She's Making Jewelry Now

While I was drinking coffee and reading blogs this morning I found a humorous clip from Portlandia:


Ah, the creative lifestyle.

I love Portlandia.

Don't Judge

Don't Judge pinned in Geek Love; via The Black Sheep Dances

So You Want to Write a Novel Video

Do you remember the iPhone 4 vs. Evo video? Here is a similar video sure to get a chuckle from serious writers.






I found it via Speak Coffee to Me.

In the Lane of Fire

Have you ever watched people’s behavior in public places? It often defies all logic and reason, leaving one to wonder, “what were they thinking?” Truth is, people often see themselves as "special cases." If they thought about it, they'd see if everyone followed their reasoning, no one would ever receive their "proper" treatment.

Take fire lanes as an example. My employer has a fire lane specified by a bright, yellow line painted on the blacktop. While technically no vehicle should be parked in the lines at any time, people often pull up their car for loading. Loading in the fire lane is fine, I suppose; customers often confuse which door is the entrance and which is the exit of our building. But I cannot believe how many people park in the fire lane.

I’ve actually gone up to people parked in front of the door and told them they can’t park there. I usually get the response “I’m waiting for someone,” to which I patiently explain the concept of a fire lane. Personally, if there’s an urgent situation, I want emergency workers to have access to the building—mostly for my safety, as I care more for that than the building’s integrity. Unfortunately, those who decided to park in front of the door because “they are just going in for one item” care little for either.

To me, if you’re waiting for someone, you have two options: either you go in with them or you park the car (in a parking spot) and wait until they come back out to pick them up. If you’re shopping, you park--no exceptions. Either way, I don't care if you're the CEO of some mega-important company, when it comes to safety, you don’t get special privileges.

Distracted at Panera Bread

A week ago, my roommate and I went to Panera Bread to work on our future business. After ordering a House Latte and settling in with our laptops, we discussed our plans and goals. We decided to work on different segments of our upcoming website and fell into a comfortable, productive silence. Even though others sat chatting at tables around us, we were not bothered. The low, soothing sound was broken by a xylophone.

Yes, a xylophone. In the middle of Panera Bread, a woman sat with two teenagers and a toddler. The little girl happily banged away, creating a tense undercurrent in the coffee shop.

Her mother didn't notice. People paused to stare, but no one said anything to the mother. Not a word. We tried to get back to work, but we finally had it. We left the child still creating cacophony.

Dear Parents,
I don't mind children in public places. In fact, it's great you're exposing them to social situations at a young age; I'm sure they'll grow into wonderful, well-adjusted adult such as yourself. Please, and this is merely a suggestion, entertain them in a way least distracting to others. My suggestion is crayons and paper. Perhaps a favorite doll or toy truck. But please, dearest Parents, do not bring toys that bang, pop, whistle, or generally make noise. I'm glad your child has an interest in music, and indeed, you should encourage him or her. But bringing your child to a public place gives you an opportunity to expose them to something else--respecting others thoughts, ideas, emotions and above all eardrums. This is a valuable lesson. Thank you for your consideration, for all our sakes.

Sincerly,
Distracted at Panera Bread

On Taxes

In light of the tax season upon us, I give you my response to last year's attempts to figure my own:

Every year at about this time I stare blankly at the meaningless numbers. Taxes. The W-2's report an amount far exceeding what I have in actuality. A fair portion of that number, the government laid claim to before I ever saw it. Now, it's time to see if they will pity me and return some of my hard earned dollars, or if I must begrudgingly send out money I desperately need to survive.

The process to figure out taxes, my father assures me, is easy. But as I try to decipher the manual to my 1040EZ, I realize the booklet is written in an obscure and elite form of English known as Bureaucratese (which, I discover, is a proper word). It may have well be in Old English or Latin, for all I can understand. I would even take King James English; at least I have read enough Shakespeare to appreciate the ornate, archaic language.

The worksheet instructs me to add numbers according to my marital and dependency status. I do so, and try to figure out why it matters. I panic and call my father. He explains I need not look for meaning in the numbers (and tells me I am over-schooled). If only my schooling helped. He goes on to tell me these numbers are to force citizens to use a third party for their taxes. With this reassurance, I hang up and turn once more to the threatening numbers.

I start adding necessary, and unnecessary, numbers in my head, on my fingers, on my calculator. The figure before me tells me I owe the government a good deal more money than what rests in my bank account. I do math two more times, and then a third to make certain. Wild-eyed and frantic, I call my father again.

Dad, of course, knows I don't owe the government anything. "You're going to get most of it back," he says patiently. "You're just doing it wrong."

After discussion and negotiation, my dad agrees to once again "do my taxes this year," but next year, "I have to figure it out on my own". I agree, relieved I have another year before I must deal with the meaningless numbers the government is so concerned about.