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As is common in the sweltering summer month’s, our upstairs air conditioning broke.  It made sleeping the most fun.  So madre called upon the air conditioning repair people to come and visit.  Of course, she scheduled a “hair appointment” at the same time this man/woman was supposed to arrive, so I was in charge of answering the door and telling him/her where to go.  His arrival prompted my rapid ascent from the living room lounge chair and a scuffle to the front door.  I opened it to a 6′ older man with a wiry white beard.  I blazed the trail, leading him up the stairs into the depressing heat and Vanna White’d the thermostat.  Then I returned to my sloth existence in the chair.

My repairman did not look anything like this but he, too, had a beard (though it was not this pre-pubescent, because he was old, you know).

A mere five minutes later and the repairoldman is standing to my right, mumbling something (more creepy in writing than it really was).  Apparently, he couldn’t remove the thermostat cover and was calling upon me for my expertise.   Maybe I should be looking to the repairing industry for full-time employment….?  Regardless, I went with my seemingly-inept geezer upstairs and struggled to remove the cover.  I shook it a bunch, pulled it from side to side, even squeezed it (?)  Eventually, the cover sprang FREE!  He was pleased.  I wasn’t really since he interrupted my three-hour viewing stint of “The Real Housewives of Miami” (more crappy but not that crappy reality tv).  A short conversation followed my mechanical prowess.

Mr. Repair:  Gee thanks, I just couldn’t figure that one out.

Me:  Don’t worry about it, you’re just clearly in the wrong industry though.

Mr. Repair:  I’ve dealt with all sorts of thermostats, but I guess I haven’t seen ’em all.  This one really stumped me.

Me:  It’s fine no it’s not, I live here and even I don’t know how to take off the painstakingly important thermostat cover.

Now, I’m aware this is probably the worst example of the contradiction I’m about to pose, but it sparked my interest on a strange habit I, and probably others, have:

When having a conversation with someone, sometimes their shortcomings arise.  In this instance, the repairman (who I will now name Bruce) highlighted his inability to open my thermostat cover.  Rather than just being like “It’s ok Bruce, it really isn’t a big deal,”  I had to respond to his shortcoming illumination with one of my own, remarking that even I couldn’t open the thing and it’s located in my house.  Is there something sacrificial about our human nature in that we have to make other people feel better about their own faults by revealing a worse version of our own?  What is so magnetic about making yourself appear flawed in someone else’s eyes so that they can feel confident in their own ineptitude?  Does that not seem self-deprecating?  Or is this a better approach to someone’s reticence than avoiding a similar action and supplanting their belief that they really are bad at fixing people’s thermostats?

[On another note AREN’T MY THOUGHTS SO WORTHWHILE?]

Ultimately, I’ve decided that the next time someone says something like “I’m sorry that you have to drink this awful coffee I made, I’m really just terrible at the water:grounds ratio,” I will not say “it’s ok, me too.”  Rather, I will say “It’s really not that bad, but if you try [insert advice here], I bet it’ll turn out great next time!”

Ahh, that was therapeutic.

Sorry, not ready to divulge my opinion of “The Glee Project” quite yet.

 

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Here I lay, 12:39 a.m. on a lovely first of July, in my bed.  Like others of my age and social standing, I should be out sipping brews, chatting folks up, living in my YOUTH.  But instead, I am flipping through old notebooks from senior year trying to find job contacts I may have perchance written down at one point or another.  Lucky me, I found three and just e-mailed all of them at the prime time that it is.  That was a particularly good move on my part since they will likely open my less-than-excitably written email at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, disappointed first in its brevity, then its lame totally overdone job opening inquisition, then in the fact that it was sent at midnight.  I suppose they could be impressed with my fervor, though it’ll probably just appear like I had a quarter-life crisis over my jobless, living-at-home life and went on a job application spree (which I did).  Or they’ll just think I was drunk (which I’m not but wish I was). How is it that I used to think I had so completely prepared myself for the real world that I was unconcerned with my non-jobness?  Clearly THAT was a good move on my part.  I used to think I could be the next Karl Penhaul without much effort, and now I’m giddy over “social media specialist” positions I find on Indeed.com.

CNN Journalist

I stumble across the poorly written job descriptions and think “this is so great, I could totally do this and they will totally want me because I am totally unique and have totally awesome social media skills”  Only to find three weeks later that they definitely don’t want me and don’t even want to tell me that they don’t want me.  So I sit, day in and day out, refreshing the gmail on my phone (because I have turned off auto-sync for battery-saving purposes.  And also for ego-maintenance so I’m not heartbroken for hours at a time when I don’t receive an e-mail [even if it is only from Express telling me about a sale]) to see if one of the 30 job applications I submitted the week before have piqued any hiring manager’s interest.  Such is the horribly tragic tale of a 2011 journalism school graduate with a BA.

To find escape from the daily nagging of my parentals, I have turned to reality tv.  Do not even think about judging this move – you would do it too.

First on my list of shows I would normally not watch but now think are phenomenal:  The Glee Project.  Tomorrow I will debut my extensive (extensive) review of the first three episodes.  Wait with bated breath, please.

 

New show on Oxygen

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Today I was walking back from class.  It was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella or a rain jacket or even a hoodie with me.   So I just sort of trudged along, getting the ever attractive bangs-stuck-to-forehead look.  It was ok.

Then, I walked past these two, well three, guys.  One of them doesn’t really matter because he had no impact on the story.   One of the guys was on a bike and one of the guys veered away from the other two.  In a different direction.  He got about 10 steps away when the guy on the bike shouted to him “Andrew, Andrew, where am I going to meet you.”  To which Andrew replied “on that other corner over there.”

I walked away thinking nothing of it.  But then I started to think something of it.  Have you ever thought about if something really bad were to happen and the police contacted you for a witness statement?  Totally common thought process.  Well.  After thinking about that little encounter I had, I thought that maybe they were going to blow a building up.  I mean, look at what they SAID.  Guy on bike who was not Andrew was really nervous about where he was going to meet Andrew.  Why?  People have cell phones.  People have communication devices.  Why couldn’t he have asked Andrew after?  But he freaked out instead.  And then Andrew gave him this really vague response “on that other corner over there.”  To me, that seemed like code for where they were going to meet after blowing something up.  Like a building.

So I’ve been trying to remember since I saw them what they looked like, the time, their voices, their inflections, where they were headed, etc.  So just in case the police need to know any of those things because two guys blew up a building, I can help.  I’ve been thinking about it all day.

If nothing gets blown up, I’ll be totally out of luck and I will have wasted a few hours of my day trying to recall things for the imaginary explosion.  Whatever.  I think I’m a good citizen.

Also, I’ve been sitting in the same chair since I got back to my room two hours ago and, oh yeah, it was raining and I had no umbrella.  So now the rain water has seeped into my sneakers through that little mesh patch over the toes area and my feet are damp.  I can feel it.  And this room smells like popcorn and it’s really bad.

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I just got a Canon EOS Rebel (best Christmas gift ever) and I have no idea how to use it.

I like to think myself a tech saavy person, but nay nay.  The satisfaction I get from the intense ‘click’ sound that erupts shortly after the press of the capture button quickly fades when i see the resulting picture.  So plain.  So bland.  So not slr-worthy.  I need help.  Below is the object I chose to capture forever on my memory card.  Picturesque, really.

This is Christmas Eve at our house.

I just saw a commercial for “sexts” on tv.  Apparently “there is a thin line between him and the whole school.”

I guess the moral of the story here is to keep your boob and crotch shots to yourself.  Crimety.

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