My staff finally saw me lose my temper at the office. While I can be something of a Home Fuhrer, I'm pretty laid back at work. It takes something outrageous to get me worked up.
And then I met the association's new Net Nanny. That bitch is blocking everything even remotely interesting to read online. Blogs? Forget it. I can see some of them, but I can't post or read comments. (And the prize for the most frequently blocked is Zeepdoggie, who, now that he has changed his banner, will never get through. First, Net Nanny told me that it was blocking adult content. The next time, it said that it was tasteless or obscene. Once, it even claimed I was trying to view porn.)
My poor niece is suffering mightily thanks to Super Net Nanny 911. She e-mails me several times a day just to keep in touch and tell me about her day, sometimes to ask for advice that she will not take. (My favorite: "Aunt Margaret, I've decided not to live with my boyfriend, but not because of anything you said.") Lately, most of her messages are being blocked. The reasons:
"I'm having a crap day." (Tasteless or obscene)
"He was talking smack about my team." (Illegal drugs)
"I hope he didn't hook up with anyone this weekend." (Adult content)
In dismay, I whined to a coworker about how I hate being treated like a child and how the association should just trust us, and she turned it all around for me. I'll change her name because, since I'm not doing this at work like I'm supposed to be, I can't ask for permission to use her name. Let's call her Bob. Here is the e-mail exchange that saved my life:
Maggie: Oh, I’m trying to keep up my morale...I guess I should just start laughing at this.
Bob: I have a strong feeling that all this B******T will pass. If not, we’re F****D. In the meantime, lubricate the * key, because that bad boy is going to be used a lot! I can’t wait to go home and give my husband a *******. Then, I’ll ****************. And I’ll LIKE it! Ha! Try blocking THIS message!
Maggie: Okay, that almost made me p** my pants.
Bob: Last night, I stuck my hand down my pants to *********************************. SUCKERS! If this weren’t blocked, you would know what I did. But, you can’t tell, can you Big Brother? I bet it’s just killing you! I’m doing it again tonight.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Little town on the beltway
Saturday night was the long-dreaded annual Brookeville holiday party. I dread and fear this event for several reasons:
1. Even though I've lived here for nine years, hardly anyone in this town of roughly 100 citizens can match my name to my face. Jeff, who has lived here only just over a year, they all know. I mean, all of them. Here's to my forgettable face.
2. Brookevillians are not known for their culinary wizardry.
3. Half the town is over 80, and the other half is 30 with toddler children, so I don't really fit in either category, although I'm starting to have some sympathy with the former.
4. Our state delegate, who lives down the street and has known me for the last nine years, always mistakes me for someone else. Two years ago it was my neighbor's 18-year-old daughter (okay, not bad), and last year it was the 30-something mom of a baby (I must seriously have aged).
5. It feels like it lasts forever.
This year was something of an improvement. Chad and Michael, the local same-sex couple who recently were married in Toronto, sat at our table and livened things up considerably with tales of a bride they knew who had a cake at her wedding that was a life-sized replica of herself in her wedding gown. I wondered if the head was like the top layer, so they'd have to cut it off and freeze it to eat on their first anniversary. And that whole year, it could just sit there and glower at them every time they open the freezer for a bag of peas.
Also, we sat with other people whom we actually know, who paid our daughter to feed their cats while they were away; and while they didn't get Fiona's name quite right, they did remember mine. And of course Jeff's.
This year the delegate sat at our table and did not mistake me for anyone else at all. She did, however, mistake Jeff for one of the same-sex spouses across the street, giving herself away by leaning in toward him and saying in a low voice, "I suppose you'll think this is a bigoted question, but..." before squinting and realizing he was not Chad at all.
She's a good delegate. I don't suppose she has to be able to recognize people to represent them in Annapolis.
Meanwhile, the new residents in town didn't recognize me as the woman whose dogs occasionally run into their yard and infuriate them by barking at their dogs, who are safely ensconced behind their fences. These woman have fussed at me or Fiona on more than one occasion about this, but tough luck. Dogs on our street are always running into their neighbors' yards. It's the culture here. At any rate, these new residents must be better cooks than the established Brookevillians, because the food was better this year. Even the stuff that looked like dog food tasted okay. Whatever it was.
This year, I must make myself unforgettable. Suggestions?
1. Even though I've lived here for nine years, hardly anyone in this town of roughly 100 citizens can match my name to my face. Jeff, who has lived here only just over a year, they all know. I mean, all of them. Here's to my forgettable face.
2. Brookevillians are not known for their culinary wizardry.
3. Half the town is over 80, and the other half is 30 with toddler children, so I don't really fit in either category, although I'm starting to have some sympathy with the former.
4. Our state delegate, who lives down the street and has known me for the last nine years, always mistakes me for someone else. Two years ago it was my neighbor's 18-year-old daughter (okay, not bad), and last year it was the 30-something mom of a baby (I must seriously have aged).
5. It feels like it lasts forever.
This year was something of an improvement. Chad and Michael, the local same-sex couple who recently were married in Toronto, sat at our table and livened things up considerably with tales of a bride they knew who had a cake at her wedding that was a life-sized replica of herself in her wedding gown. I wondered if the head was like the top layer, so they'd have to cut it off and freeze it to eat on their first anniversary. And that whole year, it could just sit there and glower at them every time they open the freezer for a bag of peas.
Also, we sat with other people whom we actually know, who paid our daughter to feed their cats while they were away; and while they didn't get Fiona's name quite right, they did remember mine. And of course Jeff's.
This year the delegate sat at our table and did not mistake me for anyone else at all. She did, however, mistake Jeff for one of the same-sex spouses across the street, giving herself away by leaning in toward him and saying in a low voice, "I suppose you'll think this is a bigoted question, but..." before squinting and realizing he was not Chad at all.
She's a good delegate. I don't suppose she has to be able to recognize people to represent them in Annapolis.
Meanwhile, the new residents in town didn't recognize me as the woman whose dogs occasionally run into their yard and infuriate them by barking at their dogs, who are safely ensconced behind their fences. These woman have fussed at me or Fiona on more than one occasion about this, but tough luck. Dogs on our street are always running into their neighbors' yards. It's the culture here. At any rate, these new residents must be better cooks than the established Brookevillians, because the food was better this year. Even the stuff that looked like dog food tasted okay. Whatever it was.
This year, I must make myself unforgettable. Suggestions?
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