Important philosophical questions.

  1. Who the fuck names a dog CLAIRE?
  2. Aren’t border collies supposed to be SMART?
  3. If you happen to be a (mostly) border collie named Claire, what possible culinary allure can there be to EATING A MAGNET?

Some days… HONESTLY.

Smile time.

I’ve got to stop smiling at people. It’s making me feel sketchy.

Not real smiles, mind you, not even some of my finer fake smiles, but my every day mostly-at-work utilitarian fake smile. It’s not even a good one anymore. I can’t imagine it’s fooling anyone, or sending any kind of positive message.

Y’see, back in the Descartes days, I grew a fake smile. For some reason it seemed culturally necessary to smile at people you passed in the hall and and such. Of course, the environment was frequently anything but conducive to smiling, so we faked it. “See? It’s not SO bad…” Or something.

And some of us had a secret code. The über-fake smile. Those of us on the same team — literally and hierarchically, shall we say — developed this big, bright rictus of a fake smile. More of an ear-to-ear grin, really. Except it didn’t touch the eyes. That’s the secret, you know: whether or not the top and bottom halves of the face match.

When those girls and I (always other women) would pass each other in the hall, we’d swap the über-fake smile. Lips peeling back from our teeth, brains with “God, get me out of here” on loop.

So when I came to this job, I abandoned the über-fake smile. No one here would know what it meant, and, let’s face it, in the wrong company it’d just make you look like a crazy person.

But I did ponder my smiling strategy. (Yes, the kind of person I was when I came here had a smiling strategy.) I figured I’d go with a mild-but-sincere smile in general, for people I passed in the halls or washroom. I was new, so I figured it’d make me seem friendly, and would also help hide my true sentiments, which at the time were kinda messed up and contemptuous of these clueless bovines who would honestly work at the same place for their entire careers, and wouldn’t know a layoff if it jumped up and bit them. (I’m feeling much better now.) And, I imagine, it’s female thing. Somehow I doubt guys would bother going to the same effort.

And sometimes the fake smile works. People smile back and everyone’s happy and friendly and whatever. But as often as not, people just look at you and then you feel kinda stupid. And like a total faker. (Which I am.) Plus, I don’t know most of these people. I know a fair number of people in the more “real” jobs, but in the call centre, for example, the turnover is so high that there would be little point in trying to get to know people, even if they didn’t literally work in another building.

Plus, I don’t feel like fake smiling at people anymore. I don’t care. I’ve been here long enough now that I don’t care what people think, and those I like get a real smile or some stupid gesture anyway. Problem is, it becomes habit. I start doing it without thinking, but there’s no oomph behind it, so people get what probably looks like some sort of watery smirk. I’m sure that’s a great look.

So now I get to work on my blank but benign face. No fake smiles, no feigned interest. Just goin’ about my day.

One of these days I should find a job somewhere where I’d be smiling at people for real. 🙂

Add-on goodness.

The TinyUrl Creator has finally been updated to work with Firefox 2.0. (With this your TinyUrl functions are menu or shortcut accessible, so you don’t have to open another window to go to the TinyUrl site.)

I had had this just long enough to grow to love it passionately when Firefox released 2.0 and it stopped working. And lo, there was much vexation. But now: w00t!

Tweaking the nipples of culture everywhere…

Andrew has been in Belgium for work for a couple of weeks now, and has been making the best of his weekends by visiting exotic foreign lands. Two weekends ago he hit Amsterdam, and last weekend was Paris.

His photographic record of things is… very him. As is the commentary, which I find quite entertaining. (And a geek’s approach to art and religion is… very special.)

The man went to the Louvre and took a picture of the bathroom to snark on its lack of sparkle. Seriously.

I cannot believe, however, that he sent the link to these pictures — Museum of Erotica included — TO HIS PARENTS.

http://flickr.com/photos/atomicfern/

Soapy goodness.

I had an… unpleasant online soap-buying experience recently. But then, who among us hasn’t?

Fortunately, it is all a fading memory now, as I have new soap! It arrived yesterday. Man, I love packages. (Heh.)

This soap is from Alchemic Dragon, the proprietor of which just happens to be a friend of the foxy and fabulous Nicole. Add to that that Dana had a good buying experience, and that the soap lady shares a hair colour and surname with Willow from Buffy, and really, how can you go wrong?

I got five soaps to start: Blue Musk, Honeysuckle, Jasmine, Blackberry Sage, and White Tea & Ginger. So far Blue Musk is my favourite. Honeysuckle is the girliest. There are about another five on the site that will have to wait for a future order. And no, you can’t have any. Get your own. 🙂

Added to the ridiculous quantity of stuffs from LUSH, Sephora, and Bath & Body Works from my SF trip, it’s amazing I can even get IN my shower these days. Though I gotta say, if you don’t have this: GET IT.

A delicate flower.

pinch marks

This is what I get for being nice. Well, actually, it has nothing to do with being nice. I’m blood type O-, which means Canadian Blood Services would hunt me down and take my blood by force if I didn’t show up every 56 days and give it to them.

This is my left upper arm. Those red striations are broken capillaries — pinch marks from a blood pressure cuff. They’re actually rather more livid than they look there, but I’m kinda pasty and reflective. 🙂

I noticed them this morning, and couldn’t think of where the hell they came from. They look like accidental dog scratches, but I haven’t been near the HS or Gordie in several days. Yesterday when I went to donate, besides having to test my iron levels twice, they had to take my blood pressure twice, too, since the machine registered a problem with the cuff the first time. So the nurse cranked it tighter and ran it again. Ouch. That was tight. And my arms are kinda beefy to begin with. (I did not have one of the nice nurses for that portion of the festivities.)

I was also not impressed that the first nurse I saw took the iron-testing blood sample from my index finger. Hello? I’m an office worker and an internet junkie. That’s a prime typing finger, and, more importantly, my clicking finger. Now it’s sore for a couple more days. Hmph.

I think this illustrates nicely why I should be residing in a nice bubble and avoiding having people touch me. Or I should just get another tattoo so they have to leave me alone for six months. 🙂