Marketing is what turned soybeans into edamame.
Archive | November, 2010
I didn’t expect to leave part of myself in that room.
9 NovThis year I set-up a healthcare Flex Spending Account. I didn’t put much in it, but still, it was a pretty healthy year for me so I have a balance of $300 that threatens to disappear come January if I don’t use it.
I tell you that by way of explaining why I was at a dermatologist’s office this afternoon for the first time in my adult life. Apparently it’s on the list of annual inspections that adults over 35 should do, and since I am just sitting on a pile of money I can’t touch, I figured a bit of preventative care would be a good start.
As I sat in the waiting room (for a full hour, which is a different story), I noticed something: every patient walking out of the treatment area had at least one (and as many as six) circular bandaids affixed to his/her face. The first one I saw, I thought, “Wonder what she had done?” The second one, I was like, “Mole, mole mole…” a la Austin Powers. But by the third one, I was thinking we had a scalpel-happy doctor waiting on the other side of the door.
Turns out I was right. After a head-to-toe inspection (including a glance at my bikini line – REALLY? – do people even GET moles there?) the doctor uttered the words, “I just want to do a biopsy on this one…” and the next thing I knew, I was on my stomach having a small and flat (but apparently dark) mole completely sliced off my back.
Say what?! The doctor left and her assistant came in to dress the wound. He looked to be an African American guy in his early 40s and was very friendly. “All right! You’re not even bleeding. Good stuff!” he informed me, rubbing his hands together.
“Apparently I’m awesome,” I told him, eyeing the mole formerly known as “mine,” which was now suspended in a sealed container of liquid.
He stopped and looked at me. “Women ARE awesome. Seriously. It’s the men that are a pain, always wanting to know how much something is gonna hurt or passing out when they see the needle. Big babies.”
Right on. I should’ve asked for his name so I could quote him on that.
When I walked out through the waiting room, I could feel all eyes on me. I wasn’t sure if I should run around and high-five everyone since I didn’t sport a bandaid on my face, or if I should turn around and lift my shirt to show everyone the bandage on my back so they’d know I wasn’t a pharmaceutical rep.
I wish I had been more prepared. Next week my friend Margaret is going. I’m going to send some fancy kids’ bandaids with her and recommend that she stop in the bathroom and put at least ten on her face before walking through the waiting room. Because the only thing more terrifying than a doctor who’s a cutter, it’s a cutter who loves Hello Kitty.
When technology is smarter than we are…
8 Nov…there will be problems.
Sounds like we go to the same doctor.
My first auto-correct on the iPhone was when I texted my friend Liz with the intention of saying, “See you tonight” and instead said, “See you robot!” There have been others, but unfortunately, I didn’t have the presence of mind to take a screen capture.
Fortunately, other people did – and they started a whole website dedicated to capturing them: Damn You AutoCorrect.
Check it out during your next lunchbreak – assuming you aren’t feasting on a new treasure from your dick cookbook. <–That will make so much more sense if you actually check out the site.
Enlisting Facebook: my passive-aggressive war on noise.
6 NovI don’t use the “Places” function on Facebook that often, mainly because I don’t need my stalkers to know exactly where I am at all times. But also because I don’t want burglars to know when I’m not at home. (And stop thinking, “Paranoid much?” because I’m not. Everyone should be obsessed with stalkers and burglars.)
Anyway, tonight – curled in the comfort of my recliner next to the fireplace – it occurred to me that I’m such a homebody, the place I would “check-in” the most would be my home. So out of curiosity, I did a quick search to see if it was already established as an official Place on Facebook.
Alas, it was not, but – in addition to the bars, restaurants and gyms that surround my condo – I did find a couple places I think it would be fun to select when I’m home.
- Freedom Market: This is the bodega on the corner where I buy my Diet Mountain Dew when the Safeway down the street runs out. It’s a tiny shop run by an Asian family (assuming the clerks own it), and the 80% of the space is dedicated to beer and wine.
- Strivers’ Section Historic District: Until tonight, I didn’t realize that my section of Dupont Circle had a specific name. Shamefully, I had to Wikipedia it. It’s pretty cool that Langston Hughes probably walked past my building on a daily basis… and that I now regularly walk past the homes that Frederick Douglass built.
It got me to thinking about creating a place for MY building, so people could check-in here. And then, because my neighbor Michael started stomping around above me, bringing my blood to a boiling point, I decided I could stage a social media campaign to silence him.
Lessons: It’s not clever if it’s offensive.
5 NovWednesday I stopped in Walgreen’s to pick up an Iced Tea to take back to my hotel room. (I was in Chicago for work.) As I approached the counter, I saw two clerks making fairly broad hand gestures at each other.
“What’s this? A sign language lesson?” I asked with a smirk, thinking myself witty for teasing them.
And that’s when the male clerk spoke in a voice that clearly identified him as hearing-impaired. “Yes,” he said. “I’m teaching her to sign.” His hands moved as he talked. My smirk disappeared.
The other clerk, an Asian girl, smiled. “He was just teaching me to say ‘thank you.'” She showed me.
I looked at the guy so he could see my lips. “The only sign language I know is this…” and I started signing the alphabet, which I had picked up off a bookmark in the sixth grade.
He nodded encouragingly and smiled. “That is very good!”
I felt a flush of pride – even though it was only the alphabet, I was glad I could establish some common ground to show that I wasn’t a complete ass.
After I finished paying, I grabbed my bag, then freed up my hands. “Is this how it goes?” I asked, making the gesture for “thank you” to them.
pithypants 