tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82063445829034239632024-02-18T20:57:11.853-08:00Your Sensitivity is InsensitiveThe name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-31006797209784045632013-04-14T12:13:00.001-07:002013-04-14T12:26:39.762-07:00Mom Doe, Identified.I have been procrastinating on writing about this subject. Have you ever felt so passionate about something that you feared that if you let it loose, you might not be able to harness it long enough to get logical, coherent thoughts out onto paper without producing a disaster for an end product? This is that for me. It's like I want to scream...<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">"WORLD! 'MOM' is NOT an all-encompassing identity!"</span></span><br />
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I don't quite understand why we are still here in this day and age. Oooh, saying that makes me feel old. But I am tired of reading judgmental articles and blogs posts, and seeing stressed out, run down, guilt ridden mommies. Why are we being shamed into believing that we should eat, sleep and breathe ONLY our kids? <br />
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I am a mom but I am only a mother to my daughter. In life, I am a human being. A woman. A multi-dimensional person. I believe my offering to the world is that. It is not that I am a mother. By the way, I think my acknowledgement of that fact makes me the best mother I can be. More on that later.<br />
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Ask many women to describe themselves- most will start with some variation of "I am a wife and mother..." Would you not think it odd if you asked me to describe myself and I said "I am a friend to 6 people and the daughter of my mother"? NO!!!! I am a quirky person. A complicated person. I love to learn, I love to try new things, I am very intense, type-A, probably a control freak. I have a bunch of beliefs, many of which conflict with eachother, none of which my identity is tied to. I am a family person, a feminist, and a fiercely competitive person. I'm less organized than I would like to be and I am annoyingly and endlessly curious about the world and all of the people in it. And that list barely scratches the surface of who I am.<br />
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I love my daughter with all of my heart and I think we owe our children a lot. As a woman with a daughter, I believe I owe my daughter an example of a self-possessed, strong woman who goes after what she wants in life. She knows that I love her dearly but she also knows I take time to foster the seeker, the woman, the adventurer, the book lover (and many other elements of myself) within.<br />
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In full disclosure, I am kind of nutty about this. I talk to my daughter as much about what she learns through osmosis as I do about talking to strangers. Not only does she know to say "stranger danger!!!" if ever approached by someone she does not know, she also knows how to say "if" and not "when" anytime she refers to a future marriage or kids. As in, IF later in life she decides she wants to be a wife and/or mother, she can and will be. But conversely, IF she does not want to, she can do whatever her free little heart desires and still have an identity.<br />
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If I only taught her how to be nurturing, and if I abandoned my individual identity due to society's demand that motherhood involve martyrdom, what would I ever teach her besides how to be a nurturing martyr?<br />
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Similar to the 'stranger danger' tactic we teach our little ones, I hope as women, we speak out anytime there is an encroaching threat to our well being. If there were tombstones created for the many souls devoured by the monster that is societal mommy guilt, we'd have enough fallen heroes to replicate Arlington National Cemetery.<br />
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To more whole women. <br />
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<br />The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-35192262728465809932012-11-16T16:57:00.001-08:002012-11-16T17:06:53.478-08:00Just when you think you're not batshit crazy...<span style="font-size: large;">Life has a funny way of proving to you how normal you're <b><u>not</u> </b>the exact minute you dare to believe that you're pretty well adjusted. <span style="font-size: small;">Of course, I don't mean 'funny' as in humorous because I'm not laughing.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> It's funny in the same way that hitting the inappropriately named bone in your elbow is funny. <span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<strong>Lingering tingling feeling anyone?</strong><br />
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To get a bit memoir-esque, I made it to to my late 20's without experiencing what I consider to be any real emotional hardship in life. psssh...I was always happy, why did people have to try so hard? Thinking the finish-line-of-life was just crossed unscathed, I felt invincible.. <i><br /></i><br />
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<b><i>Sooo</i> that lasted for about two days and then Life, being the bastard that he is, was all like "I'll show Summer who's boss</b>" and laughed kinda villain-like (muaaahahaha). <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then began 2012...the year in which life and I fought eachother vehemently </span></div>
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(a la Floyd Mayweather & Oscar de la Hoya in a rope-lined ring in Vegas).</div>
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Yes, we're only in the 5th round but despite my bloody lip, I can assure you I will win. Inevitable victory or not, it hasn't been fun dealing with the bouts of uncontrollable emotions. </div>
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I was genuinely concerned yesterday when I noticed that just 10 minutes after a complete low, a surge of joy and energy overcame me. <b>Think depressed Ben Stein finds stimulant narcotic- smokes said narcotic- and runs rampantly around in a euphoric state.</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And I do feel very <i>female </i>all of a sudden. I never understood what people meant when they described my gender as 'batshit crazy', so I sought out enlightenment.</span><br />
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Confused and unsure of how to self-diagnose Batshit Crazy Disorder, I consulted Google. I just laid it all out there and typed in "why women are batshit crazy".<br />
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According to the articles discovered after clicking a couple of links, I am NOT (yay!) batshit. Initially I was startled by the disturbing headline:<br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"><br /></span><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">"HALF OF AMERICAN WOMEN ARE BATSHIT CRAZY!"</span></span><br />
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<b>But as it turns out, temporary emotional volatility <u>isn't</u> crazy. But a willingness to fore-go sex in order to be skinny, <u>is</u>.</b><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>"Fitness </em>magazine is yet again asking the hard questions: Would you skip sex for a year if that meant you would be skinny? Or...would you prefer to "have great sex and be 30 pounds overweight"? A little more than half of their survey group of 2,400 ladies said they'd skip the sex. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #444444;">Could it be possible that these women who would rather be skinny than have sex don't have sex in the first place because they're too busy eating baby food and going to the gym all the time? Or are <em>Fitness</em> magazine readers just off their rockers?</span>"</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3Yn9bCXxjU8gDVEz7unvaw_sjMFaC1bRCwmOOtXDpm6fgTOl5bf7yCICdmKtSDHFdH2ALiH4RkMMlRTkhJoE0qo0j9H22Is8MCDz5SbdaxjO7D320d_L9sioUuaB_067Ids3XDlMpkw/s1600/crazy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3Yn9bCXxjU8gDVEz7unvaw_sjMFaC1bRCwmOOtXDpm6fgTOl5bf7yCICdmKtSDHFdH2ALiH4RkMMlRTkhJoE0qo0j9H22Is8MCDz5SbdaxjO7D320d_L9sioUuaB_067Ids3XDlMpkw/s1600/crazy.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New;"><strong>a real-life batshit gal, courtesy of <em>Fitness</em> mag </strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I can't argue with <em>Fitness</em> magazine, although I don't think we agree on what exactly it is within the aforementioned article, that is infact, batshit nuts. I love cheeseburgers so I don't think it's completely far-fetched to believe that there are a good amount of women who prefer to have one instead of sex. <span style="font-size: large;">However, female gym rats surviving on baby food?</span> What the hell has the world come to?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I can sleep well tonight as I've never been more confident in my sanity.</span></div>
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<br />The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-19382004465916957712012-08-03T21:29:00.000-07:002012-08-03T22:01:05.356-07:00Red Bull's DadI stopped by the gas station near my parents' house the other day and was greeted by the attendant who has worked there since I bought candy on my walk home from jr. high school like a million years ago.<br />
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As soon as I walked in, he lit up and said <span style="font-size: large;">"hey!!! OMG, your dad is Hostess right?!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">I'm sorry, what the hell did this guy just say? </span></i></span><br />
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He was intuitive enough to notice the confused look on my face. So he picks right back up with <span style="font-size: large;">"you know, you're Hostess' daughter...Hostess Bruce, right?"</span><br />
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Ummm?? Yeah, I was a little slow to catch on but he meant Hostess snack cakes. Evidently I am not the only one who has noticed my father's affinity for sweet, delectable, sugary treats.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-kDlI1XeXxysYr4uYVmcWnpn2F3vp4SPHOwW6hFRfjHOqwcsconNvrPHavYdv6_F8N7mWC4xjTxU-m5ZuXswIYgR0YupMlC42rI8wIzRr_b_12NALR9Yz53t2Oht9ExfdS5mCLmC6lQ/s1600/familyportrait.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-kDlI1XeXxysYr4uYVmcWnpn2F3vp4SPHOwW6hFRfjHOqwcsconNvrPHavYdv6_F8N7mWC4xjTxU-m5ZuXswIYgR0YupMlC42rI8wIzRr_b_12NALR9Yz53t2Oht9ExfdS5mCLmC6lQ/s320/familyportrait.png" width="246" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #f1c232;">My Family</span></div>
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I just hope that by default, that doesn't make me Little Debbie.<br />
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This got me thinking- is every gas station attendant this observant? Gaw, the things people could find out about me....<br />
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My dad would be surprised to walk in to my local fuel mart and be identified as <span style="font-size: large;">"Red Bull's dad"</span> or <span style="font-size: large;">"Clif Bar's father-in-law"</span>. I wonder if he'd beam with pride to know that he is <span style="font-size: large;">"Airhead's grandpa"</span>.<br />
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On the bright side (always the optimist), I really could've discovered worse. Things could've gotten bad if upon entering I was greeted with <span style="font-size: large;">"hey, Summer! You're condom's daughter, right??"</span><br />
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****<i>***** </i></div>
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<i>"live in such a way you'd be proud to have your daughter meet your gas station attendant"</i><br />
~Rancho Cucamongan Proverb<br />
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<br />The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-79497345068658526892012-07-19T22:58:00.002-07:002012-07-24T15:11:45.371-07:00Svetlana Petrov, Plant Eater<span style="font-size: small;">I came to the realization today that my inner person is not who I thought it was. I am actually quite certain that my inner person, or soul if you prefer, is a man. Definitely a gay man, but a man for sure. How can souls be either sex, you ask? Well I don't know. I'm certainly not claiming that my soul has a penis...I just think that's the best way to describe some of my more testosteronic tendencies. <b>My inner Summer is an alpha male</b>. There, that describes it perfectly. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIhhtGEVw-aN3wEzO5Es-inwCJLmYQTWrFVCFNnCDfi5hwwxc5x-2PmqZdTc_MWQg0UxDGbHLUaRTJvUMygzVwEoRyvkfu63xCBmfiCphqWqCvLch8pOq4E9S5dtDHKRKRSAk3Bsq7lA/s1600/alphamale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFIhhtGEVw-aN3wEzO5Es-inwCJLmYQTWrFVCFNnCDfi5hwwxc5x-2PmqZdTc_MWQg0UxDGbHLUaRTJvUMygzVwEoRyvkfu63xCBmfiCphqWqCvLch8pOq4E9S5dtDHKRKRSAk3Bsq7lA/s200/alphamale.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #e69138;"><i>a pic of my soul but way more buff </i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So you'd think that this alpha-female thing would allow me to fit in with the alpha males of the world. And you'd be wrong. We're supposed to be fragile! Because we've got boobs, that's why.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Problem is, I like "guy humor", meaning that I find a good razzing pretty ha-larious. I see guys just walk up to eachother with an endearing "hey dickhead" and receive a totally normal "yo, douchebag!" in return. But nooo, when I play around with anyone there are no pet names like the aforementioned, shouted to me. I just get the triple awkward combo served up on a platter:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><em>*gasp!*</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><em>*blank stare*</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><em>*crickets*</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Take today for example, I'm walking from the back of the office towards the front and I pass the office of my co-worker...we'll call him, Jonathan. After I've just passed the doorway I hear Jonathan yell,<span style="font-size: large;"> "HEY ARE YOU GOING TO THAT EVENT ON ELM AT NOON?" </span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Not quite sure if he was talking to me, I turned around and walked back. And being the total jokester that I am, I said <span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Am I, hey?"</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Well I didn't say I was funny, I just said I was a jokester.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So anyway, my co-worker responds with "huh?" and a puzzled look. I replied "Well you said 'hey' and I wasn't sure you were speaking to me. If you use my name next time, I'll know I'm supposed to answer." *big smile*</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">Ok, disclaimer: this sounds really bitchy via written text but I said it totally tongue-in-cheek and really playfully. </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So Jonathan replies <span style="font-size: large;">"oh my god dude, you're sooo direct sometimes, are you Russian?"</span></span><br />
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Ok..I'm sorry, now I'm confused. I don't look Russian by any means. And last time I checked, I wasn't wearing a tall furry snow hat, sporting 'Stalin' as my surname, or turbo guzzling a pint of vodka.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDV_r4gbWZYKBsZTgDQhqWIWjyAdZjIU0RWoVvScrBNRmhT-yuPaV_NrujsnB1XFFcLqmR4ORxNn_Xo8GWsA_sCZvrnyoqNothwKYmsnRURKXKR5WAp65ZZolJxFUcA7hXaaKnWJBaWM/s1600/russian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDV_r4gbWZYKBsZTgDQhqWIWjyAdZjIU0RWoVvScrBNRmhT-yuPaV_NrujsnB1XFFcLqmR4ORxNn_Xo8GWsA_sCZvrnyoqNothwKYmsnRURKXKR5WAp65ZZolJxFUcA7hXaaKnWJBaWM/s200/russian.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<em><span style="color: orange;">thinking of rocking this look as a disclaimer (sans the blonde locks)</span></em></div>
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Come to find out, there is a stereotypical saying about Russian women that goes like this: <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"there are no Russian women, only Russian men without penises" </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"> OUCH.</span></b> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">but also "lol" because that's kind of funny. </span><br />
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<b>Jeeze, way to make a gal feel like a real ball-busting buzz kill</b>. <br />
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Here I am thinking he knows I'm joking, but To Jonathan, I am a true soviet incarnate. In addition to me not being funny, it dawned on me that I also need to work on managing perception. This point was again proven two hours later when I walked into a meeting where the topic of small talk, was hamburgers. As soon as I walked in and sat down, the client turned to me and said,<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"we're talking burgers here, but I'm sure you're a vegan, right?"</span><br />
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What? Whoa. Where did this come from?<br />
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I don't understand how you can look at someone and just assume that they are a vegan. Is it because I didn't have any remnants of a 16 oz. charcoal grilled, rib-eye stuck in between my teeth? What does a girl have to look like to protect her carnivorous identity? I love a ginormous burger...don't threaten me with a good time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdUCBVP_zGaHN9peK6_ENyngaArzxJkoZ9hGWADB-ttEIrKgtNxJc3Hy8Ycw2T2Zjt9T_o8FaxN5GWuJidPMDgYJut_3T7dXIEiJLtoMAqBLQd1URQjUybd32OqfQG3dD7f3ZjBxvCSg/s1600/bacon.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdUCBVP_zGaHN9peK6_ENyngaArzxJkoZ9hGWADB-ttEIrKgtNxJc3Hy8Ycw2T2Zjt9T_o8FaxN5GWuJidPMDgYJut_3T7dXIEiJLtoMAqBLQd1URQjUybd32OqfQG3dD7f3ZjBxvCSg/s200/bacon.bmp" width="200" /></a></div>
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<em><span style="color: #e69138;">Just trying to be consistent with the shirt theme</span></em></div>
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I give up today. I am clearly, the non-master of perception. <span style="font-size: large;"> *sigh* Just call me Svetlana, Russian vegan.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-41769726768687607702012-07-12T18:25:00.001-07:002012-07-12T21:25:13.789-07:007.2 Months of Summer<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm back in the saddle (er back in the blog?) after a minor sabbatical. 6 months is still considered minor, right? I just imagined that someone said "yes" so I'm going to take it and run. I figured with my first blog post back, ALL of my many followers would be so anxious to know (a) that I am alive and (b) what I have been up to since the beginning of the year the world ends. That's 2012, for you non-mayans.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: black;">You will be happy to know that I have included more pictures, as I so gracefully vowed to do</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><u> <a href="http://www.yoursensitivityisinsensitive.blogspot.com/2012/01/pics-are-worth-thousand-reads.html" target="_blank">here </a>.</u></span><span style="color: black;"> :)</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f1c232;">January</span></strong> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">- I threw a little New Years shindig where I got my Martha Stewart on. Basically that just means I bought some yummy takeout (psshhh cook?) and bought some baked goods that I set out on a small table. I then lit a few tea lights and threw some "shamp" in a bucket with ice. It really made me feel like a domestic diva. At least I think that's what being a domestic diva feels like...</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqvYzbSU7hPSCWnc89RUVX4ut_0Ui3Bsc6Gpn-Y0W_GGjVN3ZEumcp9o8ilC3V1mLcwcidxl_EaOd7OMDN-MgI14KRlZIDP5bMgyn0DPZJ3yn5LZBFX91BQiVsdWRutiP_bZiDtOqFvc/s1600/new+years.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqvYzbSU7hPSCWnc89RUVX4ut_0Ui3Bsc6Gpn-Y0W_GGjVN3ZEumcp9o8ilC3V1mLcwcidxl_EaOd7OMDN-MgI14KRlZIDP5bMgyn0DPZJ3yn5LZBFX91BQiVsdWRutiP_bZiDtOqFvc/s320/new+years.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;">February</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"> </span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">- I started tennis lessons with two of my favorites. I'm pretty certain that given my natural athletic abilities I did <em>okay</em>, but at one point I did swing the racket, miss the ball, and subsequently "hit it" with my forehead. It didn't make it over the net.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Also in February, I started learning Italian. Or l'Italiano rather, just because I want to impress you. I'm more in love with words, including those of another language, than I am with 99.9% of the people I love in this world. <----- I also love hyperboles in case you couldn't tell. I learned "molto bene" in the first lesson but it's still my favorite thing to say. For those of you who aren't as classy and worldly as me, it means "very good". Kidding. I have never traveled and I am green with envy of anyone who has. I suck. But I always use my hands when I speak it and I really try to project creepiness.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;">March </span></strong>- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">I didn't do shit in March.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;"><strong>April -</strong> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">In April I turned 27. That was not "molto bene". I did, however, finally go skydiving. Here's the summary: Drove to hot, ghetto-ass Perris, got in a plane and then jumped out at 13,500 feet. It was amazing and everything I expected. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraZIAEccGVt-iTVLjX_mpsmeGzWImE07Q_c8c-eHYQcyHaG0WEu6Bdp-ymbx4H3pqzqXLjXsrDsAT6fQSQe9X7Qu0tYY1s80PuCzp5e6ijJ2M9GZCyFTfTgN9Uvr4xusbTI3efaEGZ6s/s1600/skydiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhraZIAEccGVt-iTVLjX_mpsmeGzWImE07Q_c8c-eHYQcyHaG0WEu6Bdp-ymbx4H3pqzqXLjXsrDsAT6fQSQe9X7Qu0tYY1s80PuCzp5e6ijJ2M9GZCyFTfTgN9Uvr4xusbTI3efaEGZ6s/s320/skydiving.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There was one simulation I was not expecting, and that was the "toddler simulation". My tandem instructor happened to be 7' tall and being strapped to the front of him made me feel like a 12 month old in a baby bjorn. I felt like an ass.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Luckily, the 3 day adrenaline rush that followed was well worth the demoralizing flashback to my spit-up days. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Next, I did what everyone would do after feeling humiliated; I went to El Torito and drank margaritas while wearing a huge birthday sombrero. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;"> <strong>May</strong> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">- I honestly don't remember much of May. I think I <u><em>may</em></u> have been drunk. No pun intended. Just kidding! Pun totally intended.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;"><strong>June</strong> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">- See "May" above.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;">July</span><span style="color: #f1c232;"> </span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">- Thus far in July, I have lived lavishly. I laid around for almost a week, sipping on fruity drinks and hanging with my family and friends.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXvp_OYoH_Ns_s4BGttU_Ms4xqFubDJOa4wXdGcs_3OTXxF0U3c87ktt1b2BCxgaMU2uY1aSdGQviwlw8ZtgCQJf5vmOYN_XhaNh6UPu_6JseVcfiLg_wc9-BgzjjiTJgrWDWRiXAvqw/s1600/laying+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img $ca="true" border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXvp_OYoH_Ns_s4BGttU_Ms4xqFubDJOa4wXdGcs_3OTXxF0U3c87ktt1b2BCxgaMU2uY1aSdGQviwlw8ZtgCQJf5vmOYN_XhaNh6UPu_6JseVcfiLg_wc9-BgzjjiTJgrWDWRiXAvqw/s320/laying+out.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<em><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">FYI, I really do have friends despite the empty rafts and abandoned looking pool above.</span></em></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now I'm back to work and paying dearly for every second of time I spent off. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">'til next time bloggers. :)</span></div>
<br />The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-40534918135958814892012-01-10T17:47:00.000-08:002012-07-12T15:27:12.518-07:00Pics are Worth a Thousand ReadsSo today I had an epiphany. I was mulling over what a true blog failure I am- I've seriously had a blog for two whole years and I still only have 9 followers. And as much as I would like for you to think that it was my superb writing skills and sharp wit that brought them here, it wouldn’t be fair of me to let you believe that’s the case. One gave birth to me for god’s sakes. She would follow me anywhere. Six others are very close friends and/or family, but the last two I can take credit for…they organically came to follow my blog and I have no idea who they are. Woohoo! <br />
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Actually boo. That’s horrible. <br />
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One new follower per year…really? Quick fact: approximately 150 people per year die from head injuries due to falling coconuts. You do realize the implication here…I mean, more people will be KILLED by a COCONUT this year than will read my blog?<br />
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So back to my epiphany…<br />
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I asked myself earlier “what do really successful blogs have that mine doesn’t?” Aside from a point, I noticed that there were a lot of pictures. Even stupid pictures! Just pictures! Like this…<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPSOyW-8PPixaoUZmqgrhXVNXJBZTPJnW7DeNbNB6PtDG49SPVTM2QyDBPPUj443uglwhcryE7m0VZHu75JNQcyzykyYyHi56Tfhkrt62rbiRsBwSY7K1ouTHmzuZncYRYEnACtMORSc/s1600/caution-falling-coconut-sign.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696195163907332882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPSOyW-8PPixaoUZmqgrhXVNXJBZTPJnW7DeNbNB6PtDG49SPVTM2QyDBPPUj443uglwhcryE7m0VZHu75JNQcyzykyYyHi56Tfhkrt62rbiRsBwSY7K1ouTHmzuZncYRYEnACtMORSc/s320/caution-falling-coconut-sign.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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That actually made a lot of sense to me once I thought about it a bit more. Most people are pretty <strike>damn stupid</strike> easily entertained! Of course, they would rather look at pictures than make any effort to read actual words. I’m just going to have to stop <strike>drinking so much</strike> being so verbose and start including some visual entertainment!<br />
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In other news, I’m going to go home and Zumba tonight. As I mentioned <a href="http://www.yoursensitivityisinsensitive.blogspot.com/2012/01/hey-professor-where-is-wine.html"><u>here</u></a> last week, I’m carrying around a few extra “Christmas gifts” if ya know what I’m sayin’…holiday souvenirs in the form of L-B’s. In case you haven’t seen Zumba, it’s a combination of hip-hop, Latin dancing, and even some Indian dancing mixed in there. Looks like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMilmGx6fVuSheOM_22t928Z1fGsvgd7PVAMdoiONaGjK8On-LJIxjOvNQiw_OavJ0citntZ3oM_-RlcQtJOkqXqPd9aiFgfwt4eKYlLnBFosLHKsFqfORPIYi3R1CCqmUp3odmJv_3cw/s1600/Zumba-Girl.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696201940723818898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMilmGx6fVuSheOM_22t928Z1fGsvgd7PVAMdoiONaGjK8On-LJIxjOvNQiw_OavJ0citntZ3oM_-RlcQtJOkqXqPd9aiFgfwt4eKYlLnBFosLHKsFqfORPIYi3R1CCqmUp3odmJv_3cw/s320/Zumba-Girl.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 208px;" /></a><br />
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Although I know I look more like this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYHTySK15MwYiM5AXzWtWte2Bez6ShKO6aQpU7QBqyGxpqVnnh-Pk-2_nOec7-p0NzymtfC4fllieEWmR0iMNsOoY5VxmT2rzcxJwzMacDcizlKTGtdJZ-eBqbSRPXPd_s_tuaIM3XyA/s1600/hull_zumba_73.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696205785880145298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYHTySK15MwYiM5AXzWtWte2Bez6ShKO6aQpU7QBqyGxpqVnnh-Pk-2_nOec7-p0NzymtfC4fllieEWmR0iMNsOoY5VxmT2rzcxJwzMacDcizlKTGtdJZ-eBqbSRPXPd_s_tuaIM3XyA/s320/hull_zumba_73.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 195px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Nite nite bloggers. :)The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-31535857355478949982012-01-02T16:00:00.000-08:002012-01-02T21:02:08.397-08:00Hey Professor, Where is the Wine?<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Ahh...the last day of my vacation is finally upon me. What is it about time off that makes it fly by so quickly? It's one of life's great paradoxes I guess...I have had Monday mornings that seemed to have taken longer than the 15 days I've just blown through. Like time stealing my vacation, the impending return to work has stolen my happiness tonight. Although, for the record, my jeans are begging me to get back in my routine because holiday cookies have stolen my size 3. My ass now has a faster growth rate than the Federal deficit.</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />All self-deprecating aside, I have had quite a bit more time than usual to catch up on my "Facebook News Feed". Forgive the positive intonation there- this is actually an unfortunate situation. I really could've done more with my down time (there I go self deprecating again).</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />But anyway, as I was perusing through my friends' Status Updates, I couldn't help but notice all of the new tattoo photos that some of my friends have so proudly shared. In addition to all of the peace signs, nautical stars and tribal bands, I noticed that there is a new "tat-trend" emerging. It's the token "favorite movie" tat. You know, tattoos of character's faces or quotes from your favorite flick.</span><br /><br />I like to think I'm cool and all, but I have no tats to represent the motion picture that is nearest and dearest to my heart.<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I can't think of anything from my favorite movie, <span style="font-style: italic;">Under the Tuscan Sun</span>, that I could convert into any street-cred-building body ink.<br /><br /></span>I briefly entertained the prospect of a portrait of Diane Lane's face on my arm - or even the face of that Asian lady who co-stars (you know...the um...Asian looking one from Grey's Anatomy?). Also, a Tuscan farmhouse complete with a cobblestone patio, where I could use my ashy/dry legs for an even more realistic cobblestone affect. I could see this fitting nicely on one of my calves. Or, maybe quotes from the movie that I find to be particularly profound, such as "Can you star-69 Italy?" and "Hey Professor, where is the wine?" Either would wrap nicely in script around an ankle or wrist.<br /><br />But I just can't do it. I'm going to bank on the fact that not everyone has a tattoo-able favorite movie. What about the poor souls who love <span style="font-style: italic;">The Sound of Music</span>? Do you really want to tattoo a giant pile of sh*t on your body just to pay tribute? I think not. What about all those Tom Greene movies? I'm sure nobody knows how to accurately illustrate a total douche-bag anyway. Really, what does that even look like? And who can forget those faithful <span style="font-style: italic;">Speed</span> fans? They can't get Keanu Reeves saying "if he gets the money he wins, if the bus blows up he wins" because they don't make meat-head-surfer font.<br /><br />With that, I will sign off and defer to those who can truly grasp this trend. Here's looking at you, kid. Yes, that's from someone's <span style="font-style: italic;">Casablanca </span>tat...<br /><p><br /></p>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-92089762770456583412011-08-02T19:56:00.001-07:002011-08-02T21:17:06.703-07:00And Eat Your G'Damn Veggies Too!I absolutely LOVE this book titled "go the f**k to sleep" by Adam Mansbach. It's meant to be a parents-only book, and it pokes fun at our hidden frustrations. It's absolutely crazy that some people are outraged by it; but I'm convinced that those are the moms who after years of pent up anger, send their kids off to college and end up in a trench coat and/or post office with a gun. It can't end well.<br /><br />Here's the video of the book narrated by Samuel L. Jackson. Oh, but obviously make sure your kids are a-fu*!king-sleep before playing this. Go ahead...I'll wait.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/56gdg2ntfwM" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe><br /><br />I'm thinking of writing the sequel myself. Possibly titled "<span style="font-style: italic;">And Eat Your G'damn Veggies Too.</span>" Here's what I've got so far:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's dinner time here in our castle. Serving our princess a home-cooked meal. After hours of slaving, you're really complaining? Just eat it my love. For real.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We're gathered in love 'round the table. Dished up some chicken and peas. Who cares if your food is touching each other? Doesn't taste any different...please?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The bonding is flowing and natural. The family time's just such a blessing. I've separated it all and scraped off the sauce, now what the hell is wrong with the dressing?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Looking around at our beautiful table. So thankful to have everyone here. We said TWO BIG bites of the healthy stuff. Forget it. Can you grab me a beer?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Onto dessert for the night now. Your sundae is topped with a cherry. Mom's drunk, dad's asleep and you had nothing healthy. Typical night for us though? Very.<br /><br /></span>Now obviously, I am joking. I would never cook.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-9742710365162790262011-04-19T17:03:00.001-07:002011-04-19T19:39:29.949-07:00Man's World, Shmans WorldSo I work in an industry which is about 85% male. If you exclude the staff/non-sales component, it's about 95% male, and if you then narrow it down to my specific product type, it's about 99.3% male (give or take a basis-point or two). I'm talking about commercial real estate, and industrial real estate as it relates to me.<br /><br />I work in theee absolute hottest industrial submarket in the country, home to the largest distribution centers of the biggest companies in the world. Case in point, our market accounted for 52% of the nation's entire net absorption last year. That's right, half of the country's activity was here. Considering there are 350+ ports in the great U.S., that's downright obnoxious.<br /><br />If you haven't fallen asleep yet, I only say this so you can understand how competitive it is. There are obviously huge barriers to entry, with only 6 teams dominating 90% of the prime market share. I, Summer, am the junior partner on one of the teams. Oh, and when I say junior, I mean peon, of course. My two senior partners are (shockingly) men, and I'm the only junior broker in the market without a penis (provided there are no secrets I'm not privy to), but I'm definitely not the most girly. For some reason I was born with an outrageous need to compete- professionally or in sports only, no attention issues here. Admittedly, I'm nutso when it comes to trying to keep up with the boys. "/<br /><br />Additionally, part of being the peon is being razzed by the senior guys in the industry, so I try to avoid reasons to make my target bigger if you know what I'm sayin'. They just loooove to remind me that I'm "just a 25 year old girl."<br /><br />But anyway, because I'm the peon, I get to go to each of these monster buildings when there is a tour, and open it up, turn on the lights, and open some (freakin' 22) of the dock-high doors. You know, the roll up ones with the chains? See for pic below...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX38aJ2m68dNhDR4ih0ZWGd7QZFHg9DpudAtApYXjNZYx-4AqoylK8l4IaoK2vVi3aIiw-PpaMBKbvqC5iVgbH3cOMmh2PDSARnKSdwgOpbVaFdZ7hrp0tyU_iVdGOZ63_Ozg3y1k7ZTk/s1600/dock.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX38aJ2m68dNhDR4ih0ZWGd7QZFHg9DpudAtApYXjNZYx-4AqoylK8l4IaoK2vVi3aIiw-PpaMBKbvqC5iVgbH3cOMmh2PDSARnKSdwgOpbVaFdZ7hrp0tyU_iVdGOZ63_Ozg3y1k7ZTk/s320/dock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597488192492881826" border="0" /></a><br />Ok, that's taken care of, now fast forward to this afternoon. I arrive at the half mile long building, ready to close up, and I remember that I have ugg boots in my trunk. I look down at my 4" heels and decide it would be a good idea to just throw those on real quick despite the fact that I'm wearing a suit. While looking in my trunk, I see my snow jacket, and think "yesss, I won't get dirty if I put that on!" But there's absolutely no way I'm looking like that much of an ass; it's 80 degrees in southern California!<br /><br />So I enter the building in the snow jacket, uggs, and slacks. Shoot I paid 70 bucks for that shirt, and I wasn't about to have it all industrialized 'n stuff. All goes well with the closing of the doors, with the exception of this ONE door. The door that satan created. It was the door that represented everything evil, like murderers, and robbers, and Paris Hilton. I opened the damn door this morning, what is wrong with it now! I yank the chain (in a literal sense) and the door will not budge. This thing is not coming back down. I see the jokes flash before my eyes. "hey Summer, you know, this business just isn't for girls sometimes," and many more to the same affect. I decide I will not be defeated.<br /><br />So here I am, racking my brain for ideas as to how I can get this thing to close. You can understand my desperation, I mean, there's humiliation on the brink! I glance the 10 feet up to the top of the door, and have the harsh realization that I'm four and a half feet too short to reach anything. I come to the conclusion that I'm just not tugging hard enough, and decide to use ALL of my might. I wrap one boot in the chain, and hoist all one-hundred-twenty-three pounds of me on to it, so I'm dangling at this point. Here I am, swinging back and forth from a roll-up door chain in an industrial building, in 80 degree weather, while wearing a snow jacket, slacks, and ugg boots. One of my proudest moments, naturally.<br /><br />Nothing happens. This thing is jammed. You know, at least in the movies there's some random, ultra-convenient chair lying around. but noooo. I have the worst luck.<br /><br />I must admit, my crazed, competitive side got the best of me, and I lost touch with reality there for a second. While tapping into my inner Macgyver, I conceptualized in an instant how to make a slingshot using only my underwear and mascara tube. Realizing that I didn't want to add "commando" to the list of my already atrocious wardrobe choice, I gave up. I made the call to the general contractor, who immediately sent out a repairman.<br /><br />Repair man arrives. "Hey honey, you need me to shut a door for ya?" I immediately tell him how beyond broken it is. After all, my ego's at stake. So he goes and does the whole "man thing" with the door, and I just wait around and pray that something is really wrong with it.<br /><br />20 more wasted-minutes-of-my-life later, I'm on my way out of the building, and in my peripherals, I see a head poke out from behind one of the walls. I screamed. Pretty loud. It was the door repair guy. "oh, haha, sorry...I just didn't think you'd be in here," I said. I was really hoping he wouldn't ask me why the hell I wouldn't expect someone whom I let in, to be in there. He was kind. Just gave me the good news I had been waiting for and went on his way.<br /><br />The door was completely bent and lodged! AND they had advised against repairing it before. *beaming*<br /><br />What a sick, sick thing to be happy about, huh?<br /><br />Oh, and a lot of people would've screamed, by the way. Doesn't mean just because I'm a girl, I screamed.<br /><br />Conclusion: Man's world, schman's world. What was seemingly a horrible day, turned out to be juuuust fine. :)The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-57900107866165076492011-04-04T20:42:00.000-07:002011-04-04T21:45:19.538-07:00Somebody's got a case of the Mondays. a la "Office Space"I overlslept...AGAIN. Normally I don't allow myself to believe my own excuses, but in this case...I genuinely was not at fault.<br /><br />So my work phone also serves as my alarm clock, and unfortunately, it was deader (is that seriously a word?) than a door nail this morning. It was more dead (that just sounds better) than Tupac...according to white people, of course. So I set the alarm on my other phone.<br /><br />Fast forward to morning, and the freaking sun beating on my window is actually what woke me up. I immediately grabbed my personal, very much alive, phone to check the time. Much to my surprise, my personal "alarm" was <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> going off. I'm not that heavy of a sleeper, but I think I figured out why I didn't hear it.<br /><br />This is my alarm, sound and all...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLEST2Ucmz0YC9Fvka1OiIKGj3Rbd9616cwfw6KMvce7fKgMDI4lZnZePy7Wm2EAgTg97yNFKMtk2eNZoVxujEVzbVy0RCE3KAaHrKVUiYSXi0Ke2khIocL7COIB8W-liz5daWFU_Mng/s1600/alarm.PNG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLEST2Ucmz0YC9Fvka1OiIKGj3Rbd9616cwfw6KMvce7fKgMDI4lZnZePy7Wm2EAgTg97yNFKMtk2eNZoVxujEVzbVy0RCE3KAaHrKVUiYSXi0Ke2khIocL7COIB8W-liz5daWFU_Mng/s320/alarm.PNG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591947110737713842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Did you hear it? Yeah, I didn't think so. That's because there's NO SOUND. I'm not kidding, that's why the word "alarm" is in quotes. All that's missing is another pair over the word "sounding."<br /><br />Apparently I was supposed to leave it "running" in the background rather than closing the app. When you close the app it goes into "back-up" mode and only attempts to wake you up with the above gesture. Ummm....WTF kind of back up is that??? I mean why even have one?<br /><br />Happy news. I charged my Blackberry. Tomorrow I'll be woken up like every other normal human being, with a series of loud, annoying, blissful beeps.The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-76189022075743016022011-04-03T11:16:00.000-07:002011-04-04T20:20:09.730-07:00Unsolicited advice. And bad advice at that.I was having a conversation recently with someone near and dear to me regarding some unsolicited advice she received. While doing so I realized that I too have had the same bit of knowledge bestowed upon me. Several times in fact. I began to wonder why some certain life choices just elicit advice, and why this is so universally true. Do share your experiences or additions, because I haven't figured out the answer.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Black cars. </span>Black cars are freakin' sweet. There is something about a black car that just makes it look nicer than the same vehicle in any other color. But has anyone ever noticed that if you mention your intention of purchasing a black automobile, you will immediately be warned of its exaggerated, pretentious display of dirt? I mean, I think this goes without saying. We learned this through osmosis probably somewhere in the first grade. Along with that, we observed that white clothing- 9 times out of 10- gets dirty within the first hour of our day. And furthermore, the damage to that same white piece of clothing is often irreparable. Many times, it gets bleached, dried, and thrown into the pajama drawer after only being used once.<br /><br />It seems to me that white clothing is so clearly the poorer investment. I haven't seen a pile of bird feces yet that rendered a black vehicle trash. If you're a 30 year old person, who has ruined 5 white shirts a year at $20 a pop, you've poorly invested $3,000 in the wrong color clothing. Conversely, if you drive a black vehicle and had to wash it twice a month as opposed to once a month for another color vehicle, you've invested a total of $600 in car washes (assuming each wash cost you $5 in supplies). This is only $300 more than you would have spent for buying the car in periwinkle. I would make the contention that you would have then spent that same $300 you thought you were saving on continuing dating website premiums, or therapy. No girl is going to date you if you show up in a baby blue car.<br /><br />The truth is, you're more of a humanitarian for walking up to that prospective clothing buyer in your local Macy's and saying "oooh...umm...I hate to tell you, but you <span style="font-style: italic;">might</span> not want to buy that shirt in white. You'd really be better off buying something that shows less dirt."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Two story houses.</span> How many of us have been advised against buying a house with stairs? "You're going to hate walking up and down those stairs everyday, you know." Well yeah, but I also hate paying bills, paying taxes, going to work, and being woken up on a Sunday morning by evangelists knocking on my door. TRUST ME, I will hate the stairs less. Whether I have them or not, there will be something much bigger to complain about. At least I'll have my big/tall monster of a house to make me feel better about writing those checks, right? Or maybe I am being financially smarter, not having to purchase a pair of "Skechers Easy Tones" and all.<br /><br />I've also heard "stairs are so inconvenient, you'll end up leaving things at the bottom of the stairs until you are ready to go up, and then you'll grab it all at once." Well then pat me on the back, because dammit that is efficient. May I streamline all processes in my life with that same innovation and focus on productivity. The fact that the body is designed to have to pee is higher on my inconvenient-things-we-humans-have-to-do list. Especially living in California where heavy traffic and coffee go hand-in-hand.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Breastfeeding. </span>What is the deal with this??? I mean, with all of the bad parenting going on around the world, we chastise great mothers who for one reason or another do not breastfeed their children? You would be surprised at how vicious some of these breast milk vigilantes will get. They'll call names, slash tires, and even strap themselves to breast milk bombs that explode in public places.<br /><br />With regard to the health implications of the breast milk vs. formula choice- aren't we Americans unhealthier than we've ever been? I'm no expert but I'm assuming that the formula (which was designed for infant nutrition) is much healthier for my baby than that big mac, Pepsi, and Marlboro Red you consumed before you organically fed yours. How do we put ourselves on pedestals when a great percentage of our babies are surviving on nicotine McFlurry's and liquid french fries?<br /><br /><br />[End rant]<br /><br /><br />I have no idea why we do these things, but I vow to never ever give anyone any of these pieces of advice...EVER...The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-65355071292332981272011-02-18T19:06:00.000-08:002012-07-12T20:34:12.991-07:00Gladys and the Fast GuidettesFirst of all I would just like to apologize to my plethora of followers (and by that I mean the seven of you) who probably thought I fell off the blogger bandwagon. The good news- or bad if you didn't like my blogs- is that I didn't. Inconsistency is kind of how I roll. It's not that I couldn't be consistent, but the truth is, blogging is like 42nd on my priority list each day. And I'm only one human so I typically make it through #12 or so on average.<br />
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What's inspiring tonight's rant is the ever so popular show Jersey Shore, and how it's helped me realize that I've become an old woman. This is disturbing to me because I'm not yet into my late 20's. I have no idea whether that is a negative or positive thing, but for me it just is.<br />
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So last night before bed I clicked "play" on my tivo, ready to indulge in the guilty pleasure that is Jersey shore. I have NO idea why I expected to react like a typical 25 year old, but my guess is it's because I'm 25. I laughed like everyone does while watching the show, but of course the 76 year old woman inside me starts nagging at me for contributing to the exploitation of America's trashy youth. It's actually a miserable existence to have this constant internal battle. Imagine Jiminy Cricket, but female, human, and old enough to qualify for a senior citizen discount at your local Denny's. Sometimes I'm so grateful for the old hag, but other times I really resent the fact that someone's pessimistic and super conservative granny decided to die and reincarnate in my brain. Let's just call this alter-ego, Gladys.<br />
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So back to my story, Gladys starts in on me as Snooki (the hairy one who is more spherical in body type than a bowling ball) sleeps with yet ANOTHER guy on national television. These guidos and guidettes, as they're called, are more promiscuous than what I imagine the 60's to have been like. And let me tell you, I've always imagined the 60's to have been pretty damn crazy.<br />
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So thanks to Gladys, in addition to <span style="font-style: italic;">"where's my ben-gay,"</span> I start thinking <span style="font-style: italic;">"oh no. These poor kids (who are almost my age) are never going to have a future. Who is ever going to hire them now that they've aired their dirty laundry on national television?</span>" And if you haven't seen the show, I'm not talking got-too-drunk-and-threw-up dirty laundry. I'm talking about the kind of dirty laundry you would see at a retirement home where they had run out of <em>Depends</em> and served chili for dinner. It's HORRID laundry to be quite frank.<br />
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I'm wondering how this is affecting our impressionable youth. I'm all for women's lib but I don't think you can maintain a classy image after sleeping with every d-bag in Seaside Heights. Who's gonna want to marry you later? We women have to think about these things. Double standard or not, it's just reality. And we can't just rebel in hopes of overturning it. It's not going to change. I liken it to the whole push for green living and reducing your carbon footprint thing. Everyone says " just do your part" right? Even a little bit counts. I'd contend that all of us women should just do our part, with regard to maintaining a little class for our gender.<br />
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I do want to make it VERY clear that I think men should do their part too, but I'm not a man. I'm a woman, I can only change how <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>think about this issue. The guys on Jersey Shore definitely disgust me, and I think sleeping with one of them is more high risk than smoking five packs of marlboro's a day for eighty years while praying for cancer.<br />
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On that note, I don't think old Gladys is going anywhere, so I'm<span style="font-style: italic;"> kinda</span> SOL.The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-35784395015151499022011-01-22T12:48:00.000-08:002011-01-22T13:33:57.194-08:00Cynic's Day OffShort and sweet today. I'm actually quite happy and can't tap into my inner cynic! This isn't to say that while writing every other blog post I'm not happy; because I'm always happy. It's just sometimes my faith in my fellow man is, well, depleted.<br /><br />I even had to go into downtown LA yesterday, as I sometimes do. Generally this evokes 42 blog topics, and I run them through the brain, having trouble choosing one. After days like that the inner city traffic, my stress because I'm always running late, and the exposure to the idiots who slow down the seminars, are more than enough to elicit my satirical prose.<br /><br />Nope.<br /><br />Today is all relaxation (and bliss) for me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Relaxation, part 1:</span> So I caught up on Jersey Shore this morning. I know, I know. No self respecting person actually watches that show, say the sophisticated souls who have never watched it! In defense of those of us who do tune in, it's more that we (and by "we" I mean "I") can't turn away. It's a mess.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Relaxation, part 2: </span>Finish reading "The 48 Laws of Power." I've been hooked on this book for so long, and I took a break to read a few other books. I think I'm ready to jump back into my take-no-prisoners mentality. The book is flat out amazing, and maybe I wouldn't find anything to relate it to if I didn't work in the corporate jungle. But one has to know how to kill and defend themselves in such an environment. I love the candid and apathetic manner in which it was written. This always gets me pumped for the following week...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Relaxation, part 3: </span>Hello wine. Ooh, I'm getting excited just thinking about it. Nothing is more relaxing than a clean house, my favorite candles lit (sugar cookie, and baked apple pie), good music, wine and my family. Times like these remind me of what I work so hard for.<br /><br />I know, I'm not very interesting today. Is anyone else relaxing today? If so, what do you do?<br /><br />Note: I reserve the right to blog later if I happen to be outraged by something. The cynic's day of rest is completely revocable.The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-35922805666259531602011-01-17T12:12:00.000-08:002011-01-17T18:39:43.994-08:00Don't you wish your boyfriend was hot crazy like mine?One of the most amazing women I've ever known, my great grandmother, passed away this Christmas. Yesterday while cleaning her house out, I was reminded of so many great memories with her.<br /><br />I even came across some vintage newspapers, and I realized that we have the same struggles/worries/trends, that they did back then. There were "miracle med" ads for turning ugly legs into sexy ones. There were innovative experts proclaiming that the way your child scribbles indicates his future personality. And of course, there were outraged citizens protesting the direction their society had taken, and condemning the future. Life today may be different, but we humans don't change much.<br /><br />However, it does seem as if dating has changed. I often think of how sorry I feel for the single ladies in today's world. It seems like there are more crazy men in 2011, than there ever were. I hear horror story after horror story from my single girlfriends. Please note- I'm not implying ALL men are defected, I have an amazing husband, so I know good guys exist. I'm just wondering if maybe girls like me snatched them all up.<br /><br />Is it just me, or were men expected to be more gentleman-like back in the day? Now, it's "cool" to be a 40 year old self proclaimed playboy, who hasn't paid a dollar of child support for kids he never sees, but conveniently has tons of cash to drop on drinks for the washed up lady regulars at the bar every weekend.<br /><br />Ok, back to my point....Women of today are wasting time with guys they think have it all together, only to find out years later that they have been sleeping with the enemy (or the delusional or the cheater) so to speak. I've heard many a comedienne joke about this issue over the years. They have suggested that maybe men should wear signs around their necks and/or on their foreheads. In the perfect world, you could walk into a club and within minutes, spot the "angry," "lazy," "jealous" and "deranged."<br /><br />That would be great, but I think we can assume no guy is going to offer that information up willingly. And furthermore, he may not even know it. How common is denial now days?<br /><br />How does this tie into my Grandma's story, and the retro publications I came across, you ask?<br /><br />Well, I think greeting card makers in the 1960's had it down. They would plant disturbing cards in with all the rest of them, and the sociopath who stopped in before a first date to grab you a card, would immediately be drawn to them. Of course, not realizing that this card may be the biggest red flag and that it may make his girl (or guy) of interest privy to his mental issues.<br /><br />I came across this 1962 Valentine's Day card yesterday while at Grandma's house, and I had to get a pic:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmS3H3PobwZPrZAPj2VDfZsr0NMJEcgCBwlTdGPxMTGKhyEXvhPIX43PGtIk-TqQft3v60_pAX-Tnf6LwaAE3GMVRDczDLiRjdbiEgAV70LSRydn6iNXIoG4TUU29o2QNjxuSv9xbSw0Q/s1600/Crazy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmS3H3PobwZPrZAPj2VDfZsr0NMJEcgCBwlTdGPxMTGKhyEXvhPIX43PGtIk-TqQft3v60_pAX-Tnf6LwaAE3GMVRDczDLiRjdbiEgAV70LSRydn6iNXIoG4TUU29o2QNjxuSv9xbSw0Q/s320/Crazy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563257296777392818" border="0" /></a><br />I immediately thought, how creepy!!! The person who picked this card out of all of them, was obviously controlling, to say the least. It could be argued that he was also confused about his sexuality...but that's not the point of my post.<br /><br />I think they had it right back then...and I kind of want them to start doing this again. It may help the women of today avoid years of having the wool pulled over their eyes (or duct tape over their mouth). Upon receipt of a card like this you can make like Julia Roberts in "Sleeping with the Enemy" and get your big hair and big teeth outta there.<br /><br />A tip of the hat to you card makers of the '60's.The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-31799778685967123862011-01-15T19:27:00.000-08:002011-01-16T01:18:43.445-08:00Summer RainI bet when you saw the title of this post, you thought you were going to read a beautiful story. "Summer rain" has a romantic connotation. At least for me. I'm picturing a tropical place, where the Summer heat and rain drops coalesce to form a picture perfect paradise. A ridiculously gorgeous baywatch-esque babe prances about in the rain (but in true romantic fashion, her makeup doesn't run). Her "prince charming" then runs to her in slow motion and extends his arms to embrace her as she eagerly plunges into his arms...just as he flexes his unnaturally large biceps, as luck (and Hollywood) would have it.<br /><br />Well I'm not a novelist, nor am I Nicholas Sparks. So this is about me. My god given name is Summer (yes, my mother's name is God). Nice to meet you...put 'er there.<br /><br />If your name is not Summer, than you probably don't understand that the name continually exposes its beneficiaries to many an irritating happenstance.<br /><br />A few quick examples of questions we Summers face on a daily basis (Of course, by "we" I mean "I"):<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. "Did your mom name you Summer because you're so hot?"</span> This is always asked by the most repulsive of potential suitors. This is not only the most common of puns, it's also the most bothersome. I flat out resent the implication that my mom is the kind of person who would think her newborn is "hot."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. "Hey Summer, where's Winter?" </span>Followed by the kind of laugh that can be heard at any country club around the world. Not funny guy. Please try and be a tad more original. Winter is probably hanging out with your wit, which could be anywhere. But I think we can both agree that neither are here.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. "Awww, you </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">are</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Summery, aren't you?"</span> Accompanied by the "chin pinch." I'm undecided every time I attempt to interpret this one. I get stuck somewhere between feeling insulted and being creeped out. This is so nebulous because I can only guess what your Summers were like as a child. If you spent them working as much as the pre-teen chinese garment laborers, I'm wondering what I did to make you so miserable. Yet, if you had the most gratifying of Summers in your youth, I'm disturbed that upon our introduction, you are reminded of some pleasurable experience. Jerk vs. perv, that's a toss-up. I prefer neither.<br /><br />The name Summer is rare, and there are none in the corporate environment in which I work. There are however "Summers" in "business." Sure, they don't wear the same kind of suits that I do, but birthday suits seem to be generating some hefty revenue. And you thought there was no point to this post...<br /><br />So I was at a strip club one night, and I was chastised by four scantily clad women who were using the alias, "Summer." I was threatened and consequently given the following ultimatum: find a new name or some go-go boots. There was no in between. Apparently, since the name is so rare, strip-club patrons will "make it rain" (thank you Lil Wayne) for anyone named Summer. This brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "Summer rain." Because the name pays huge dividends, the majority share is just simply not acceptable to them...the strippers want exclusive rights to the name.<br /><br />Whether it's men in their pursuit of delivering a clever line, or the conquest of the half dressed hard-knocks, life as a Summer is hard. I'm thinking of founding the American Society for Summers (ASS), in an effort to raise awareness and eliminate discrimination.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />*************************************************************************************************************</span><br /><br />Ok, Obviously, the stripper threat and the American Society for Summers, are fake. I'm sorry to say the rest is true. :) Special shout-out to my amazing dad, who told me to answer the "Where's Winter?" question with "in the retarded bin like you." I did by the way, throughout 3rd and 4th grade.<br /><br />Please don't judge my dad, where he's from it's common to keep retarded people in bins.<br /><br />Night, night bloggers. :)The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-49557274242611726152011-01-10T20:41:00.001-08:002011-01-15T19:02:22.469-08:00Mommy Don't Play That<span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Given the plethora of bad parenting advice available as of late, I've decided to write my own book. Trust me- the priceless parenting tips and tricks are plentiful. See below for a sneak peak. </span></span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Chapter 1: Acclaimed Child Rearing Tactics</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />Tactic #2: Mommy Don't Play That</span></span><br /></div></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-style: italic; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">It's so important to understand the fine line between friend and parent with your kids. Don't distress diligent mommies, just remember </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">Mommy don't play that</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">. This is an imperative component of any mother's arsenal. It's the perfect way to show your kids that you are hip, while simultaneously conveying your disapproval.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">For example, you walk in the room and find your child watching some new show that's "all the rage" but it's completely tasteless. If, before you shut off the TV or change the channel you say "ohhhh helllls nah. Mommy don't play that." (while doing the Z snap*) it softens the blow.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">If you really mean business, pucker your lips and roll your neck. Your child will walk away from the situation, not upset, but in awe of the contemporary nature of his/her mother's parental devices. This works at least 20% of the time.</span><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">*How to properly execute</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> a </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" >Z Snap: take your finger and snap 3 times as you make a Z in the air</span><br /></div></div><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-weight: bold; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center; font-family: trebuchet ms;"> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Chapter 16: Wisdom for Generations of the Future<br />Societal Misconceptions and the profound truths of life.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">Myth #1: Diamonds are Forever.</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br />Truth: Diamonds are by no means forever. Sex tapes however, are.</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br /><br />Myth #2: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br />Truth: Beauty is in the eye and sometimes in the blood alcohol content level of the beholder</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br /><br />Myth #3: Laughter is the Best Medicine</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">Truth: <stike></stike></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">Prozac </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><stike><strike>Laughter</strike> is the best medicine.</stike></span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br /><br />Myth #4: Love is Blind</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br />Truth: Love is not blind. It's just quiet. Love still sees cellulite and beer guts.</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br /><br />Myth #5: Money is the Root of All Evil</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br />Truth: </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">Democrats </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><strike>money</strike> are the root of all evil.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Rest assured this blog post is complete fiction and nonsense. :)</span><br /></div> </div><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-14991966125903853722011-01-09T17:34:00.000-08:002011-02-13T10:37:36.324-08:00Pipe Down Asian Lady; the Chant of the Primate Mommies<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >So if you haven't come across the book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," don't. I feel bad even giving this woman any PR, but the Wall Street Journal did it. Something tells me that sharing my opinion with my 1 follower will not increase the author's exposure all that much.<br /><br />The book is written by Amy Chua, an Asian professor of law at Yale. Among other things, it claims Chinese mothers are better parents than Western mothers. Chua defines superior parenting as "denying your children individuality and shaming them when needed (in order to motivate)." New York Magazine included this short list of things that Amy's two children are NOT allowed to do:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Get any grade less than an A, not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym and drama, play any instrument other than the piano or violin, not play the piano or violin, choose their own extracurricular activities.</span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;" ><br />Heeding this woman's parenting advice will result in one of two things IF effective:<br /><br />Scenario 1) You raise Hitler (or Hitlet) incarnate. Sure, it's unlikely that Ms. Chua is raising crazed antisemitic dictators, but a sociopath? No doubt.<br /><br />Scenario 2) This child star/stage mom parenting style will result in hellish rebellion and/or serious mental issues. Best case scenario is Nicole Richie. Worst case is Michael Jackson (in which case the rebellion and mental issues are accompanied by continued and relentless rhinoplasty).<br /><br />The 3rd (and best) alternative is that the child grows up to be normal in spite of the whack jobs who will take credit for their offspring's success and well adjustment.<br /><br />Bottom line is, Chua is ill-equipped. She is quoted in her article as saying "The truth is I'm not good at enjoying life." Ohhh perfect. Because "enjoying life" is low on the reason-for-our-existence totem pole. It's the last thing I'd want for my child. Riiiiiight. I'd sooner buy "the Lindsay Lohan Guide to Sobriety." At least she's aware of, and working on her deficiencies.<br /><br />Chua is highly educated, but specializes in global sustainability and international business affairs. Why she has any credibility as a parental expert, I do not know. What disturbs me is the fact that there will be idiots all over who will readily be guided by these words of (non) wisdom. Without the slightest bit of hesitancy, upon completion of the book, mindless mothers all over the nation will voraciously snatch the cheeseburgers from their children's hands, and jump in the family wagon. Off to use the visa to purchase a violin.<br /><br />God forbid we raise critical and independent thinkers. We're really striving for wealthy, Chopin-like, pseudo nazi's.<br /></span>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-42561262785187302652011-01-08T13:21:00.000-08:002011-01-09T12:36:07.570-08:00A Wagon Without Springs<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-size:100%;" >I am impressed by almost every person I meet. Sometimes I'm impressed by an individual's strength, or good nature, or intelligence. Other times I'm just impressed by the fact that one made it this far in life without having been hit by a car or drowning in the bathtub.<br /><br />The latter group, comprised of individuals whom I am continually frustrated by, would actually command some respect from me if they would just stay at home and sulk in solitude. Nothing is more repulsive to me than a helpless victim who is offended and put off by the daily happenings of life.<br /><br />I've been "blessed" enough to have one of these people work closely with me everyday. We'll call her Noreen the Martyr. I'm certain Noreen wakes up each and everyday and asks herself "how can I possibly elicit the most sympathy and be the least productive today?"<br /><br />And darn that Noreen, she's actually a goal achieving machine...maybe I should take notes. I am, due to some predestined unfortunate curse, the only one who sees her calculated efforts. Everyone else is continually taken by her.<br /><br />I often daydream about re-creating that scene in the movie "Office Space," and moving her desk to a 5'x5' basement closet and slamming the door. Ohhh the satisfaction and relief. How liberating it would be NOT hearing about Noreen's problems, and NOT seeing her in her cubicle, seemingly trying to imitate a wounded deer.<br /><br />So here's the question: Is a complete incapability to handle one's life not a good enough reason to fire an employee? I find nothing inappropriate about my turning to her and saying "hey lady, I'm here to work. What I'm not here to do is give you the attention you are seeking because you weren't held enough as a child."<br /><br />Now, I'm not an evil person. Someone can give her that attention...just not me. I'm not paid enough for that.<br /><br />Henry Ward Beecher once said "A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble in the road." I think that saying transcends people without a sense of humor (although Noreen lacks that as well). The wagon without springs metaphor applies to people who are overly sensitive, period.<br /><br />Since it's apparent that the acquisition of springs is unlikely, I can only hope that one day the wagon will hit a boulder and just stop traveling altogether.</span>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8206344582903423963.post-55018879485111186432010-11-07T14:13:00.000-08:002011-01-09T12:36:23.904-08:00The Tale of the Token Inquisitive Dumbass<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >It never fails. Yesterday, after a chaotic commute into the city, I arrived at my destination. I ran in, rushed to the elevator, and finally made it to the to the 35th floor. As luck would have it, the speaker had already started so I made a spectacle of myself as I hurried to the back of the room and sat down in the last available chair. </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Just when I thought the heavy breather to my right would win the biggest annoyance of the day award, a cocky guy two seats away from me raised his hand. It was the token inquisitive dumbass (TID). I'd recount every line, but it would bore you to death. Long story short, the speaker was giving big picture examples related to developing and perfecting one's business model, and Mr. Astute, just could not help but showcase his superior reasoning skills. "Well if you were in Hawaii then it would be different because you would be on an island, so the example would change if lets say, you went to an island." It was this profound bit of knowledge, and many very similar ones that followed, that we were lucky enough to have bestowed upon us. </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >In a perfect world it would be completely appropriate to say "come on guy, you're slowing the presentation down, and to top it off you're making yourself look extremely stupid." We could add a "please" stop slowing down the class, or a "thank you" for refraining from further embarrassing yourself. I'm all for being polite.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Unfortunately, we all just sat there...maybe getting dumber with each one of his contributions. I think the hardest part was watching the TID get up out of his chair upon the conclusion of the presentation, and pompously walk out of the room. </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >This horror story has no happy ending. The infamous slayer of time and brain cells, the TID, was again victorious.</span><br /></span>The name's Summer. Put 'er there.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02920589182308261317noreply@blogger.com1