equally Opportunity Blogger), I have an obligation to make sure that diversity efforts are met here at I Used to be Witty. Let’s see, Ann is Jewish (check!) and she’s from Wisconsin (check!), which I think must apply somewhere in my Affirmative Action Plan. Take it away Ann…
Dear Lyndsay,
I need to schedule another HR consultation. The situation grows increasingly dire with each passing day. I’m speaking of inappropriate language, touching, and even nudity. I’m speaking of blatant insubordination, and untenable working conditions. As per your earlier instructions, I began documenting the offenses. Yet, as quickly as I administer warnings, new more egregious offenses occur. Our desperately-awaited and newfound springtime weather—allowing for open doors and windows—only exacerbates the humiliation I endure. Take a look at these incriminating pieces of evidence:
INDECENT EXPOSURE: 9am Two-Year-Old disrobed completely, diaper-flung in my general direction, and ran out the back door to “run da-round da-naked.”
SUGGESTIVE COMMENTS: Naked Two-Year-Old flaunts his miniature body, running around the backyard with crayon in hand, fixing things and screaming to our neighbors “I like to screw” “I screwing, Mommy!”
INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHING: Bathtime toes-in-butts situation completely out of control, as is inappropriate peeing-in-bath behavior demonstrated by both Two and Five-Year-Old. This also causes health concerns as purposeful bath-water-ingestion levels rise, despite my dire warnings of “ucky.”
Frequent random poking and grabbing of “Mommy’s Butt” (and butt refers to a highly generalized area) should be noted.
VANDALISM is rampant around the toilet area as a result of pee tagging. When confronted, Five-Year-Old offers a weak explanation that “this happens if you close your eyes while peeing” And Two-Year-Old’s defense? He wants to stand and deliver, without handling the goods. So to speak.
Before I go on, I should share that your webseminar “Poop talk: When Defecation is The Conversation” proved effective. I highly recommend it to your other clients. We established dinnertime as a “Poop-Talk-Free (PTF) Zone,” and that five minutes of our day remains blissfully PTF! I, however, am still suffer symptoms of PTD (Poop Talk Disorder) as is apparent when I unselfconsciously discuss poop consistency in mixed company, and occasionally yell ‘POOPYHEAD’ in a fit of rage. I’m working on it.
INSUBOORDINATION: As much as 1-2-3 Magic (also known as One-Two-Fwee Magic) seems perceptibly magical, when taunted with counting from my child-subordinates it creates a hostile environment. Or makes me laugh, rendering the whole process completely ineffective.
HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT: Lastly, Two-Year-Old now employs a torture tactic long-banned under the Geneva Convention—REPETATIVE RAFFI. “Willabee Wallabee Woo” is directly responsible for a substantial increase in insurance copays, as I now require weekly therapy sessions and shock therapy. When coupled with nap-avoidance (creating a 15 hour day without breaks), REPETATIVE RAFFI creates a cruel and unusual workplace.
Lyndsay, Please advise. Bring your HAZMAT suit and a stiff drink.
Fondly,
Ann
Ann, you are fantastic. I'm packing the HAZMAT suit, but I am leaving the drinks to you. Last time I tried to board a plane with that much alcohol, I ended up having to drink all but the 1 oz. that was allowed on the plane. I think we could turn this next lesson into a webinar; the demands for HR: KICK-ASS MOM VERSION are growly rapidly.
Dear Lyndsay,
I need to schedule another HR consultation. The situation grows increasingly dire with each passing day. I’m speaking of inappropriate language, touching, and even nudity. I’m speaking of blatant insubordination, and untenable working conditions. As per your earlier instructions, I began documenting the offenses. Yet, as quickly as I administer warnings, new more egregious offenses occur. Our desperately-awaited and newfound springtime weather—allowing for open doors and windows—only exacerbates the humiliation I endure. Take a look at these incriminating pieces of evidence:
INDECENT EXPOSURE: 9am Two-Year-Old disrobed completely, diaper-flung in my general direction, and ran out the back door to “run da-round da-naked.”
SUGGESTIVE COMMENTS: Naked Two-Year-Old flaunts his miniature body, running around the backyard with crayon in hand, fixing things and screaming to our neighbors “I like to screw” “I screwing, Mommy!”
INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHING: Bathtime toes-in-butts situation completely out of control, as is inappropriate peeing-in-bath behavior demonstrated by both Two and Five-Year-Old. This also causes health concerns as purposeful bath-water-ingestion levels rise, despite my dire warnings of “ucky.”
Frequent random poking and grabbing of “Mommy’s Butt” (and butt refers to a highly generalized area) should be noted.
VANDALISM is rampant around the toilet area as a result of pee tagging. When confronted, Five-Year-Old offers a weak explanation that “this happens if you close your eyes while peeing” And Two-Year-Old’s defense? He wants to stand and deliver, without handling the goods. So to speak.
Before I go on, I should share that your webseminar “Poop talk: When Defecation is The Conversation” proved effective. I highly recommend it to your other clients. We established dinnertime as a “Poop-Talk-Free (PTF) Zone,” and that five minutes of our day remains blissfully PTF! I, however, am still suffer symptoms of PTD (Poop Talk Disorder) as is apparent when I unselfconsciously discuss poop consistency in mixed company, and occasionally yell ‘POOPYHEAD’ in a fit of rage. I’m working on it.
INSUBOORDINATION: As much as 1-2-3 Magic (also known as One-Two-Fwee Magic) seems perceptibly magical, when taunted with counting from my child-subordinates it creates a hostile environment. Or makes me laugh, rendering the whole process completely ineffective.
HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT: Lastly, Two-Year-Old now employs a torture tactic long-banned under the Geneva Convention—REPETATIVE RAFFI. “Willabee Wallabee Woo” is directly responsible for a substantial increase in insurance copays, as I now require weekly therapy sessions and shock therapy. When coupled with nap-avoidance (creating a 15 hour day without breaks), REPETATIVE RAFFI creates a cruel and unusual workplace.
Lyndsay, Please advise. Bring your HAZMAT suit and a stiff drink.
Fondly,
Ann
Ann, you are fantastic. I'm packing the HAZMAT suit, but I am leaving the drinks to you. Last time I tried to board a plane with that much alcohol, I ended up having to drink all but the 1 oz. that was allowed on the plane. I think we could turn this next lesson into a webinar; the demands for HR: KICK-ASS MOM VERSION are growly rapidly.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Getting back on track
My blog has been whining and crying this week. Apparently it feels neglected. I’ve tried consoling it and apologizing for my negligence. I’ve expressed my commitment to my blog by explaining that my intentions have been to post more frequently and increase our quality time together. I don’t think my blog is buying it. It said something about, “the little boy who cried wolf,” or some nonsense like that. I enjoy writing immensely and I do need to make time for it. Do you hear that blog? I’m talking to you. Writing is my outlet, my creative indulgence and once again I’ll vow to try to get back on track.
The end of the semester is wrapping up, which means in four more days I am done teaching for the semester. Remember being a student and how stressful the end of the semester was? Everything was due at once (likely because you had not spent anytime working on the projects the first 15 weeks of the semester) and exams were imminent. I’d like to inform you that the end of the semester really isn’t any easier when you are the professor. Someone has to grade all that shit. So, take the work you completed as a student and multiply it by 37, then give it to the professor in one day. For good measure, send an email or two-dozen in the following days to inquire about when you can expect your grade so you know how hard you have to study/not study for the final exam. I think the only feasible answer is outsourcing. Next semester I am going to advertise in India for a grading assistant. Brilliant.
On top of that, Craig has decided it is an opportune time to be sick. A sick husband is comparable to a sick child times 500. I spent the initial part of the week calling him SWINE FLU, which I found humorous, despite the fact that he did not. Humor may be my coping mechanism. The Swine Flu joke suddenly became not quite so funny on Wednesday night when he ended up in the ER, incidentally being tested for Swine Flu. Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. Thankfully, no Swine Flu here, just a horrendous case of the Non-Swine-Flu, which is still wreaking havoc on him four days later. Craig has been banished to the bedroom, which he does not wholeheartedly appreciate. I have resisted the urge to tell him that he is fortunate that I am even letting him stay in the house. I would willingly pay hundreds of dollars to ship him to a hotel just to ensure that Kate and I don’t contract whatever it is that he’s harboring. I’ve barely recovered from her last bout of sickness and a sudden repeat performance would either land me in the crazy house, or send me screaming into the night. What did I do to deserve this chaos? I swear, I haven’t been kicking any puppies.
I almost feel compelled to mention that I must have an immune system made of steel. I also almost feel compelled to point out just how fortunate I am to remain healthy while everyone else in my household seems to be in competition for winning the PERSON WHO HAS THE WORST SICKNESS contest. But, I won’t. Because Karma would certainly guarantee that I paid the price for that. I’ve got way too much to do right now. Besides that, I just made another commitment to my blog and I don’t want to be dealing with another break-up so soon.
The end of the semester is wrapping up, which means in four more days I am done teaching for the semester. Remember being a student and how stressful the end of the semester was? Everything was due at once (likely because you had not spent anytime working on the projects the first 15 weeks of the semester) and exams were imminent. I’d like to inform you that the end of the semester really isn’t any easier when you are the professor. Someone has to grade all that shit. So, take the work you completed as a student and multiply it by 37, then give it to the professor in one day. For good measure, send an email or two-dozen in the following days to inquire about when you can expect your grade so you know how hard you have to study/not study for the final exam. I think the only feasible answer is outsourcing. Next semester I am going to advertise in India for a grading assistant. Brilliant.
On top of that, Craig has decided it is an opportune time to be sick. A sick husband is comparable to a sick child times 500. I spent the initial part of the week calling him SWINE FLU, which I found humorous, despite the fact that he did not. Humor may be my coping mechanism. The Swine Flu joke suddenly became not quite so funny on Wednesday night when he ended up in the ER, incidentally being tested for Swine Flu. Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. Thankfully, no Swine Flu here, just a horrendous case of the Non-Swine-Flu, which is still wreaking havoc on him four days later. Craig has been banished to the bedroom, which he does not wholeheartedly appreciate. I have resisted the urge to tell him that he is fortunate that I am even letting him stay in the house. I would willingly pay hundreds of dollars to ship him to a hotel just to ensure that Kate and I don’t contract whatever it is that he’s harboring. I’ve barely recovered from her last bout of sickness and a sudden repeat performance would either land me in the crazy house, or send me screaming into the night. What did I do to deserve this chaos? I swear, I haven’t been kicking any puppies.
I almost feel compelled to mention that I must have an immune system made of steel. I also almost feel compelled to point out just how fortunate I am to remain healthy while everyone else in my household seems to be in competition for winning the PERSON WHO HAS THE WORST SICKNESS contest. But, I won’t. Because Karma would certainly guarantee that I paid the price for that. I’ve got way too much to do right now. Besides that, I just made another commitment to my blog and I don’t want to be dealing with another break-up so soon.
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