Posts Tagged ‘hold the glimmer with all the life you have in you’
Bushwhacked
Posted on: May 12, 2014
I’ve been on this health-ish kick lately (to further specify, I’m just trying not to inhale every single thing thrown in front of my freaking face. I’m human. I don’t know how to eat 7 million vegetables a day or say ‘no’ to a manhattan, but I am trying to be a better me), and have been falling in love with the gym.
I use to take a boot camp class that was incredible and changed my entire body and mind, but with being in the newsroom a zillion hours a week and holding down four jobs and a NEW INTERNSHIP (!!!!!! Just let me finish a few sentences without parentheses’ and we can discuss) my available hours to gym it up are weird. But I love it! I’m lifting weights, sweating all over disgusting gym machines, and talking to trainers about supplements and stacks and UGHH it feels so good. I see regulars and we do the “whatsup” nod to each other and I’m sure soon enough that we will all be best friends, drinking protein shakes at the park and laughing about our former fat selves … or maybe not. Whatever. A girl can dream, right?
While I’m loving the gym and their insane playlists (really, out of this world. I’ve almost asked who makes them and if I can jump in to the rotation), I am 100% not in to the gym bathrooms. Let me rephrase- I am 100% not in to the full on bush every single time I walk in to the locker rooms. It’s bush central. Lot’s of bush. Bush walking around, bush towel drying, bush SITTING ON THE ACTUAL BENCHES WHILE IT FINDS ITS CHONIES. How. Why. STOP.
I’m so pro woman. The pro-est of woman and god we are beautiful creatures, but can I just not see your bush? Can you hide that thing? I don’t care what you do with it, but can I just not have it in my face every time I walk in to the room? I’d say I see a minimum of eight new bushes a week. I’m averaging four gym trips a week and each one of those trips includes a stop in the locker room to lock up my oh-so-valuable purse (no value, quite honestly. Less value than an empty wallet. It’s. sad.) and with every turn of the corner in that freaking room is a goddamn bush.
Maybe I’m the prude? Maybe it’s just weird for me to walk around naked in a room full of women. I’m actually starting to like my body and it still freaks me out that women of ALL SIZES AND SHAPES are so ok with theirs.
And, I’m insanely jealous. To be able to feel so comfortable in your own skin … a girl can really dream. I envy each and every one of those women, of all ages, that rips off their gym clothes and full frontal walks to the sinks to wash their hands. Naked. Totally accepting of their body. One day, Tracy, one day …
On a brighter note- internship! I got one! It’s paid! It pays shit! But it pays!
Starting this summer, I will be working for an actual publication! I think this means I am actually fulfilling my dreams of writing and I am scared as shit but it’s beyond exciting. My boyfriend can attest that I’m almost always exhausted and I usually fall asleep within seventeen seconds of seeing him (he’s the greatest I SWEAR), but I’m the happiest I’ve ever been working my ass off to catch this dream. It’s all happening you guys; it’s all happening.
Don’t Call It a Comeback, Betch
Posted on: February 21, 2013
May 30, 2012
It’s been over a month since my dreaded…day…of…(it’s still really difficult to talk about. There is no closure. I still don’t understand it. I still can’t wrap my head around the events. I’m constantly questioning every single day of employment, what I could have potentially done wrong, how I got here…all that wonderfully depressing shit((yes, it’s worse than a breakup)) and I’m having a REALLY DIFFICULT TIME figuring out what to do now that I have all this free time to not meticulously plan someone’s day to day life. I’ve spent the last nine years building a career, saying a big “fuck you” to higher education, and building one of the best resumes I’ve seen thus far from a 27 year old, so having actual time to do whatever the fuck I want is….weird. Did I mention horribly depressing? I did. Let’s just set that tone real quickly; this post will be a lot easier to understand once you realize I’m a prime candidate to take over the Zoloft rock’s job.
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Well.
… that was depressing.
Friends! Hi! How’s it going! Anyone out there still holding the glimmer? I sure as hell am! The excerpt above was the absolute last thing I wrote dedicated to this blog before my tailspin of depression which turned in to the absolute best six (err…nine…) months of my life. You see, life has been intense. I know you’ve all held your breath waiting for me to update you on everything Tracy, but for a while there, I didn’t think I would make it out alive. Maybe that was just my liver talking. Maybe my liver still doesn’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I hate my liver and my liver hates me. Maybe… We move along.
I never realized how difficult it was not having a job. (Before you read the following few paragraphs, please feel free to let out an audible groan. I realize how little sorrow you feel for me over the next few words you read, but I promise they have a point. Or maybe the don’t. I don’t give a fuck.) While I complained on a daily basis about sitting behind a desk, I didn’t understand how difficult it was to have a conversation about not sitting behind a desk. That desk became my identity. You see, so many interactions are formed around that job. It’s shocking how much self worth and value is established around a job- any kind of job- but just a job. I didn’t know how to not talk about a job or, not having one. Try going on a first date three weeks after losing your job. Let me know how awesome it feels when you’re trying to build yourself up as this incredibly worthy, date-able specimen (trust me- it ends in a paid cab ride because you had four too many Manhattans. Trust. Me.) Try having an interest in going to dinner or lunch with your friends and talking about their lives and their jobs and how much they are succeeding in life as you dive deeper in to an abyss of self doubt. It was daunting and depressing and instead of not talking about not having a job, I did everything that a person without a job did. (Get ready for the groans, kids…)
After a few REALLY LONG WEEKS of being more miserable than I can even begin to explain, I physically forced myself to snap out of it, and realized I was granted an early summer vacation. Time was of the essence and I was going to use that wisely (kinda wisely…) I made plans with practically every person I knew and every person I didn’t know. I inadvertently started a mission to thoroughly enjoy my life and whatever came of it. This included, but was not limited to: concerts, days on the beach, drinks, concerts, Disneyland, lunches, concerts, really awkward/amazing online dates, more drinks, dinners, fuck I spent a lot of money on concerts. While my parents weren’t too fond of the idea, I planned a solo road trip to Salt Lake City to see some of my best friends and my favorite band, Passion Pit. Apparently, the lead singer was going through some SEVERE inner turmoil as well and canceled the show (which may or may have not affected my already wavering depression issues), but I still packed up Winnie Cooper (that’s my ride, for any of the three readers who don’t know me…), and hit the open road. My trip was beyond enlightening. The Utah kids were Coachella friends that became family and I had a long week of whiskey and even more soul searching. I’m not exactly sure when it hit; between three caramel macchiatos, an entire jumbo pack of fire breathing beef jerky and an exhausting 13 hour drive home, I was determined to completely change my life. And, I did.
I came back to LA knowing fully well that summer was on its tail end and I would be diving off the deep end into my first semester of school in over nine years. I was an absolute nervous wreck at the idea of even walking in to a class room (Where would I sit? Would I be the oldest in the classroom? What if I saw people I knew? What if my clumsy ass fell while walking in to the classroom and everyone laughed at me and I would forever be known as that old girl who fell in slow motion on the first day of classes? What would I wear?), let alone the fact that I had to crash every single class…. (BIG shout out to Los Angeles Community College District registration dept. Really appreciate that registration date where all classes were filled four weeks prior to my registration date. That was super tight of you. Even more props for the financial aid I couldn’t get because of my 2011 income. GREAT, supportive start to my new scholastic me, really.)
Oddly enough, all of the fear and anxiety was completely unwarranted. My first day of school was…absolutely incredible. I felt completely in my element and inspired to put every effort in to achieving the one regret I’ve held on to thus far in life- not getting my degree.
Super fast forward to today, because Lord knows I’ve been doing a phenomenal job with staying accountable with my blog dreams: I managed a 3.0 in my first semester of school, stayed out of as much trouble as possible over winter break (not really, but that’s a whole different blog post..), lost about 30lbs, and found myself a suuuuper sweet boyfriend.
WHAAAATTTTT?!?!
And that’s where I’m ending this post. A few doubts, a few questions, and a whole lotta suspense.
Love you guys xoxo
Posted on: May 22, 2012
It’s been a rough one, glimmies. I’m sure all three of you were well aware of our absence (please just let me believe you were at least.. I need SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN right now….), but SHIT has gone DOWN in the last month and I haven’t had enough time to formulate words in to a post. Let me rephrase that- I’ve had MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME to write a post because I am officially unemployed.
Step in to My Office…
Glimmer in the City
Posted on: March 1, 2012
Oh, hi. Come here often?
Shall we just get all of the apologies and excuses out of the way? I can’t possibly write another exquisite piece knowing all 2 (yes, we lost 2 of you) of our readers would rather stab themselves with dull, diseased envelope openers than see me have the gall to actually blog/write/rant/complain again. In fact, after discussing blog topics with a few trusty friends, I have a pretty strong feeling you’ll all hate me in less than 8 minutes and 2000 words, so who really cares? We move along.
I’ve missed you HTG! To say that I’ve been going through A LOT in the last few months is a major understatement and disservice to my life, but apparently some higher up form decided I paid enough dues in real-estate hell to earn a position at my DREAM COMPANY. I’m sure you all remember Duke’s fabulous announcement a few posts back, congratulating my meager crawl across a now noted plateau in my career history, but this is different. This is major. In fear of divulging too much and the very real possibilities of actually losing said job because of said blog, I will try and remain as anonymous about it as possible- but you should know I’m pretty important now (not like you thought differently before…), and I welcome any and all forms of flattery and bribery.
In addition to my new title of “severely important”, I’m also officially a commuter!! I’ve been in some form of working world since I was 16 and never had to drive more than 20 miles to any job. For a few years there, my commute was 13 miles round trip. I know. I was lucky…and incredibly ungrateful. On a good day (and leaving before 7am…gross…), I’m faced with 40 minutes of concrete, commentary (thank you always, Howard Stern), and cars. On a bad day, it’s 2 hours of planning how quickly I can get out of my car on a moving freeway to gently tap on someone’s window and ask how they became such a shitty driver in a city that doesn’t walk. As horrible as it seems, I truly do find a sense of peace thinking there’s a “we’re all in this together” hidden attitude in each and every car on that freeway. I’ll stop being positive now; my friends say it’s ruining our relationships.
With all this new found time to….be by myself….I’ve started having some profound conversations…with myself. Please note- I’m really not interested in your idea or definition of profound. This is my blog after all.
- If we commuters could all collectively agree to drive a minimum of 40 mph on the freeway between the hours of 7am-9am and 5pm-7pm, we’d all be far less disgruntled and I’d imagine additionally having a generally happier demeanor. What’s most disturbing is that I would assume 75% of drivers on the freeway at those given times are every day users (I mean, only an idiot or tourist would get on an LA freeway before 9am for fun…which is describing pretty much all of LA. Fuck.), which means they have an already decided on ramp and off ramp. Can we all just start pinky swearing to stay in our lanes til appx 2 miles from our exit? Also- sorry trucks, but you’re out of this equation entirely. You are awesome and ohsonecessary for too many reasons to list, but you’re officially not allowed on that freeway between those times either. I can’t tell you how many trucks I’ve been stuck behind IN THE FAST LANE at 8am. No. mas. Profound- right.
- I’m going to start the campaign to turn the 101 into a toll road. I’m positive this will come off as elitist, but this is what happens when you’re stuck in a car for 15 hours a week. Not only will the city benefit from the major influx of funds from said toll, our “thriving” public transportation will pick up and actually become of use to this city. Mass transportation seems to work in every other city besides our own, so why not try to make ours, at the very least, half as good as San Francisco’s (pipe dreams….). Additionally- fewer cars on the freeway, fewer accidents, fewer carbon emissions, less of a need to punch people in the face every time they ask where you commute from…
- Stereotypes are true. Take that statement as you will.
- The lack of windows on a car/truck/van is directly related to the amount of whistles I receive. Apparently, I give off the “PLEASE do me in your creepy vehicle immediately” vibe. Still working on that one… (ps- I really just need to know if that has ever worked. Please, someone just chime in and let me know if you have ever whistled at a girl and she walked over to your car and banged you. I just, I need closure and to know this actually works for me to understand the whistling phenomenon.)
- Speaking of banging, can we just get over Chris Brown being the worst human being alive already? I GET IT. He beat our favorite princess up. He’s already the spokesperson for those needing anger management courses, must we hate him forever (for ev ev ever, for ev ev ever…had to, sorry..)??? Sean Penn laid a few fingers on Madonna and his box office sales didn’t fall- hell he’s friends with Venezuela now (ok maybe this isn’t good). What about Bobby and Whitney (bad example again, Tracy)??? He beat the crap out of Whitney, but New Edition still tours, so I’d assume we got over it. Or the infamous Ike and Tina? Ike died revered as one of the best producers of all time and he beat the absolute SHIT out of Tina FOR YEARS! And lest we forget Mrs. Hilary Clinton. Yep, good ol Hil use to beat up Bill. We never really questioned who wore the pants in that relationship, but clearly- we got over it. Can we all just agree that Chris is kind of a douchebag that makes records I really want to dance to?
Told ya you’d hate me..
Well Done
Posted on: September 14, 2011
Why hello there, glimmerheads! It’s been a hot minute (week, month, whatever) since we’ve spoken, but how are you? Me? I’m alive! Believe it or not, I held the glimmer long enough to not buy a gun and “go corporate” and instead got a new job! (Pause for gasp, shock, sigh, and breathe….)
Now, said new job is still within the same company, but at the absolute very least, I’m no longer responsible for spoon feeding or physically wiping my bosses’ asses. I no longer have to scrub coffee out of the poor, tantrum ridden carpets! No more verbal abuse over the phone as bossman blames me for his chauffer’s poor driving skills in Omaha! I survived hell! Can you believe it?! I now have actual responsibilities, and yes, that scares me closer to death than I need to be, but ultimately a pretty goddamn rewarding drive home, full of reflections of daily accomplishments and accolades. Who would have guessed how far a simple “you’re awesome” or “thank you” really goes? My new job makes me feel needed, wanted, appreciated- basically how any normal human being should feel. This may explain my lack of posting, but after switching to this new position and thanks to multiple comments from coworkers, I realized I was on suicide watch for the last three years. Apparently, once you start smiling again, people get weirded out by the lack of somber attitude, and wonder what’s really wrong. I’ve been elated to inform them, my absolutely freaked out parents, and all of you that I’m actually HAPPY!
Ahhhh fuck.
This blog is sooo gonna die soon.
Nope, I will not let it.
There are so many other aspects of life in which holding the glimmer is absolutely crucial. I’d tell you the recent events of a gorgeously long legged pedestrian (ya, that’s actually me, all five foot five of me) crossing the street and getting hit by a drunk driver AFTER said drunk driver had already hit a car and was trying to flee the scene around 3am in Hollywood, but I still have anxiety and leg spasms, so why not dive into where holding the glimmer is most needed- my love life.
Here is my declaration: I’m officially an on-line dater. Go find me. I don’t care. I just told you I’m online dating; do you think my integrity, morals, or values really matter anymore? Actually, are you mildly attractive with a steady income, little to no emotional or personal issues that need fixing (ie: mom/dad issues, past major drug problems, abandonment anything…)and need a date? Needle in a haystack I say, but hey, maybe you’re out there! Blog dating is still online dating, right? Duke, I think I’m on to something here…
Online dating, you are a beast of many colors. After a slightly too long “off and on” relationship, I decided I was interested in feeling actual worth again and with little to no interest in wading through the pudding-like consistency of a bar scene to find my next beau, signed myself up for some good ol internet fun (don’t you dare define fun, ok?) And fun I found!
After completing the unnecessarily arduous profile, I sat back and relaxed, hoping Mr. Right (now?) would show up in my inbox. Roughly 39 seconds later, I received this: (please note, every single name below HAS been changed (kinda), in fear of repercussions and, well, I slightly feel bad for them…)(Ok. Maybe some haven’t. Sue me.)
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Ikeepawordforyoualways:
Gorgeus Halo my beautiful. I am in study to become doctor at UCLA. GO BRUINS! Wanna meet to talk to me possible today ? Ciao
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Ok. Who the fuck is in charge of admissions at UCLA, because this person either needs to be fired, or sue the shit out of Ikeepawordforyoualways for slandering such an institution.
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Justthetip:
Wanna cuddle?
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Right. Let’s cuddle. Is this before or after you saw my legs off with a dull machete and carve out my arms then spoon feed me my toes with my own (now detached) hand? (Let’s be real honest. Screen name Justthetip- hilarious. Do I want to cuddle? I don’t even remember what it’s like to cuddle, let alone if I even know HOW to cuddle, but you bet your ass I want to. Unfortunately, I have to trust my instincts and anyone willing to be that forward in a “first impressions” kind of world gives me the heebee jeeb’s.)
After countless “let’s bang” or “will u marrie me plz” emails, I thought I found gold when I struck up a convo with a seemingly literate and attractive man. After a few email exchanges, we decided on meeting for drinks. I mean, what could go wrong over drinks?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing went wrong. There was good conversation, he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we shared some similar stories, parted ways with phone numbers and decided to meet up for dinner a week later. Easy enough, right?
The day of date, he suggested Hamburger Hamlet (let it be known- this restaurant was AWESOME…. in 1972. It was a celebrity hot spot, dark and intimate, couldn’t get a table for hours. This place is now an elderly melting pot, tables always available, a sad old hostess and a menu full of tasteless “creations” with a Rockefeller like price tag.) I cringed inside and thought to myself, “with all the awesome restaurants in Los Angeles, of all places to ever choose, of any restaurant that serves to the under 80 crowd, WHY THIS PLACE?” It wasn’t fair to judge, so I kept my first instinct quiet and decided to make the best of the decision and show up.
I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar about 10 minutes before anticipated date and ordered a Jack and Coke. As I’m waking my senses with whiskey, and realizing my date is now 10 minutes late, in walks M (that’s what we’re calling him. Just go with it.), wearing a zip up hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and with ear buds still in ear, because who could stand to walk in to a restaurant without music, right? Kill me.
We say hi, give an awkward hello hug and he comments, “Oh, you’ve already started?”
Well OF COURSE I’ve already started drinking. I hope my eyes didn’t roll back too far into my head when making eye contact, because I promise they would have if I were fully sober.
“Excuse me, bartender? Can I get a screwdriver?” –M
A Screwdriver. Really. A. Screw. Driver. A screwdriver? Are your parents in Laughlin for the weekend? Are we in your mom’s garage playing beerpong and listening to Blink182? Is this your first time consuming alcohol? Honestly, think of the last time you ordered a screwdriver from a bartender, waiter, hostess, whomever. I’m sure it won’t take too long for you to think about because you NEVER HAVE. Screwdrivers are for children who don’t drink. Screwdrivers are in lieu of Mimosa availability.
Sigh. Just go with it Tracy, just fucking go with it.
We get a table and start trying to form a conversation, but I’ve never sat next to a man who’s ordered a screwdriver, so I’m a little off myself. The waiter comes by and asks if we need more drinks and I order another Jack and Coke and M orders a Corona. Yes, a Corona. Because, what better beer would you want to quench your thirst while sitting at a restaurant that charges $50 a person minimum. I was under the impression that Corona’s were reserved as a “pool” beer, a “beach” beer, maybe an “on sale at a great price” beer, but never have I thought Corona’s were an “order at a restaurant” beer. Maybe it’s just me.
After being informed of M’s lack of interest in shell fish because it “tastes weird”, we are ready to order. As a connoisseur of the soup, I ordered the lobster bisque with a half chicken sandwich. Probably not my best order, and damn those garlic fries looked good, but I was on a date. One must be aware on a date.
“I’ll have the 12oz angus rib eye.” –M
“How would you like that prepared?” -waiter
“Well done, of course.” –M
woah.
Excuse me. I said excuse me. Are you joking? Are you fucking kidding me right now, sir? Did you honestly just order a well done steak, and then further emphasize how well done you enjoy your steak with an “of course”?! Of course you enjoy the taste of footwear for dinner? Of course you’re cooking off a campfire in Uganda?
The waiter awkwardly walks away, and M goes right back in to full conversation.
“WOAAAAHHHH woah woah woah. Hold on a second. We need to assess something here. You’re from Chicago and you just ordered a well done steak?” –me
“Ya, I don’t really like raw meat.” –M
“Oh of course, I mean, who eats raw meat.? But a well done steak? You should have just ordered a hamburger, or we could have gone to 7-11 and gotten you some beef jerky. Medium? Medium rare? Both non-raw options that give you full flavor of the steak. That just seems like such a waste of perfectly wonderful meat.” –me
“It’s just how I’ve always had it. That’s not going to change.” –M
“Well ok, I uhhmm, I have to go to the bathroom……” –me
I take out my phone and text Courtney- “he ordered a well done steak.”
“I’ll call you in 5. Get out of there immediately.”
And I did. I pulled the “my friend needs me and I have to go” card. Of course I felt guilty, but I couldn’t sit with this man and watch him attempt to cut that poor piece of meat, knife grinding into the gristled, tasteless product.
Maybe I’m that girl. Maybe all I could think of was introducing this specimen to my father at a dinner table and he orders a well done steak, with repercussions of us both getting verbally berated by the man for wasting meat, money, and time. Maybe this makes me sound like the biggest bitch of the west coast, but what else would I discover from a man who orders….screwdrivers…and eats leather? I’m just not willing to take that chance. I may be single, but I’m not desperate.
So yes, justthetip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.
Do you know how many times a day I get asked if I have a gun?
Moments ago, our Chief of Compliance walked out of a heated meeting in our Chief of Legal’s office, which just so happens to be right across from my desk. She slammed her papers on my desk, threw her glasses across the room, and asked if I had a gun. I forced a chuckle, gave some kind of witty “OHHHHH It’s THAT kind of day” response, and went back to my important Sarah Palin gchat convo with Duke. A mere 49 seconds later, above mentioned Chief Legal strides out of his office and to my desk- “I just need one bullet, just one.” Um. Excuse me? REAL SHIT, CORPORATE. REAL. SHIT. I understand corporate is brutal, but recently this question has been surfacing more often than “Tracy, where’s the toner?” (same place as it has been since the day we opened up shop folks. The toner has yet to move. The toner will never move. The toner is still in the exact same place as the day you asked a year ago. I still remember this conversation because you then proceeded in asking where the supply room was and I asked if you, as a founding officer of this fine establishment, knew where anything in this office is. You replied with “no”, a hearty laugh, and a swift exit. I digress.) Does corporate really think of guns that often? Are we thisclose to letting the postal office off the hook and coining “going corporate?” Do I get a gun too?
Please?
Speaking of firepower, here’s your fun fact of the day:
Operation Glimmer was a code name used to throw off the dirty Germy’s during WW2.
(Thank you again, Howard Stern and Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Glimmer)
Oh glimmer, how you make my world go round….
In continuing with our efforts to keep this blog going and holding the glimmer in any way, shape, or form – I’m going to clear up some confusion. You see, Duke and I are often asked what exactly it means to “hold the glimmer”. Most of the time, I respond with “How am I supposed to know?” or “Who the fuck are you anyway?” or “Find your own definition, you bastard devil child!” This time is different. I may have an answer and you may have to continue reading to see if this really fleshes out in to a worthy response. Chances are dimmer than a candle during Chanukah, but let’s hold the glimmer (see what I did there.)
The problem with defining hold the glimmer is that it’s a lot like love- everyone has their own interpretation (my love definition comes from Sleepless in Seattle, yours…unclear (and stay tuned for the next blog on how movies ruined my ideals of love, life, friendship, money, …everything.))
A few years ago, I sat down to a regular Sunday night of catching up on important current events and cultural affairs (read- trash TV) before the monotonous work week. As I was perusing the options, the remote got jammed and landed me directly in the middle of Lamar and Khloe’s televised nuptials (slight fabrication, I chose to stop where I did. You see, up to that point, I had yet to watch any Kardashian filth. These Kardashians run amok throughout my town, live directly across the street from my boss who constantly reminds me of their lavish affairs and camera crews, and have yet to do anything of worth outside of beautifying their family for money and seriously awesome threads.) As I watched in awe and dismay, I started realizing the Kardashians are what’s wrong with the world (big statement with no follow up. Sorry.) You know the saying, “The world is your oyster”? Well the oysters are running out. They’re nearly fucking extinct. And it’s the likes of those Kardashians who are ravenously inhaling them; raw, fried, doused in vinaigrette, whatever… Do we finally understand the oyster comments now? OK.
So with the idea that the world is your oyster, comes the fact that you actually have to find your oyster. This is no easy task and I have no advice in how to find said oyster, as I’m currently still figuring this out myself. You’re reading this blog. You get where I am in life. From 9-5, it’s not pretty.
You may have to dig through three hundred shredded paper boxes to find one receipt for your bosses refundable car wash, alphabetically organize your said boss’ preferred hotel choices for when he stays in New York, or merely clean 20 coffee cups a day for the shmucks who left them in the sink and “forgot” to rinse them out the day before. You may get yelled at for stealing toilet paper from the bathrooms because upper management decided they had no interest in further budgeting for your or any of the other two hundred and seventy employees constantly running nose. These instances are all variables, all events that change from day to day and there is really only one way to handle them: hold the glimmer.
Holding the glimmer is keeping the hope that someday, somehow, somewhere, you will find your oyster. Some find immediate relief in drinking, be it at the office (I don’t follow the “it’s 5pm somewhere!” rule. “There’s alcohol somewhere that’s not being consumed” is my rule.) , at a conservative family function when you’re the only one with “liberal” seemingly tattooed to your head, or in your third year of the same class that’s keeping you from your BA. A cup is a cup after all, and your relationship with what’s in that cup is entirely up to you and the cup. Maybe your definition of “hold the glimmer” is laughing at old people when they fall. Falling is funny and age should not be a factor in laughter and entertainment. I don’t judge. I’m the one making paper clip chains, remember? Maybe you’re brand new to the entire concept of hold the glimmer, and your idea consists of inhaling expensive cupcakes, listening to Insane Clown Posse, all while reading our blog. GO CRAZY, you weirdo (but change the fucking station and take off the makeup. You probably look ridiculous. Just sayin…). You do you, and send me a red velvet one if you can. But in the mean time, whichever way you find most effective- hold the glimmer. Hold it tight, hold it close, just hold the glimmer.
Below, you will find proof of Duke and I attempting to bar blog. As he posted before, it was a complete debaucherous mess, ending in aioli on Asians (and multiple other sauces and fried foods), a righteous Friday morning hangover, and no post. Write a comment, Shoot us an email, “like” our facebook fan page, and follow us on twitter @holdtheglimmer and @DukeHTG….because we have feelings too.
Guess who’s who?
Glimmer Talk
Posted on: April 27, 2011
Are five days enough to let the heat cool off from the Spike Lee/Tyler Perry black-on-blacker race wars? Speaking of which, I think that bitch Madea snuck into my dresser drawer and replaced all my ties and dress socks with panty hose and a do-it-yourself home weave kit! Hey, if the mumu fits… no no, fuck that shit, I’ll keep my day job, thanks very much. It may be hectic and thankless, but it’s dignified – sort of. Anyway enough about transgendered millionaires, here’s a bitch-fit about you and me…
Look, I get it. You’re busy at work. I’m busy too. I work for one of the biggest defense contractors on the planet. The team I work with, the shit we do – it represents roughly 9 billion dollars in potential revenue. So trust me, I am fucking busy. But, I also have needs. I get lonely in this tiny office with no windows. Our understaffed team is made up of a tough skinned little old lady and two over-the-hill programmers. While they are all friendly and great to work with, they couldn’t understand me on a personal level if their pensions depended on it. Alright, I’ll be honest, I’m one of those people who needs constant communication with someone… ANYONE… but preferably someone who cares enough to reciprocate my attention. So when I’m not training stubborn financial experts, testing software modifications, troubleshooting user issues, answering calls and emails, or working one of the many side projects that totally aren’t in my job description – I like to reach out and touch who ever is available, digitally I mean. I’m talking about my only medium of sanity between the 8 to 5 hours, gchat. If you’re on it, if I see your name on a daily basis, chances are I’ve asked what you’re wearing at least a few times. And if you’re cool, you’ve probably lied and described something far more interesting than the bland corporate costume you bedrudgingly threw on that morning. Maybe it’s kind of sad, but that’s the best entertainment I get all day.
People are different, though. We all have different schedules, responsibilities and distractions swirling around our heads. We have diverse needs and communication abilities as well. So it’s no surprise that there are so many various types of gchatters. How many, you ask? Did I take the time to categorize them and compile a list one day while stuck on a teleconference that really had nothing to do with me? Maybe I did. And maybe now you have something to read as you multitask between facebooking and pretending to give a shit about your job…
The Ghost – I IMed you three hours ago and you still haven’t responded, even though your status never went idle (yeah, I noticed, that’s what it’s there for). Do you have me on the pay-no-mind list? Did you die at your desk and your twitching rigormortis-stricken hand just keeps moving the mouse to fool your friends into thinking you’re still alive? I know, I know, you’re furiously firing off emails and other such banalities that are paramount to your career. Seriously though, everyone has a few a minutes in their to day to say hi to a friend and see how they’re doing. In some cultures, that’s how they show they care.
The Brick Wall – Hi. OK. You? Yeah. Oh. Cool… I don’t think talking to one of these ice boxes even qualifies as a conversation. I don’t know a lot of people who are completely bereft of personality – but maybe being at work just sucks it right out of you. Perhaps you’re really quite interesting and have fascinating stories and opinions in real life, but you’re just illiterate or can’t type well. No no, I understand. You’re busy. If you don’t even have the time to formulate full sentences or share a complete thought, maybe you should cut the bullshit and go handle your business. I don’t want to tell you how to be a better slave or anything, it’s just an idea.
The Cliffhanger – You could be the greatest storyteller ever, if you could just finish a god damn story. You escaped from the whore house brawl, stole the cop car, chased by thugs, you jumped from the speeding vehicle, hid in the bushes, then suddenly…. Ten minutes go by, twenty minutes, your name turns idle, you get logged off… What happened? Did the thugs catch you as you were finishing that sentence? No warning, no “hey, I’ll be right back, sorry.” I don’t hear from you again for two days and when I finally do, you don’t even have the decency to finish the story! In the meantime, I broke three office chairs from hanging on the edge of them for so long. It’s not just the stories, either. It happens during just about every conversation we have online. They never end, you just disappear as if we weren’t even talking. Imagine if we were having a discussion in person, and right as you were about to make a point, I turned around and walked away…
The Emo Queen – God, life is SO hard, isn’t it? Shit, I pat myself on the back just for getting out of bed in the morning. But once I’m caffeinated and showered, I lose the morose attitude and brighten up quite a bit. After all, it’s just life – no big deal. Then I get an IM that goes something like, “Kill me pleeaaaase, my mom said my green shirt is uglyyyyy. I want to dieeee.” Wow. Relax, sweetheart. Don’t kill yourself just because your mom is a shallow bitch and you have no taste… my mom points out that I’m losing my hair all the time. You want to know why I’m losing it? Because of her. That’s no reason to cry. Check my wrists – no scars, Ma! So get over yourself, throw a sweater over that tragedy, and make your mom happy for a change. Try doing it with a smile – it’s easier than you’re making it.
Tracy- The Perfect Gchatter (she put me up to it, I swear) – How am I? Well besides choking on my tea from disbelief, I’m great! Thanks for taking the time to ask. Oh and you have an interesting anecdote, follow up commentary, and a warm, positive outlook? Holy cow, it’s almost like there’s a human being on the other end of this electric window! Perfect gchatter, I know your name isn’t always Tracy, but I am always happy to hear from you. Hell I might even stop what I was doing just to say I miss you and make plans to hang out. Then, when all that show of emotion is done, we’ll actually bid each other farewell before getting back to the insanity of corporate life. I’ll do it with a smile on my face, because my day has just been MADE – you can bet your sweet ass on that.
I could go on for days, I’m sure. But in the interest of time and space, I’ll wrap this up. Let’s be real, nobody is perfect. We’re all different. I’m guilty of being all those characters at some point or another (and so is Tracy, but don’t tell her I said so). My only goal here is to poke fun and make people aware of how they come across when they’re click clacking with their buddies. Next time you’re escaping the monotony of your work day, just remember that’s a real live person you’re talking to – probably a friend. So act like it. lol. omg. asl? gtfohwts.
Hold the Glimmer 