Mental Rehab Post #34
Bad habits, annoying traits, things we do that we do and have been doing for ages for no good reason at all. You all do them. Okay, I do them too. And some of them desperately need to be fixed, as some are just not good for continued operation of this institution I call me. It's more from the closet of my psyche, and as they say the first part of working on an issue is realizing you have an issue. And boy, do I got issues.
I need to start calling people back.
I have a horrible habit. It is one that comes from a combination of a general overall aloof, a bit of self doubt and the amazing fact that it continues to happen again and again. To wit: If you give me your phone number, there is a 85% chance I will never call you. And if you call me and I miss it, there is a 50% chance I won't call you back. Oddly, I don't ever screen calls though.
Women frequently offer me their phone number. I have no idea why.
One night in a bar as me and one of my partners sat drinking good liquor, smoking cigars and talking cash money shit a young lady wrote her number on a napkin - practically unheard of in the age of cell phones - and molded her body to mine to make sure I got it. I don't think her number made it out to the parking lot. And she was cute too.
In college one of my junior partners called her buddy over and after we all got blitzed drunk I woke up with her buddy's phone number in my pocket, with no recollection of asking for it. I don't even remember the game of strip spades we apparently lost, which mean she saw me naked and drunk and gave me the digits anyway. Seriously, I don't think I look that great naked. What did I say to that woman?
Another instance, in fact I think I related part of it on this blog earlier, I had ducked out of studying a few weeks ago and found myself in the Castleberry district drinking away someone's birthday. I think I spoke to this woman for all of five minutes. She'd been sitting on a table edge revealing a generous portion of rather attractive thigh just opposite me for about a half hour and so at some point I got up, walked over and opened a napkin, then placed it on her lap to cover her, joking that she was being entirely too distracting. She laughed back and said that she'd worn the dress to show her thighs, they were damn good thighs and I could keep my damn napkin. The rest of our conversation lasted maybe two minutes. I didn't even ask her name. Yet as I was leaving she walked across the room and presented me with her card, put her number in my phone and suggested we hang out. Her number is still in there. And I still haven't called.
I am not a male model. Not even close. I am not rich. Working on it. I don't pretend to be either, although the male model thing should be evident fairly quickly. Immediately is probably a more accurate term. So how is it this keeps happening to me?
Don't know, don't care.
But I sure hope it keeps happening. Because one day I'm going to start calling.
I keep trying to figure out when I stopped trusting the phone. I'd had your typical youth phone conversations, with the classic sitting on the phone listening to each other breathe and other silly things you do, and I've seen the worst of it with breakups by phone and watched and listened as hurtful lies were told. You know, the usual. But I've always preferred face to face communication. A medium where I can see and gauge and react to the non-verbal as well as the verbal cues people give off. I mean sometimes you can feel a conversation veer off even when the words don't match up if you're in the same room.
Maybe it's because I'm not even aggressive enough in matters of a social nature.
There are a lot of reasons I guess, but I don't know most of them.
In any case I need to start calling people. And calling people back.
Barkeep. Hello, Barkeep. Barkeep. I mean to call for real, seriously. I lost your number...Barkeep?
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Ren Sharperson Method
Mental Rehab Post #33
More from the back of the old psyche closet. Sometimes I'm amazed at some of the stuff I remember, like an old song I heard back when I was five, or a scene from a film that pops into my head for no reason, or an article that I read ages ago, or a memory of a moment that just resonates like you'd tapped my head with a ball peen hammer. Or something like that.
I went to high school with a guy named Ren Sharperson. At 17, he was a powerhouse football player with that athletic frame we all once had (no really, I was in shape once) and still somehow managed to look like he was in his mid forties in that first glance. But then it was South Carolina, and there was a slim possiblity he might have actually been only thirty five.
Ren was among other things, our resident philosopher. But his methodology was unique in my opinion, in that the man could break down any situation and I mean any situation down into understandable and uniquely logical terms of football. Ren occasionally springs to mind when I'm trying to explain something and looking for a metaphor to get my point across, and I end up defaulting to football terms.
For instance, Ren would consider getting a date to throwing a pass. The pass couldn't be to hard or too soft, it couldn't be underthrown or overthrown, and the recieiver had to be looking for the pass. Translate that into real terms and it made a young brother think about who he was asking out and how.
Another Example of a Ren Sharperson concept would be articulated as "In life, you need stop trying for the touchdown and just try to move the chains. If you move the chains enough times you'll get the touchdown anyway." Or for the non-sports person, this would translate into "stop going for the big accomplishments, break it down into smaller accomplishments that don't overwhelm you and as you get those done, you will inevitably get closer and closer to your goal." This is fairly good advice. Actually it was extremely astute advice coming from a guy under 20. And we were all football players who hung around other football players who talked about football all the time, so I'm a guessing that's why his thoughts resonated with such force.
I saw Ren last Christmas and he's a bit "rounder" now, to put it pleasantly he would be "more full through the body" so I feel better about my efforts body wise and about my fairly limited but about to get back on it work out ethic, but he looks his age now. Which means I must look mine.
Which is why old girl in the elevator at work called me sir. Which is something that can just ruin a damn day.
Every now and then when I'm faced with an issue, and nothing else seems to be helping me wrap my mind around it, I'll revert to the "Ren Sharperson" method.
And yes, it does sound silly. Until you realize it works.
Barkeep. Give me a cold one. Brand doesn't matter, as long as it's cold.
More from the back of the old psyche closet. Sometimes I'm amazed at some of the stuff I remember, like an old song I heard back when I was five, or a scene from a film that pops into my head for no reason, or an article that I read ages ago, or a memory of a moment that just resonates like you'd tapped my head with a ball peen hammer. Or something like that.
I went to high school with a guy named Ren Sharperson. At 17, he was a powerhouse football player with that athletic frame we all once had (no really, I was in shape once) and still somehow managed to look like he was in his mid forties in that first glance. But then it was South Carolina, and there was a slim possiblity he might have actually been only thirty five.
Ren was among other things, our resident philosopher. But his methodology was unique in my opinion, in that the man could break down any situation and I mean any situation down into understandable and uniquely logical terms of football. Ren occasionally springs to mind when I'm trying to explain something and looking for a metaphor to get my point across, and I end up defaulting to football terms.
For instance, Ren would consider getting a date to throwing a pass. The pass couldn't be to hard or too soft, it couldn't be underthrown or overthrown, and the recieiver had to be looking for the pass. Translate that into real terms and it made a young brother think about who he was asking out and how.
Another Example of a Ren Sharperson concept would be articulated as "In life, you need stop trying for the touchdown and just try to move the chains. If you move the chains enough times you'll get the touchdown anyway." Or for the non-sports person, this would translate into "stop going for the big accomplishments, break it down into smaller accomplishments that don't overwhelm you and as you get those done, you will inevitably get closer and closer to your goal." This is fairly good advice. Actually it was extremely astute advice coming from a guy under 20. And we were all football players who hung around other football players who talked about football all the time, so I'm a guessing that's why his thoughts resonated with such force.
I saw Ren last Christmas and he's a bit "rounder" now, to put it pleasantly he would be "more full through the body" so I feel better about my efforts body wise and about my fairly limited but about to get back on it work out ethic, but he looks his age now. Which means I must look mine.
Which is why old girl in the elevator at work called me sir. Which is something that can just ruin a damn day.
Every now and then when I'm faced with an issue, and nothing else seems to be helping me wrap my mind around it, I'll revert to the "Ren Sharperson" method.
And yes, it does sound silly. Until you realize it works.
Barkeep. Give me a cold one. Brand doesn't matter, as long as it's cold.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
So this is what's left of my Weekends?
Mental Rehab Post #32
As the weekends get more boring, as if that were really possible, as they get more boring I'll try not to elucidate to much on the minuate, the silly and the just plain well, hell, it's boring. I do however promise it will get better. Eventually. I mean everybody keeps talking about how bad the first year of law school is. The rest is supposed to be a breeze. Relatively speaking. I hope.
It's been a long-ish weekend. Longerer. Felt like a week.
Friday was so blah the manager let eighty percent of the team leave early. Friday night was home looking at cases and trying to see what I could remember from the Westlaw Training. So by like what eleven-ish I was zonked? There was a time when I would start the night at Spot One, breeze over to Spot Two after a little while, end up at a third and sometimes a fourth spot all before 1am. And then afterwards go to breakfast...
What is the world coming to?
Saturday morning I awoke and breezed...okay, rushed in late, to the career planning seminar for Part Time Law Students. It was rehash of the basic stuff: don't wait until the end, you can do this or this, this is what's important, etc and so on. This time however, unlike undergraduate I'm actually going to use the career center. And I'm going to have to take issue with the school soon, as they appear to have no concept at all of weekend parking. It's an urban campus, with my count, six or seven huge parking decks, NONE of which are open on the weekend when they do have events and other goings on. Who's running this joint?
Then of course, I wore out my debit card. Unlike most people, I'm not a big believer in cash. I have this crazy tendency to spend it. All willy nilly. Two dollars here, a dollar there, a magazine, a soda, candy bar and zip flash what did I just spend all that money on? So I use a debit card pretty much exclusively. And once every 10 months or so...I literally wear the magnetic strip off that puppy. I found this out at Walmart, buying the small detritus of life, and luckily the machine took it on like the fifth swipe ...there was no one else in line... so I have to get that taken care of. Like Today.
So, now cash deficient I swung through the grocery store and semi stocked up at least through Wednesday and hunkered down. After I made a baked spaghetti (two kinds of cheese, tomato and bacon crumble), I did my case readings and figured out after Halloween I'm on a four week sprint to the finals. I have two legal memos due, my classes and now I'm going to have to incorporate studying for the finals into my meager time allotted. Flash cards, writing and rewriting outlines, reading and re-reading old material. It's about to get bumpy in here.
Sunday was social calls, as Spanky, revealed not only did she go phat on the furniture she's also remodeling the house which gives the impression Scotland paid very very well. With that AND the furniture, I'm officially jealous. Jealouserer. Talked to my brother who is working on semi-big things - finally - but until that's settled, it's all hush-hush. And after I found I had to defrag my hard drive on my main computer and thus couldn't do my case searches...I actually got to watch about a half hour of football. I have no idea who played. I did find out the Cowboys won though. Yeah!
Sunday evening I re-read for both classes and made notes. Then futzing around because I used the oven instead of the microwave to heat up a dinner portion of the baked spaghetti, I pizza burned it. It was still good though, but I wanted the cheese still gooey, not that golden color that means you've started to burn it. I used to work pizza delivery...another story... and yes, that golden cheese is really burnt cheese. Tasty burnt cheese, but burnt.
Sunday night...I um...what did I do? Oh yeah...I read through even some more cases for my legal memo.
Man this an exciting read isn't it? Okay, let's be honest. It's kinda boring, and it's gonna stay that way until the 2nd or so week in December. After that there will be a short period of intense relaxation. Then we'll kick off the new year with new classes and hopefully some new nicknames.
Did I mention the Halloween party? The last party of the fall? No...well...oops.
And since this post is going up Tuesday not Monday when I wrote it, I'm glad I didn't mention that damned party. Because although I had figured out that I could squeeze in one last night of the good time...why one of my student groups decides to hold it's Mock Final on Saturday morning? In the one class I can't find a representative final on? So I have to freaking go.
Do they understand just how lonely I be? They're killin' me...
Yeesh.
Barkeep. One last one for the road. Lemme get a high and tight Manhattan.
As the weekends get more boring, as if that were really possible, as they get more boring I'll try not to elucidate to much on the minuate, the silly and the just plain well, hell, it's boring. I do however promise it will get better. Eventually. I mean everybody keeps talking about how bad the first year of law school is. The rest is supposed to be a breeze. Relatively speaking. I hope.
It's been a long-ish weekend. Longerer. Felt like a week.
Friday was so blah the manager let eighty percent of the team leave early. Friday night was home looking at cases and trying to see what I could remember from the Westlaw Training. So by like what eleven-ish I was zonked? There was a time when I would start the night at Spot One, breeze over to Spot Two after a little while, end up at a third and sometimes a fourth spot all before 1am. And then afterwards go to breakfast...
What is the world coming to?
Saturday morning I awoke and breezed...okay, rushed in late, to the career planning seminar for Part Time Law Students. It was rehash of the basic stuff: don't wait until the end, you can do this or this, this is what's important, etc and so on. This time however, unlike undergraduate I'm actually going to use the career center. And I'm going to have to take issue with the school soon, as they appear to have no concept at all of weekend parking. It's an urban campus, with my count, six or seven huge parking decks, NONE of which are open on the weekend when they do have events and other goings on. Who's running this joint?
Then of course, I wore out my debit card. Unlike most people, I'm not a big believer in cash. I have this crazy tendency to spend it. All willy nilly. Two dollars here, a dollar there, a magazine, a soda, candy bar and zip flash what did I just spend all that money on? So I use a debit card pretty much exclusively. And once every 10 months or so...I literally wear the magnetic strip off that puppy. I found this out at Walmart, buying the small detritus of life, and luckily the machine took it on like the fifth swipe ...there was no one else in line... so I have to get that taken care of. Like Today.
So, now cash deficient I swung through the grocery store and semi stocked up at least through Wednesday and hunkered down. After I made a baked spaghetti (two kinds of cheese, tomato and bacon crumble), I did my case readings and figured out after Halloween I'm on a four week sprint to the finals. I have two legal memos due, my classes and now I'm going to have to incorporate studying for the finals into my meager time allotted. Flash cards, writing and rewriting outlines, reading and re-reading old material. It's about to get bumpy in here.
Sunday was social calls, as Spanky, revealed not only did she go phat on the furniture she's also remodeling the house which gives the impression Scotland paid very very well. With that AND the furniture, I'm officially jealous. Jealouserer. Talked to my brother who is working on semi-big things - finally - but until that's settled, it's all hush-hush. And after I found I had to defrag my hard drive on my main computer and thus couldn't do my case searches...I actually got to watch about a half hour of football. I have no idea who played. I did find out the Cowboys won though. Yeah!
Sunday evening I re-read for both classes and made notes. Then futzing around because I used the oven instead of the microwave to heat up a dinner portion of the baked spaghetti, I pizza burned it. It was still good though, but I wanted the cheese still gooey, not that golden color that means you've started to burn it. I used to work pizza delivery...another story... and yes, that golden cheese is really burnt cheese. Tasty burnt cheese, but burnt.
Sunday night...I um...what did I do? Oh yeah...I read through even some more cases for my legal memo.
Man this an exciting read isn't it? Okay, let's be honest. It's kinda boring, and it's gonna stay that way until the 2nd or so week in December. After that there will be a short period of intense relaxation. Then we'll kick off the new year with new classes and hopefully some new nicknames.
Did I mention the Halloween party? The last party of the fall? No...well...oops.
And since this post is going up Tuesday not Monday when I wrote it, I'm glad I didn't mention that damned party. Because although I had figured out that I could squeeze in one last night of the good time...why one of my student groups decides to hold it's Mock Final on Saturday morning? In the one class I can't find a representative final on? So I have to freaking go.
Do they understand just how lonely I be? They're killin' me...
Yeesh.
Barkeep. One last one for the road. Lemme get a high and tight Manhattan.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
I Apparently Like Black Shirts
Mental Rehab Post #31
In an effort to complete this mental/emotional rehab, I've decided to start posting what would considered to the undiscerning eye to be some general crap. It is not. What you are seeing here is like when you re-organize anything - the stuff you forgot you had has to be moved as well. Mentally, these are little tidbits of trivia and silliness is that box of stuff in the back of the closet with that "omigod, I thought I'd thrown this out" stuff in it. And apparently...black shirts.
In looking at my laundry, which was still folded on top of the dryer when I went looking for a shirt last (fill in any day of the week here), I came to a realization that I am a very dark person. And by that I mean I must own 15 or 20 black shirts. Long sleeve, short sleeve, pullovers, button up, polos, collar-less, faded, sharp black etc. And a lot of dark blue shirts as well. I have a few tan shirts, and like two red. And one purple that will probably never see the light of day again. And, maybe two green, I think I remember a green polo from like three years ago. But all of them together don't add up to the number of black shirts I own.
Shade may have been correct in her thought that black is my favorite color. Sporty used say I looked good in a black suit.
I like dark fabrics. Slimming. Okay, most of my underwear happens to be black or dark blue as well, but I can explain. I moved from white to colored underwear in college to simplify the laundry process, an important factor when you don't own you own machine. I've had a machine of my own for all but three of the years I've been in Atlanta and for those who don't know - first you buy the house, the second purchase is the the washer and dryer. You can get the lights and water turned on in a day or so, and furniture can come anytime later. Damn a fridge or a stove. I mean you can always eat out, but a laundromat visit can ruin your whole weekend.
And in my current neighborhood, I ain't just trying to milk the chicken with that thought.
And jeans. I need to buy some jeans. My office is like supremely casual, and when I say that I mean we run the gamut from sport coats and khakis to hipster motorcycle boots and metal band tees to football jerseys and knee shorts. So nice jeans and shoes with a shirt means I'm one of the better dressers on staff. Only I need some new jeans...and I suck at clothes shopping. I mean that. You should see some of the stuff I've bought. Other than the black shirts..
That maybe why I own so many black shirts.
If get some Grey shirts, too flashy?
Barkeep, get me a black Russian. Get it...Black... I like black... wuteva, Makers and sprite.
In an effort to complete this mental/emotional rehab, I've decided to start posting what would considered to the undiscerning eye to be some general crap. It is not. What you are seeing here is like when you re-organize anything - the stuff you forgot you had has to be moved as well. Mentally, these are little tidbits of trivia and silliness is that box of stuff in the back of the closet with that "omigod, I thought I'd thrown this out" stuff in it. And apparently...black shirts.
In looking at my laundry, which was still folded on top of the dryer when I went looking for a shirt last (fill in any day of the week here), I came to a realization that I am a very dark person. And by that I mean I must own 15 or 20 black shirts. Long sleeve, short sleeve, pullovers, button up, polos, collar-less, faded, sharp black etc. And a lot of dark blue shirts as well. I have a few tan shirts, and like two red. And one purple that will probably never see the light of day again. And, maybe two green, I think I remember a green polo from like three years ago. But all of them together don't add up to the number of black shirts I own.
Shade may have been correct in her thought that black is my favorite color. Sporty used say I looked good in a black suit.
I like dark fabrics. Slimming. Okay, most of my underwear happens to be black or dark blue as well, but I can explain. I moved from white to colored underwear in college to simplify the laundry process, an important factor when you don't own you own machine. I've had a machine of my own for all but three of the years I've been in Atlanta and for those who don't know - first you buy the house, the second purchase is the the washer and dryer. You can get the lights and water turned on in a day or so, and furniture can come anytime later. Damn a fridge or a stove. I mean you can always eat out, but a laundromat visit can ruin your whole weekend.
And in my current neighborhood, I ain't just trying to milk the chicken with that thought.
And jeans. I need to buy some jeans. My office is like supremely casual, and when I say that I mean we run the gamut from sport coats and khakis to hipster motorcycle boots and metal band tees to football jerseys and knee shorts. So nice jeans and shoes with a shirt means I'm one of the better dressers on staff. Only I need some new jeans...and I suck at clothes shopping. I mean that. You should see some of the stuff I've bought. Other than the black shirts..
That maybe why I own so many black shirts.
If get some Grey shirts, too flashy?
Barkeep, get me a black Russian. Get it...Black... I like black... wuteva, Makers and sprite.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Musing's Fall Comment Drive
This would be a Post. Right Here. Posting.
I listen to the classics on WABE in my local area, and right now they're in the middle of their fall pledge drive, raising money to keep public radio public. And no, I have yet to donate. According to their numbers it takes about three to five years before a listener donates, so i got at least another year. Okay...maybe I'll donate. But in any case, it gave me the idea for this!
Welcome to the middle of our Fall Comment Drive. The writer of this blog in conjunction with the fevered recesses of his mind and the occasional help of frustration and Maker's Mark (fine whiskey) work hard to bring you the reader a compelling and interesting read. We cover a broad range of topics from stuff that doesn't matter to stuff that doesn't matter even less, all with sultry wit and dashing style. Salsa.
And it's not cheap.
I know you're thinking: what is he talking about. The internet is free. Or at least the part he's on. And if this fool thinks we're going to pay for this... Hey, hey, calm down. Not that. But here at the virtual bar we've got a virtual tab that has be calculated by the same virtual computers needed to mathematically figure why people play Second Life, as opposed to actually living the First Life. So...what is the old whiskey soaked, but reasonably good looking, old man sniffling on about?
My ego needs stroking something fierce!
I said my EGO! E - G - O. Minds all in the gutter, but then that's why I like you.
Feel free to comment, leave a note, get a word in, drop a line, ask questions, correct me, make a speech, get your point across, put in your two cents in, be wrong, start an argument, make a false assumption, lie, conspire to make me a better human being, attempt a verbal coup, lay it all on the line, tell me off, but jeez, just say something... dammit.
So, you come and read the fine stylings and occasional rant, and decide to contribute a comment or at least a snide remark, what do you get?
For a comment you'll get not the tote bag, not the coffee mug, not the key ring with the craftily designed extractor of caps which enclose liquids (i.e., bottle opener), not the nine piece dish set or the my musical double CD - the one of me singing West Indian Celtic Folk tunes on disc 1, and me breaking to causation and economic theory of Congolese monkeys on disc 2. No, you'll receive the grand prize, and since I don't actually have any of the afore mentioned stuff, what is really the only prize: A really good feeling for having said something.
And it will feel great. Well good anyway. Okay. It's not a bad feeling. Think of it as finger exercise.
The staff here at the Musings, and by staff I mean Me, the venerable and always funny Myself, and cool and collected and add another adjective here, Aye, would like to thank you for checking in, and ask that you do your part to support this fine bit of foolishness we've thrown up and nobody has been smart enough to take down yet. Your comment and $1 wouldn't buy a cup of coffee, but a comment might just help out a guy writing because he likes it and who probably keep on writing in any case keep on writing for reasons other than the reasons he's already got to keep doing what he's already doing and continuing writing (breathe) but said comment would be greatly appreciated.
Operators are standing by....
Barkeep...a round of drinks on my tab. Of course I'm good for it.
I listen to the classics on WABE in my local area, and right now they're in the middle of their fall pledge drive, raising money to keep public radio public. And no, I have yet to donate. According to their numbers it takes about three to five years before a listener donates, so i got at least another year. Okay...maybe I'll donate. But in any case, it gave me the idea for this!
Welcome to the middle of our Fall Comment Drive. The writer of this blog in conjunction with the fevered recesses of his mind and the occasional help of frustration and Maker's Mark (fine whiskey) work hard to bring you the reader a compelling and interesting read. We cover a broad range of topics from stuff that doesn't matter to stuff that doesn't matter even less, all with sultry wit and dashing style. Salsa.
And it's not cheap.
I know you're thinking: what is he talking about. The internet is free. Or at least the part he's on. And if this fool thinks we're going to pay for this... Hey, hey, calm down. Not that. But here at the virtual bar we've got a virtual tab that has be calculated by the same virtual computers needed to mathematically figure why people play Second Life, as opposed to actually living the First Life. So...what is the old whiskey soaked, but reasonably good looking, old man sniffling on about?
My ego needs stroking something fierce!
I said my EGO! E - G - O. Minds all in the gutter, but then that's why I like you.
Feel free to comment, leave a note, get a word in, drop a line, ask questions, correct me, make a speech, get your point across, put in your two cents in, be wrong, start an argument, make a false assumption, lie, conspire to make me a better human being, attempt a verbal coup, lay it all on the line, tell me off, but jeez, just say something... dammit.
So, you come and read the fine stylings and occasional rant, and decide to contribute a comment or at least a snide remark, what do you get?
For a comment you'll get not the tote bag, not the coffee mug, not the key ring with the craftily designed extractor of caps which enclose liquids (i.e., bottle opener), not the nine piece dish set or the my musical double CD - the one of me singing West Indian Celtic Folk tunes on disc 1, and me breaking to causation and economic theory of Congolese monkeys on disc 2. No, you'll receive the grand prize, and since I don't actually have any of the afore mentioned stuff, what is really the only prize: A really good feeling for having said something.
And it will feel great. Well good anyway. Okay. It's not a bad feeling. Think of it as finger exercise.
The staff here at the Musings, and by staff I mean Me, the venerable and always funny Myself, and cool and collected and add another adjective here, Aye, would like to thank you for checking in, and ask that you do your part to support this fine bit of foolishness we've thrown up and nobody has been smart enough to take down yet. Your comment and $1 wouldn't buy a cup of coffee, but a comment might just help out a guy writing because he likes it and who probably keep on writing in any case keep on writing for reasons other than the reasons he's already got to keep doing what he's already doing and continuing writing (breathe) but said comment would be greatly appreciated.
Operators are standing by....
Barkeep...a round of drinks on my tab. Of course I'm good for it.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Why all the S nicknames?
This is an Explanation Post
Got a question about something I've written in a post? No? Okay, you got a general question that I can give a funny answer too? No? Do you need your history homework answers? (I'm pretty good with history) You can just LEAVE A COMMENT and I'll see what I can do.
I got a comment...Whooo! I got a comment, I got a comment! Now both readers have written in! Anyway, I got a comment (Yay!) that asked why all the women's nicknames that start with S.
Long story.
No real reason at all. Okay, so it wasn't a long story. Sue me.
Some of them are real nicknames. I am horrible with names by the way, faces I remember forever but names...um...er..you, names float in and out. I swear it's not personal. Mostly. I think I explored it in depth in a post way back. Or not. I think.
Schmoopy's nickname was actually Schmoopy. Well, we both were Schmoopy, I called her that and she called me it back. I don't even remember why.
Spanky is short for her alter ego. Which I understand she actually has listed in the phone book instead of her real name. Something I did not know you could do.
Sporty just fit. She is an athlete. Plays football, basketball, works out all the time, watches SportsCenter, follows the games. And when she wants to get dressed up, she is spectacular. And since Spectacular would have been a little funny...and "sporty" is a old forties slang for good (thanks TCM)... so I went with that. (BTW, her real nickname also starts with S, but it was too obvious).
after that I just went with the S thing...now it's kinda fun.
It's my thing. Roll with it.
Barkeep. Let me get a shot of that Ice Tea flavored Vodka (note: this is a real product!)
Got a question about something I've written in a post? No? Okay, you got a general question that I can give a funny answer too? No? Do you need your history homework answers? (I'm pretty good with history) You can just LEAVE A COMMENT and I'll see what I can do.
I got a comment...Whooo! I got a comment, I got a comment! Now both readers have written in! Anyway, I got a comment (Yay!) that asked why all the women's nicknames that start with S.
Long story.
No real reason at all. Okay, so it wasn't a long story. Sue me.
Some of them are real nicknames. I am horrible with names by the way, faces I remember forever but names...um...er..you, names float in and out. I swear it's not personal. Mostly. I think I explored it in depth in a post way back. Or not. I think.
Schmoopy's nickname was actually Schmoopy. Well, we both were Schmoopy, I called her that and she called me it back. I don't even remember why.
Spanky is short for her alter ego. Which I understand she actually has listed in the phone book instead of her real name. Something I did not know you could do.
Sporty just fit. She is an athlete. Plays football, basketball, works out all the time, watches SportsCenter, follows the games. And when she wants to get dressed up, she is spectacular. And since Spectacular would have been a little funny...and "sporty" is a old forties slang for good (thanks TCM)... so I went with that. (BTW, her real nickname also starts with S, but it was too obvious).
after that I just went with the S thing...now it's kinda fun.
It's my thing. Roll with it.
Barkeep. Let me get a shot of that Ice Tea flavored Vodka (note: this is a real product!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)