Everyone I know in Chicago is thinking of Kerry as they watch their evening news...

"OMG! Poor Kerry is in the thick of Snowmageddon 2010!"

This is true.



There I am. That's the street we live on. It really is a shit ton of snow...

"Shit ton" - a unit of measurement signifying a large quantity. What a great descriptor. ...and some people still favor the metric system. Humph.

What makes large quantities of snow unpleasant?
1. Digging yourself out of everywhere (digging out your car, your driveway, your sidewalk, etc.)
2. Moving from point a to b in the large quantities of powder.

Nobody knows this better than Native Chicagoans. I used to dig out my car, unfreeze the locks, fishtail to school, park a mile away, and traverse through the drifts to get to class. When I finally got there...tears streaming down my face from the stiff winds...I would glare at the teacher / professor...

You BETTER teach me something worth learning today. I don't wanna have to whoop somebody's ass.

Ah yes, but as Seth has pointed out, "we pay way too much in rent to have to pick up a shovel."

Indeed. That takes care of #1.

And with no car to drive and nowhere to drive it (university has been closed for several days now), that pretty much takes care of #2. Now, moving from point a to b consists of walking to the local Starbucks or grocery store.

So what happens when you have lots of snow, but no responsibility to move it or trudge through it?

WEEEEEEEEE!

You're not outside of my office window today...are you, picketers!?

Humph...I might have believed all of those "yes we cans" if you marched in the impending blizzard.

I have to give some love to "That's Not Art.".

According to the website:
People post ridiculous "art" to Tumblr. These pieces frequently make it into Popular. I reblog them here and call them out for being stupid.
Written by Garrett Murray

Some of my favorites:

One Day to Live

No offense to whoever you wrote this about, but this is a stupid waste of your last day on earth. I can think of many other things you could do, most of which could involve the eyeball person, that wouldn’t feel like you were just sitting still, staring creepily until you dropped dead. You could go to the batting cages, or have a nice dinner, or you could play scrabble or make a pie. Basically, anything but literally standing still, staring at someone for 24 hours straight


Take a Breath

Here’s a little thing you might want to try enjoying: anti-aliasing. And seriously, is that Y really hanging off the frame? REALLY? This whole image is so piss-poor. Actually, scratch that—I would rather look at an image of someone pissing poorly than this. If you find an image of someone attempting to piss well but failing, send it to me and I’ll replace this one with that one.

Probably Be Happy

It’s so easy to disprove this theory. For instance, the following locations would most definitely make you unhappy, regardless of who you went with: A small room filled with spikes, a lava pit, a feces luncheon, my ex-mother-in-law’s house (especially on Saturdays when she has already had three or four drinks), or outer space without a space suit.


A feces luncheon? That's pure gold.

Every day...for hours and hours... I sit at my desk and listen to workers in a picket line outside my window. Excuse me, Christopher Walken, but even you would agree that this situation requires decidedly LESS cowbell.

The most maddening thing is that I can't understand anything they're saying except, "yes we can!" ...over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

1. "Yes we can!"

2. Drums and cowbell.

3. Rinse and repeat.

AHHHHHHHHH! I'll give you whatever you want! Just make it stop!

*pats hair down and takes a deep breath*

Ahem.

The sheer volume of "yes we can"s has permeated my soul and has easily made me the most optimistic/crazy person on earth.

Co-worker: "Kerry, could we discuss blah blah blah?"

Kerry: "YES WE CAN!" *drum beat on the desk*

Co-worker: "I like your creepy manic enthusiasm!"

On a COMPLETELY unrelated note...
Let me introduce you to Kerry's fridge:


Because of my strange need to personify appliances...let's call her ...Fridgina.

It's not that strange. C'mon, work with me here, people.

I'm trying not to be completely shallow, but Fridgina was looking toe up. Toe up from the flo' up.

Footnote for the elderly: "Toe up" is a slang term that the kiddies use. It's short for "tore up," which implies that the "toe up" object/person is disheveled.

From her sad hodgepodge of local Thai menus, to her crooked chrome bottle opener...she needed an extreme makeover.

Enter....Obamarator!


Now it's a fridge fit for the Real World house!

At this point, you must be thinking, "A magnet mosaic of Barack Obama on a refrigerator? ...Oooo, how intriguing!...Tell me more, Kerry!"

I'm overwhelmingly pleased that you share in my enthusiasm, dear reader.

Quite frankly, the Obamarator is the most ridiculous use of my time that I could conceive of on a snowy Saturday afternoon.

But let's have some specifics:
It's 1,242 different magnets.
It took a good 5-6 hours...
...And 3-4 beers.

Every time I see his face, I'll "hope" there's a beer on the other side.

Let it be known that Seth and I have a reputation for keeping it classy. We traditionally only frequent places where we can be seen by the "right" crowd. Oh...and they have to have chicken fingers on the menu. Needless to say, this slightly limits our choices to a select few.

We headed out after work yesterday to a local pub.

All of a sudden I heard "bang"! *glass shattering*

No big deal, people drop glasses/bottles all the time.

Then I hear a loud cantankerous voice scream, "Suck my ****! Suck my ****! Suck my ****!"

I turn around to see waiters scurry over to a table with two old men. These guys were old...like...really old. I think I saw one of them wearing his War of 1812 regalia.

...or maybe not.

At any rate, it turns out that one of the men threw a glass and started screaming obscenities at the other. Why, you ask?

Over a rough and tumble game of backgammon.

I told you we keep it classy.

Santa came early for me this year!

I got to visit my family in Chicago over the Christmas holiday. Hooray! Going back home really brings back memories of my childhood...like those times my mother would say, "mess with the bull, and you'll get the horns" ...and other such maternal wisdom. "Mess with the bull..." was the perennial response to a teary-eyed child who was the victim of rough-housing.

So...on a slightly related topic...

Seth and I were rough-housing on Christmas Eve.

He picked me up, turned me upside-down and walked me up the steps into the kitchen...

Do you ever watch a football game where the announcer starts talking about your kicker right before he's about to launch a potential game winning field goal?

"And Kicker McFoot is 999/1000 from this distance. He leads the NFL in every kicking category...He has his leg insured by Lloyd's of London for $1 billion...there's never been a more sure-footed kicker in the history of football...blah blah blah..."

And you're sitting and watching your television thinking, "Damn you, Al Michaels! He's definitely going to miss it now! You just jinxed the whole team!"

Then your kicker shorts it by 10 yards.

Well, as I was turned upside-down and getting carried up the stairs, I said something ridiculous like, "Seth, watch out, you're really making my Mother nervous. Don't drop me."

And as he set me down, my pinky toe glanced off of a nearby garbage can.

"Yikes," I thought to myself..."that hurt."

I hobbled upstairs, removed my sock and saw a bone sticking through.

Then...

I freaked out.

So, we went to the hospital, they popped her back into place, sewed up the gash, and sent me home.

What joy! I got so many things for Christmas...

1. crutches
2. fashionable orthopedic boot
3. x-rays
4. and a tiny rubber turtle with reindeer antlers that the nurse gave me for being such a good patient. "This turtle is to remind you to take it slow." Awwwww.

So, I hobbled home to open my other presents.

Oddly, my mother had foot surgery a few weeks ago, so she's still occasionally on crutches. The two of us are thinking about starting a hobbling street gang...or at the very least, a lame foot conga line.

Ah well.

So Justin is thinking about heading back to school…well…I guess…so am I.

I don’t think there’s any doubt about this…I really enjoy being on a campus. Of course, on the one hand, I feel slightly miffed by this career path because my main job function is basically to facilitate other people’s passions (e.g. you teach, grade papers, and research…I’ll make sure we all get paid and we’re spending mommy and daddy’s money in an efficient way. More importantly, that we’re spending Uncle Sam’s money in the way he expects. Plus, I engage in a little gentle whip cracking to see that we’re all doing our part to apply for more money so we can limit the pressure on the revenue from mommy and daddy’s checkbooks. Apply, apply, apply. If there’s money out there for what you do…please get it. I promise you’ll eat most of what you kill. And with that, I guess we’ve determined that I don’t work a lot with the English Dept.). On the other hand, I’m happy to be around people who are passionate about something. And I’m in a place to rediscover my passions, or maybe find a new one. Exciting!

So many choices. The choices! No tuition / fees to pay and all of the graduate classes here start at 5 or later, so I’m golden…I just have to pick what fancies me. Of course, herein lies the problem…

I could continue my life as Ms. Practical and go after a Master’s in Higher Education Financial Management. …or an MBA…or a Master’s in Finance.

Or I could do something fun, like a graduate certificate in Int’l Economic Policy. I see absolutely no practical application of taking six courses in International Economics / Business, but it’s a portion of my background that I’ve always been interested in and lacking. (Or maybe language classes, or a graduate certificate in survey and data analysis. Who knows!?).

I want something rigorous, and I don’t really want to get an MBA…I could be wrong, but that whole process seems more like a test of how long you’re able to endure part-time monotony and group work. Ideally I’d like to light up parts of my brain AND have something practical at the end of the day (practical in the sense of acquiring knowledge and obtaining a useful credential).

Is this even possible?

Holy earmuffs, Batman!

It's frickin' freezing. Everyday I think about the following bit of trivia as I walk from my office to the train...

Question: At what temperature are degrees Fahrenheit and Celsius equal?

Answer: -40.

I walk along and I wonder if we'll get there...it certainly feels like we might. Then I make it to the train...that warm and gloriously quiet place where you can close your eyes and forget where you're at if it weren't for the heavy cloud of Old Spice and wisps of coffee breath snapping you back to reality. Not to mention the inappropriate touching. A day doesn't go by where I don't straighten-up suddenly and ask myself, "did that old lady just grab my ass? or was it an accident?"

Long story short: My body certainly hasn't yet adjusted to the Northern Virginia winter.

Case in point, we went to watch the Redskins play the Saints on Sunday (free club level seats, sucka). Although it was an awesome game, it was so difficult to pay attention with the chill that ran through my soul. The topper was the frosty $9 beer spilled on my lap by the one who shares a bank account with me, but shall remain nameless. $9?! C'mon! I went into the bathroom, stripped to my skivvies, and sucked the beer from the soiled fabric. These are not the actions of a lush; In these trying economic times, ideas like that are called "thrifty."

Now, I love football. Love. football. It's close to a perfect sport. But you can't just sit me in the cold for multiple weekends and expect me not become slightly conditioned to hate the game. This is why I'm forgoing this weekend's trip to Philadelphia with Seth for the Army v. Navy contest.

I was raised in Illinois. There, 0-15 degrees is a bit nippy, so you may want to grab a coat and hat. 15-30 degrees? You can and should still grill outside. 30-45 degrees? I can finally wear flip flops again. And 45+ degrees is a reason for celebration. We'd break out the slip n' slide and play lawn darts. What in the hell is wrong with me? Will I ever toughen up again?

It’s funny to think about what kind of things you learned in school that you actually use later in life.

Of course, all teachers have an incentive to say, “every single lesson is important.” After all, they’re competing with other teachers (not to mention countless other distractions) for student time and attention. What’s the advantage in saying, “the following is in no way useful. Please ignore me as I waste my precious breath”?

But it’s learning to weed out all the bullshit that can put someone on the path to being a successful adult.

My sister and I were just talking about an old English teacher spotted on Facebook. That hag made us write a one page journal entry every night. Blah blah blah about our hopes and dreams…then she would read and grade them. My sister and I were notorious for never completing the journal assignment.

Aside: for those of you without the pleasure of an older sibling, you must fully understand that your brother or sister has the incredible power to set up expectations of you. Like… my big sister’s actual performance = my potential performance + e. If my sister set a good example years prior, I could basically take a dump and hand it in as an assignment. But…she also burned some bridges (Thanks a million, Sis). Some teachers acted as though they had been seriously wronged ...and torturing me would somehow even out the universe.

Needless to say…that old English teacher managed to call all of my bluffs and accepted none of my excuses.

But I still didn’t write that stupid, sucky-ass journal.

Why? Because that, my friends, is a bullshit assignment.

Prioritizing and identifying the bullshit is such an important life lesson. If I had the task of writing a journal in my current job…I’d delegate that shit out to an admin assistant, or a grad student…

“I want a detailed summary of my hopes and dreams on my desk by 5. And can we get it without passive voice this time?!”

Every teacher I knew swore up and down that I’d NEED my knowledge of trigonometry…or proper paper mache and diorama making…or a perfect translation of Don Quixote.

…and they were totally right about the dioramas.

What I really meant to write in this post was something that I was TAUGHT…IN SCHOOL… that has proven so useful in my life.

And it’s simply about professionalism. Now, perhaps the Illini bobblehead on my desk doesn’t scream “PROFESSIONAL!” …And that time that I sent my potential new boss a picture of a flying monkey as a follow-up to a job interview? …maybe not the most mature thing to do (but I got an offer…so take that, social norms).

Professionalism for me is more about courtesy and respect.

Quickly follow-up with people. Learn their names. Be sure to thank them when they help (even when you don’t think a thank you is needed). Address them formally until they give you an indication to do otherwise.

And you’re going to run across people who take it a step too far. You’ll find people who demand way more respect than you think they deserve…

…and while you’d love to politely suggest that they take professional development classes in “getting over themselves…”

…don’t.

Little sprinkles of tact can make your life so much easier.

These things alone can set you apart. Isn't that insane!? Imagine if you have half a brain and an ounce of motivation to add to that package.

Thank you, University of Illinois College of Business. Teaching those simple lessons over and over again is the best money that was ever spent on my education.

So, I mentioned this in my last post…I’m now a train rider! Not a hard core train rider; I actually only ride the metro for several stops before hopping off and dashing to my office.

I must say, it feels like the “train people” are a whole different species...
1. Living underground.
2. Moving in packs.
3. Going about their business in complete silence …with their mostly solemn and expressionless faces.

Everyday I feel like I’m visiting some kooky monastery.

On rare occasions, one of the train people will speak. Since speaking is such an unusual privilege among the train people, all speech must only serve to reinforce the rules of their society.

And the rules are extensive indeed.

Luckily, I’m well versed in their most important rule, “STAND RIGHT, WALK LEFT!” …Many years ago, a younger Kerry experienced a Singapore-esque umbrella caning by one of the train people after displaying ignorance to the rule on the escalator. Kerry’s bum never forgot.

The other rules are of lesser importance, but still provide the fabric of the train people society…

Do NOT look at anyone squarely in the eyes for a period lasting longer than .5 seconds.

Do NOT stand in the doorway when people are boarding / deboarding.

Do NOT delay the train people waiting behind you with fumbling / misuse of your fare card.

Do NOT attempt to make polite chitchat, unless the chitchat serves to reinforce the rules (Example of permissible chitchat: “can you believe that idiot didn’t stand right?”) This includes (but is certainly not limited to) very long delays when the train is stopped in a dark tunnel.

Do NOT…for any period of time…stop to contemplate where you’re going or what train you will use. The train people will undoubtedly “tsk” you into a world of shame.

Consequences for rule violations are swift and just, ranging from the aforementioned caning, to the less severe tongue lashing.

So it’s all quite a change. I’m coming from Charleston, the world of happy chatty people. This system is so peculiar to me …as a former happy chatty person.

It’s just one big, damn, anonymous hurry. And just another life change.

Have I ever mentioned on here how I hate cars?

Okay...that's not exactly true. I don't hate cars; they're a necessary and sometimes efficient means of getting from 'a' to 'b'. I just don't believe in purchasing vehicles that go above and beyond safe, reliable transportation.

There's two pretty strong camps on this one, and I think I'll definitely get some push back from those on the other side of the spectrum. There's a group of people who really love their fancy schmancy autos. Can anyone blame them? I mean, why did I always want a Porsche growing up? Because Barbie drove one. Car manufacturers do an excellent job of branding 'cool' and 'luxury'.

And for some, it's just what they're into. And that's fine. I appreciate that a car can be beautiful. I respect that. I also have hobbies. For example, I'm into saving and investments.

Zing!

"But Kerry, some cars are good investments."

Valid point. And if your name is Jay Leno, I stand corrected. It's the definition of "some" in the previous sentence that confuses most other people. "Some" means almost none. Like...approaching zero. A car that "holds its value" is not quite the same as a good investment.

This topic always gets me fired up...

Calm down, Kerry...

Count to 10...

Okay. So, there's nothing wrong with purchasing expensive German autos so you can drive to your kid's soccer practices and Whole Foods. If the BMW emblem adds that much value into your life, then so be it. I'm in no position to tell other people how to live their lives. In fact, I abhor the type of person who would attempt to do so.

Be that as it may, our household dumped off one of its autos today. And I couldn't be happier! We're both taking the metro to work and barely have need for one car, let alone two. No more maintenance, no more $100 per month parking charge, no more depreciation. Amen! Freedom!

Sweetness. I think I could get used to this.

So, I chose.

Uncle Sam will just have to wait for now.

I think I'll be just fine. No worries.

So…for those of you not keeping score at home…I’m moving again. Back to Virginia… but this time, to a straight up thug town called Arlington.

The early 1990’s Valley Girl in my head is saying “well, no duh,” as I type this.

Indeed. No duh.

When I left my last job in Virginia Beach, I worked through Wednesday, drove up on Thursday, and started my new job that Monday. After that stressful series of events, I had a very “Gone with the Wind” / “Tara” moment where I shouted in my empty Virginia townhouse, “As God Is My Witness, they’re not going to lick me. I’m going to live through this and when it’s all over, I’ll never take off so little time in between jobs again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I’ll never take off so little time in between jobs again!!”

Ahem.

So.

There was that great dramatic scene a little more than two years ago…and where do I find myself today? Well, tomorrow I will pack up my desk and drive the 550 miles to get to DC. I start my new life and job on Monday.


Here’s how I expected this transition to work out…

All aboard the train to Fantasy Land!

Seth and I would find jobs that would double our salaries and give us healthy signing bonuses. These fantastic new jobs would require us to start employment in mid-November. We would leave our old jobs at the beginning of October and spend the next month and a half traveling to far away and exotic places. If time permitted, we’d scale Mt. Everest without oxygen, build homes for orphans, learn Mandarin, and program our DVR to record MNF while we’re gone.

Okay, so maybe it was a little far-fetched; I hate that tricky DVR…damn thing always runs out of recording space. Erase the programs you’ve already watched, Seth! (That should elicit at least one comment to this post).

All I wanted was some time. Time to settle. I’m like a bowl of pudding without the skin…never cooling…always agitated. And it has been well documented in popular culture that the pudding skin is by far the best part of that particular dish.

Okay…so that’s the whine…now here’s the cheese…

When I was a kid, I grew up in a world that consisted of the block I lived on. I had no idea what else was out there, and I’m pretty sure that I didn’t care (as long as the freeze pops kept coming and my pudding had a healthy dermis).

As I grew older, the world got bigger. And then I came to the realization that I was small. We’re talkin’ really small. Like a blade of grass…or a grain of sand. It’s slightly depressing…e.g. how could a blade of grass ever expect to impact the universe?

But, truth be told…I’m not a blade of grass. Luckily for me, I’m not planted in one place. I’m going to live in different cities, I’m going to experience each locale to the fullest, I’m going to meet lots of different people, and I’m going to hang on to the friendships I’ve made along the way.

As my plan thus far…it’s been flippin’ sweet.

And so with that, I intend to continue the flippin’ sweetness of my life.

I love the internet because I can have an extremely vague recollection of a video...so vague that I think that I may have dreamt it, and then spend 30 seconds putting keywords into You Tube before I actually find it.

From Dawn to Sunset!



What GM thinks a day in the life of a GM worker is like. ...As true today as it was when it was written. Kinda makes me want to work in a factory.

(I think there may be more to this video...the part I actually remember is when all the workers get paychecks and spend them to make America wonderful)

Today…is my two year anniversary at my current job.

Yesterday… I put in my two weeks notice.

Tuesday…I accepted a job offer at a university (Officially, the position is somewhat similar to jobs I’ve held in the past. Unofficially, I get to harass professors. The shoe is on the other hand now, pal).

All this change doesn’t come easily and without some drawbacks. The awful blemish breakout on my face is certainly an indicator of the kind of stress I’m feeling right now. It’s just terror. Absolute, unadulterated fear.

You think I’d be used to this by now, right?

My adult life to this point has basically been a James Patterson novel…without the clunky thrill plots. Entire chapters made up of 1-2 pages, and then off to another locale.

Through all that time, in all the places I’ve lived, I’ve stuck to one simple rule that I believe has made all the difference…

# of toilets in a residence = # of people living in the residence

I used to subscribe to the philosophy that the number of toilets should equal n+1, where n = number of people. Seemed like a good idea. Really just a safety precaution. Then I realized how truly awful that is…

...since I was the member of n who was always cleaning n+1 toilets.

Silly people in your McMansions…never realizing that each member of the household only possesses one excretory system.

Anyways, here’s really why I’m stressed…

Our new place has n-1 toilets! If I were living alone…that would REALLY be reason to panic, but since I’ve decided to continue residing with my beautiful husband, it’s only slightly less terrifying.

Talk about life changes.

Once upon a time, there was a hypothetical girl in a hypothetical world. Let’s call her…Carrie. Carrie was an extremely beautiful and intelligent girl (with a killer bod) who always wanted to be an economist.

Did I say that she always wanted to be an economist? Ok…so that’s not entirely true. She never actually knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. She flip-flopped. Often. First it was magician…then President of the United States…then journalist. Economist seemed to be a reasonable compromise.

Well folks, sometime in between pursuing the dream and experiencing the reality, Carrie never became an economist. She’s just on a different path. It’s not a bad path…it’s actually a very happy path...it’s just dissimilar from where she imagined herself.

Now, Carrie is amidst another life change.

She recently interviewed and received two job offers located in a North American national capital (not that one).

One is at a think tank (not that one…or that one…or that one).

One is at a university (not that one…or that one).

…two types of places where Carrie always imagined herself in a city that she has always adored.

Carrie feels as though accepting either of these job offers will propel her career forward, but may take her further from what she’s always wanted to do.

*sigh*

Is that okay? Should she just throw caution to the wind and accept that janitorial position at Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México?

As Seth job hunts, we’ll occasionally predict potential job interview questions and appropriate responses…

BUT…

It’s a lot more fun to think of completely inappropriate responses. As a creative thinking exercise, come up with some inappropriate responses to common interview questions and leave your thoughts in the comments. WEEE! What fun! To start you off…I’ve included a few of my own below.

DISCLAIMER: I must insist that you never say the following during a job interview as it may hurt your chances for employment…

Interview question: “How do you work under pressure?”

“Whoa whoa whoa, back the truck up, Chief. The job description never said anything about working under pressure.”

Interview question: “Where do you see yourself five years from now?”

“Clean and sober for the past two years.”

“Oh…well I’ll only be working for ‘the man’ until my band gets signed.”

Interview question: “Tell me about yourself.”

“Had a job at XYZ, got mad at my jerk boss…yada yada yada…he made a full recovery and I just completed my court-ordered anger management. But I’m much more centered now.”

Interview question: “What is your proudest moment?”

“One time…I forded a river while having dysentery AND a snake bite…in the dead of winter! …but then lived to travel the entire Oregon Trail.”

“The day the paternity test proved to that gold digger that I wasn’t the father. Showed her!”

Interview question: "What is your salary requirement?"

“That you pay me under the table in cash.”

Interview question: “What is your biggest weakness?”

“My calves. Thinkin’ about implants. Then I’d be the total package.”

“Crystal meth.”

Interview question: “Why did you leave your last job?”

“Those Puritans with delicate sensibilities frowned upon my workplace porn addiction.”

“I had a major bathroom emergency…walked out the front door immediately afterwards. Now I can never return. True story.”

When I was a wee lass growing up in the rough and tumble middle-class suburbs of Chicago...we shot pool...or hoops...or occasionally dice (it was a street game that we liked to call 'Yahtzee')...but guns?

Not so much.

Shooting guns doesn't really occur to me as something recreational. I'll never look at a big new gun and say, "That looks awesome. Check out that sweet stock. I can't wait to shoot it." But I'm a Libertarian. We're supposed to love guns. I'm supposed to turn into the brand of elderly woman who sits on her porch with a rifle on her knee, sips Bartles and Jaymes, and waits for trespassing kids to walk onto her lawn to collect an errant frisbee. Yet, I'm pretty squeamish about the whole idea of firing deadly projectiles.

So, wanting to better understand the fascination, I went to a gun range today to fire off a few rounds (notice how I've incorporated all of this new gun lingo into my vocabulary..."rounds"..."stock"...the local confederate militia will no doubt accept me as one of their own). And call me a wuss, but it was scary. They didn't have any water or cap guns as I requested, so I used a .22 caliber pistol. I wanted one affixed with a bayonet...but apparently they don't do that with pistols (you learn something new every day!)

I'm not too bad...

And if there's an evil-doer out there who looks exactly like this...

...and he remains perfectly still at 5 meters (probably wouldn't be going anywhere too quickly without legs)...

...while I carefully load a round...

...and take off the safety...

...and aim...

...then his lower right-hand abdomen is toast!

So it’s time to pop my wedding ring off…I’m kind of back on the market.

Steady your breathing, boys. I meant to say that I’m preparing to re-enter the job market (this is merely a preventative maneuver…much like a colonoscopy. Seth is looking for a new job, so I want to have several irons in the fire if we have to move. If I left my current job, it would have to be the perfect opportunity, so I'm being very selective in my applications). Some women give me an awful/hateful/disgusted look when I tell them that I don’t wear my wedding ring to job interviews. Believe me, it’s not in an attempt to seduce the interviewer…

Kerry winks “seductively.”

Interviewer: Is everything okay? What’s wrong with your face?

I’m nearing 28 years-old and I’m married. My female peers have either spawned, or will soon spawn. They are far more likely to use family leave, use sick time, and leave precisely at 5 to collect their offspring at daycare. These are in fact, the perceived average characteristics of married, college-educated females in my cohort. …and I support those life choices. That may very well describe me in the next few years…but…

Why would I willingly give a visual cue of my marital status that may incite statistical discrimination?

If I choose to tell a potential employer that I am married (which I almost always do, by the way), I like that it’s my choice. I’m not out to deceive people; that’s not an effective way to build a relationship. Being a married, late twenty-something should have nothing to do with my ability to perform a job. Seth and I have discussed this at great length and are in full agreement.

Of course, part of me feels that I’ve taken one too many labor economics courses. …or read too much about women in the workforce. I mean, why would I want to work somewhere that discriminates against working mothers? Truth be told, if it comes down to all other things being equal (education, experience, etc.), I don’t want any reason to lose an opportunity to a single, childless candidate. And for you skeptics out there, I hope you realize that ultimately, this is all in good fun. My marriage to Seth is so unique and enjoyable because we love to hypothesize about these kinds of things. It would seem silly not to follow through with the social experiment.

What do you think? Am I way off base here? Has the business world changed so much in the past 20 years (in support of working women) that these kinds of shenanigans are no longer necessary? Is it so common now to have children out of wedlock, or be a young divorcee that wedding rings are no longer signals of potential bambinos? With the ‘bread-winner’ mentality still so prevalent for men, do you think it would be better for a man to portray himself as married? Or single? Should I dress in drag to further squash the idea of any statistical discrimination based on gender (I have the shoulders to pull it off)?

Go buy yourself a Three Wolf Moon t-shirt TODAY!



Don't trust my opinion? Just get a peek at some of these glowing reviews on Amazon...

One wolf howling at the moon T-shirt? Good.

Two wolves howling at the moon T-shirt? Great.

THREE wolves howling at the moon T-shirt? OMFG!!!

Simply put, this is the greatest garment known to man. At least until the team of scientists and silk-screeners working round the clock find a way to put FOUR wolves howling at the moon on a T-shirt.

This is the T-shirt God would wear. If He wanted to look AWESOME.
_____
Well, as a gag I ordered one for the hell of it. I was going to wear it to my bro's batchelor party, just for the reaction factor. But something spectacular happened when I tried it on for the first time once it arrived.

Every night, for the past 6 weeks, I have been visited by 3 wolf sprirts. And every night, they bestow upon me endless amounts of knowledge and offerings of imitation crab meat. They consider me their brothern, and I have found clarity and purpose in my life.

I now feel alive for the first time and you can't get me out of this thing!

If you are planning on spending exactly $9.14 on yourself this year, this better be the purchase.
____
Pros: Fits my girthy frame, has wolves on it, attracts women
Cons: Only 3 wolves (could probably use a few more on the 'guns'), cannot see wolves when sitting with arms crossed, wolves would have been better if they glowed in the dark.
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I was born with a terrible deformity in my right hand - it is withered and rolled in on itself and useless. I ordered this shirt hoping that it would mend the hole that has grown in my soul over the years.

When the package arrived, I opened it with my left hand and began to realize there was a strange tingling sensation in my right hand! Suddenly it rushed forth through my entire body. When it hit my head I saw God!

When this sensation ended, I looked at my old, dead hand and, lo! and behold, it was still deformed.

But the shirt fits really well.
____
Unfortunately I already had this exact picture tattooed on my chest, but this shirt is very useful in colder weather.
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If your sense of humor is anything like mine, you'll spend hours reading all these reviews...

I love the office politics that swirl around shared items. The most entertaining of these is unequivocally the office fridge. Fridge drama seems like a universal theme in offices (Proof). Oh, tiny little icebox, what a joy you are!

A little background for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of dealing with a common office fridge…

When an office fridge is introduced to a workplace, people gleefully add items to the shelves. It’s a bountiful menagerie of frozen dinners, sodas, fruit, yogurt, and last night’s something or other.

Then…someone eats a yogurt. It’s tasty. It’s blueberry with granola. But it wasn’t their yogurt.

*gasp!*

Let the games begin. Five minutes later in my in-box…

To: All
Subject: Beware! You are not amongst friends!

Dear Co-workers:

It has been brought to my attention that my blueberry yogurt with granola has been usurped. Maybe it was an honest mistake. ….but then again…maybe it wasn’t. Colleagues, it is not my intention to incite panic, but the usurper could be back. Please run (don’t walk!) to the refrigerator and clearly mark all of your items with your name.

If you have any questions, please contact the local hospital. My blood sugar has dropped from my lack of yogurt and I can no longer function properly to finish out the day.

I hope you’re happy now (and full of my blueberry goodness), usurper.

Sincerely,

D. Rama

Weeks go by and no additional yogurt larceny occurs. But…a new phenomenon starts to brew…

My inbox…

To: All
Subject: I Ain’t Yo Mama

Dear Co-workers:

The fridge is freakin’ nasty. I know you don’t live like that at home. Someone’s block of cheese has given birth to a new block of cheese, and the apple juice has fermented into a potent alcoholic cider.

I’ll take care of the cider…but I am not yo mama. Please remove all of your gross moldy items by Thursday at noon…or else!

Burn in Hell,

Ima Whoopsomebodysass

There’s a general sense of apathy regarding this request.

Or else what? You’ll throw out my moldy food for me?

Then around Thursday at 11:45 AM, people begin to realize that they had previously avoided any further food usurping by leaving their moniker on numerous items!

The jig is up!

Time to stealthily slither over to the fridge…find your piece of mold…break out the Sharpie …and scribble out your name.

Not that I’ve ever done that.

And yet some people still think that Communism is a great idea. Humph.

Artist's Rendition: Two Girls, One Cup
Along the Thames in London, UK

The trip was awesome.

I'm trying to compile all of the photos and videos into a visual feast (yikes, there are millions of pictures and videos)... when I do, maybe I'll post some here.

But for now...perhaps some visual tapas....



Kensington Palace (the former crib of Princess Di and Charles).
London, UK


Retiro Park
Madrid, Spain

Do you remember what it was like when the school bell signaled the end of the day?

Good: school bell to end the day
Better: school bell before the weekend started
Best: school bell signifying the beginning of summer

Every single time I heard that bell, my heart would fill with pure unadulterated joy.

And as I grew older, it reached a point where I didn't quite require the bell...

it was just the tick of the clock past 5... and then...weeeeeee!

I still feel that at the end of every day, and during every approaching weekend, but today feels extra nice.

We're leaving for Madrid tomorrow...and then London for a bit. I'll tell Barack and Michelle that you all say hello. And who knows...maybe I'll even get to blog some of it.

So, we deal with quite a bit of pedestrian traffic. There's a port a few blocks away where cruise ships pull in every weekend and throngs of middle-aged fanny packers flood my sidewalks. Damn old people who walk four abreast. Why on earth would you need to walk four abreast? As we were out walking today, I had convinced myself that I am the only person on the sidewalk who moves for other people.

I am the only considerate person on earth.

If I did not move, people would walk right into me.

I had so thoroughly convinced myself that I am the only one who moves, that I decided to conduct an experiment...

"I am going to walk in a straight path on my side of the sidewalk. I will not move or yield for anyone."

About 10 seconds into my experiment....

*BOOM*

I put my shoulder and hip into a tiny college student and knocked her back a few feet. After I said, "I'm sorry!"... I almost immediately started laughing. Experiment concluded.

Proving once again that I AM the most considerate person on earth.

How many five-year-olds do you think you could take on in a fist fight before feeling over-matched?

Let's just assume a few things...
- you wouldn't be looked upon as a creep for beating up little kids.
- the kids in question are hungry for battle.
- they have very sharp fingernails (as children often do).
- they have the ability to work as a team.

It's not an easy question.

At first, I was thinking five or six.

But doesn't that seem like an awful lot? I remember babysitting. Those kids were nuts; they beat me to a pulp...and they didn't even have the kind of blood lust that I'm talking about here.

So after some revision and additional thought...maybe three? perhaps four if I've had my morning coffee.

And does the answer to this question change from generation to generation? Are five-year-olds today more able to dole out punishment than five-year-olds of yore?

I love Back to the Future: Part II mostly because I love what people in 1989 thought 2015 would look like. While not all of their predictions are on the path to being realized (Dear Mattel: Stop ignoring my phone calls! I. want. a. hoverboard!), there are a few that seem to be shockingly accurate…like the Cubs winning the World Series.

Okay…just playin’. That’s one of the scenes depicted in the movie that’s heavily ensconced in the fantasy world. …But Miami did end up with a pro baseball team as the movie predicts.

So, I’ve been thinking about the future…about 25 years into the future. My thoughts have led me to a list of things that I believe will be completely obsolete at that time (note: in most cases, I have absolutely no evidence that we’re working on technology to replace these things, I’m just going by gut feeling)…

Paperclips – I assume that someone will invent slightly magnetized and affordable paper. Magnets are always somehow involved in the wave of the future. Maglev Bullet Train? Magnets. Magna-doodle? Also magnets. See what I mean? The future is now!

Euclidean Geometry – Upon discovering that space in the universe is curved, all relevant points of Euclidean Geometry will become obsolete. The study of Geometry in high school will be replaced by “Advanced Multiplication Tables”…however…multiplication will also become obsolete in the coming years for reasons that I won’t get into. The study of multiplication will then be replaced by the math of least resistance. Perhaps… “How to Make Change.”

T-shirts – Our species will have evolved to grow a third, but only slightly useful arm. Since two arm holes will no longer be sufficient, eBay will experience an influx of antique White Snake Concert T-shirts.

French (the language, not the people) – French will become only slightly less useful than Latin. Heed this warning and return your software to Rosetta Stone immediately!

Butter knives – Remember when I said that the future was all about magnets? Well…it’s all about lasers too. Toss that old butter knife in the trash…it’s time for a magnet-powered laser butter cutter.

Some of these seemed so obvious that I felt foolish to take the time to explain them.

So what do you think will be completely obsolete in 10? 15? 25 years? Newspapers? Books? Computer keyboards?

Today we went and saw the Lowcountry High Rollers in the Spring Equi-knocks! They're the new area roller derby team, and tonight was their home opener at the local Shriner's Hall. Life doesn't get any better than this, ladies and gentlemen.

After watching the match, I can say with some certainty that I will never ever be a roller derby diva. They're definitely an impressively physical bunch. I don't even like for doctors to touch me...let alone a 400 lb "woman" named "Ballistic Bambi" (or some such clever name). I'm pretty sure that after one sound fall on my tookus, that my coccyx would split in two and I'd spend the rest of my young adulthood in a protective ass cast.

However, should I ever find myself wanting for the attention of roller derby fans...I would begrudgingly don the helmet and take my place as, "Fragile! Kerry this side up." Fanatical fans could just call me "Fragile."

So it occurred to me that I didn't post anything today...

...and today is reaching its rapid and inevitable conclusion.

So I'll share my favorite website of the moment. I'm a Sporcle addict.

Name all the US Presidents
Name the top 100 most commonly used words in the Engligh language

And there are hundreds of other quizzes. I've spent days at this website.

And I'm sure you'll all ace this one...
Can you name George Carlin's seven dirty words? I can't ever remember one of them...and it's an important one too.

Sometimes...when I'm as idle as a copy of On the Origin of Species in a Kansas school library, I like to think about what television show house I'd like to live in...

Family Ties - Really had that late 70's flair, but seems to be lacking available chairs. Way too many tchotchkes, and it looks like the Keatons liked to wear their shoes around inside. ...F***ing hippie slobs.


Full House - Seriously? Flippin...sweet...house.
"It's so opulent; like the Playboy Mansion, but non-sexual." - Marge Simpson
Why wouldn't you want to live in San Francisco? First order of business? Kick those creepy Olsen Twins to the curb. You got it, dude! Then I'd have Jesse and the Rippers play at my housewarming party. ...'cause that's how I roll.


The Cosby Show - Structurally, this house has great bones. But I suppose that being a lawyer and a doctor doesn't leave much time for decorating ...because holy shit, this is quite tacky. From the looks of it, I don't doubt that they're a pair of petty thieves who get a giddy thrill from stealing hotel room art...ugh.


My Two Dads - I remember absolutely nothing about this show besides flimsy plotlines and a sweet crib (I seem to remember something about a girl having two dads, but I could be way off base here). You can't go wrong with a couch that looks like a car. It's both timeless & classic...like slouch socks and acid washed blue jeans.


Frasier - Honestly, this is probably the closest to my own aesthetic. From the knock-off Chihuly piece in the background to the old man sitting on the couch....every last detail is accounted for.


Where would you live? Melrose Place? Archie Bunker's pad? Carrie Bradshaw's apartment?