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Attention Whore Techniques

We’ve all been in settings when one person dominates the conversation. You could be in the middle of delivering a eulogy, or a child, and attention whores will still steal your spotlight. Short of manslaughter, there are not many ways to stop them. They live in a world of their own. These people include:

The Explainer: This person thinks everyone around him has the IQ of a legume. Therefore, it is his responsibility to explain, in excruciating detail, what is happening. “In case you’ve never heard the term ‘thermometer,’ it is a device that measures temperature.” Or “Let me explain the situation in Libya in terms you can understand. Blah, blah, blah. Breath. Blah, blah, blah, etc.”

The Interrupter: You’re in the middle of a great story when, from out of nowhere, The Interrupter pipes in–guessing the end of your story, or changing the subject altogether. Most Interrupters are murdered before they turn 45.

(Typical Interrupter behavior.)

The Redundant: This person is also called The Echo, The Superfluous, The Back-Up, or The Repetitive. The Redundant has several irritating behaviors which include a) exactly repeating what has already been said, b) repeating what has been said in a different way, c) echoing the last few words that were said. Example:

First person: I think this must be the hottest day of the year.

The Redundant: It sure seems like it’s the hottest day of the year.

First person: I could use a cold drink.

The Redundant: I think drinks are in order!

First person: Are you a professional echo?

The Redundant: Echo . . .

The Irritated: Not only does The Irritated have NO TIME for your conversation, she goes out of her way to let you know her time is MUCH MORE IMPORTANT than yours. Irritated tendencies include finger drumming, toe tapping, knee bouncing, a pursed expression and playing on her phone while you’re explaining how sad you are your dog died. They’re not listening. Leave.

The One-Upper: You just climbed Mount Everest. But The One-Upper climbed Mount Everest in the off-season, carrying his sherpa up the hill even after losing three fingers to frostbite. Or. You received a job offer from Apple that will double your salary. Too bad, because The One-Upper now operates Apple. You just can’t win. Stop trying.

(“You call that a knife?” Typical One-Upper.)

The best way to deal with attention whores is to walk in the other direction. They won’t realize you’re gone until they need someone to refill their coffee.

Top 5 Reasons I Hate My “Smart” Phone

I woke up recently and my beloved cell phone had a message for me. It said, “$#$@ you.” Then it rolled over and died. For good. I tried performing CPR but it was too late.

I LOVED my old cell phone. It let me call people. It let me text people. That was it. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t ask much and we had a great relationship.

(Good-bye, old friend.)

I HATE my new “smart” phone. Now, not only do I waste time playing Doodle Jump, and downloading apps–but it continually lets me know I’m not nearly as smart as this stupid little phone. Here are the top 5 reasons I hate my “smart” ass phone:

#1– I can’t answer the damn thing: So, I’m on my phone, trying to figure out Words With Friends (especially hard when you have no friends) and my phone starts ringing. I’m pushing all kinds of buttons, trying to slide the screen, whatever it takes. Nothing. Can’t figure out how to answer the *%**#@ phone.

#2–The sticky screen: You’d think I sweat maple syrup from my fingers. Either that, or I have a serious ear wax problem that’s gone undiagnosed for years. My phone’s screen is constantly attracting stickiness. And if I try to clean the screen, I turn on all kinds of apps that I had no intention of opening. Or I call China.

#3–The keyboard: I never realized my fingertips were so freaking huge. I take my cucumber-size fingers, and dumbly punch at numbers on my phone (leaving a sticky residue), and never quite spelling out texts the way I’d like. I’m sick of typing, “Wher ar your meettinh mr?” Or sending half-finished texts because I accidentally hit send.

(My new phone: The myBadTouch.)

#4–The ultra-sensitive screen: Only teenage girls are more sensitive than my phone. If I’m trying to tap a specific app (see “cucumber-size fingers”), I’ll punch everything around it, bringing up all kinds of garbage. Or, I’ll push directly on the button–and it lights up, meaning, yes, it was tapped. No response. Just a slow b-l-i-n-k as the phone shuts itself off. And I often find that my cheek is playing Angry Birds while I’m trying to talk to my sister.

#5–No charge: No, I don’t mean my phone was free. I mean my phone goes through power like a Kardashian goes through plastic surgeons. My phone holds a charge like Lindsey Lohan holds her liquor. Not well. I feel like I’ve purchased a ’90s Giga-Pet that needs to fed, loved and nurtured 24/7.

(It was irritating then. More irritating now.)

Maybe one day, I’ll fall in love with my phone. Maybe one day, my phone will accidentally fly off the nearest overpass. Maye one day, I’ll just take my big fingers and buy a rotary phone.

How to Survive a Boring Meeting

Boring meetings are all the rage these days; and many meeting execs are wising up to how attendees are distracted by iPhones, iPads, etc. and have banned technology from meetings. Ogres!!

(“Oh, you were expecting Prince Charming?”)

Here’s a way to survive meetings when there’s no access to gadgets:

Take “notes”: And by “notes” I mean make your grocery list or an inventory of your favorite novels. “Notes” can also include writing in your journal or thinking up creative Christmas gifts. (December is only a few months away.) The point is to look studious.

Have a food stash: Fill your pockets with tasty treats that can be surreptitiously placed in the mouth when your boss isn’t looking. Warning: Jordan Almonds are not a good idea. Too crunchy.

(Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Nom, nom, nom.)

Outline Your Next Blog Post: This entire blog, and many others, was hand-written during a boring meeting. It looks like I’m paying attention. Nope. (Of course, now people are on to me. Great.)

Do several rounds of kegel exercises: With enough meetings, you’ll never need to use your hands to open a bottle of ketchup ever again.

Look up and nod occasionally: This lets the meeting leader know you’re absolutely paying attention. Hahahaha! Not.

Click pen frequently: I like to click my pen to the chorus of “Thrift Shop.” This was going great until the person next to me grabbed my pen and stabbed me in the thigh. Gees.

Create alternative lives for fellow meeting attendees: The man next to you probably knits scarves for penguins in his spare time. The woman across from you writes lusty novels on the weekends. Your boss? He’s most likely a serial killer.

(This is what Pam from HR writes in her spare time. Who knew?)

Work on your sci-fi screenplay: You know, the one about colonization of Mars by lettuce-eating androids disguised as Mark Whalberg and Cher.

Write poetry: Like this:

A Meeting Haiku

Can I be more bored?

I can’t imagine I could.

My liver is tired.

Reasons to Stay in Bed Today

Another Tuesday has rolled around, and like all Tuesdays, I just want to sleep until it’s over. If I get out of bed, something bad will happen. I’ll break my toenail, get an unexpected bill in the mail, misplace the dog or end up dangling off a cliff somewhere in the Andes.

(How did this happen? Oh, right. It’s Tuesday.)

No matter how my day starts, by Tuesday night I’m a heap o’ mess.

So I’ve created a list of reasons I can stay in bed today–guilt-free! (Or as guilt-free as a mother/wife/employee can ever stay in bed without a terminal illness.)

I’m afraid if I’ll get out of bed, I’ll see my shadow and have to stay awake for six straight weeks.
If I leave the house, I’ll have to talk to people.
I need to sulk for a while.

(I’ll stop sulking when it’s Wednesday.)

I have a new book/magazine/blog/newspaper to read!
There are too many dirty clothes to deal with if I get up.
If I get out of bed, someone’s going to want something.
It’s snowing. In April. In Utah.
If I stay in bed, maybe someone will think I’m sick and bring me dinner.
I’m just copying my dog.

(Dog days of Tuesday.)

It’s Tuesday. ’nuff said.

Top 5 Things You Should NEVER Say To a Woman

Consider this blog a public service for anyone who’s ever dealt with a female. I get it. We can be moody, unpredictable, pouty and, yes, even grouchy—but we have cause. The cause is usually a man saying something thoughtless.

If you’ve ever said these things to a woman–vow to never do so again.

1. “You look tired.” Are you stupid? This is the equivalent of telling a woman she looks 10 years older than she is. I don’t care if my eyes are closed and I’m snoring, do NOT tell me I look tired.

2. “Do you want me to explain that to you?” Oh, please, would you? My small little brain can’t understand the concept of this intricate plot involving fast cars, women in mini-skirts and assault rifles. Maybe later we can practice my colors.

3. “Is it That Time of the Month?” If by “That Time of the Month” you mean “Time to Stab People,” then yes. Yes, it is.

4. “Are you feeling bloated today?” Or anything similar, including but not limited to: Your face looks fuller today. Is that medium top going to fit? What diet are you on today? You shouldn’t eat that—with your decreased metabolism, impending menopause, and all. Are you sure you want fries? Those jeans look a little tight.

(Maybe it’s not bloating. Maybe it’s a toxic megacolon.)

5. “What’s for dinner?” Unless I look like a microwave oven, you can assume you’ll never get another meal out of me if you continue to ask this question. Why do I have to cook dinner? Are your arms painted on? Did you lose the use of your hands in WWII? Can you not read a cookbook? Is pouring a bowl of cereal for yourself too difficult?

By avoiding these insanely stupid questions, men and women might live in relative peace. At least until women ask things like, “Are you watching Sports Center again?” or “Do you really need all those lawn tools?” or “Haven’t you had enough beer?”

And the battle goes on . . .

Games That Almost Killed Me

Childhood is a dangerous time. Especially when school teachers/parents invent games that could prove fatal. I thought my teachers enjoyed hanging out with obnoxious, snot-nosed children 8 hours a day, but looking back, I might be wrong.

Here are the top games that could have killed me:

Red Rover: When spring rolled around, my teacher would take us outside for a friendly game of “Clothesline Your Chum” otherwise known as Red Rover. Your goal: break through your opponents’ clenched hands. Their goal: use joined hands to punch a fellow student in the throat. Better yet, as they come charging at you full-force, let go of the friend’s hand and watch your opponent sail through, and run into the chain link fence. Laughs all around!

Jump the Lava: The carpet is lava. The furniture is safe. Jump from the couch to the TV to the end tables to the coffee table to the love seat to the rocking chair to the kitchen table to the kitchen counter to the fridge without landing in the lava and dying a horribly painful death. Hey! Don’t laugh. We didn’t have XBox or Playstation, you lazy shits.

Mumblety Peg: My mom taught us this family-friendly, pointy-object game. The first person takes a knife and throws it at the ground between the second player’s feet, trying to get as close as possible without actually stabbing a toe. The second player returns the favor. This continues until someone receives a horrid knife wound. I think my mom taught us this game so we couldn’t play Jump the Lava.

(Can also be used for lawn darts, a William Tell trick, and cleaning fingernails.)

Find the Marbles: First, take a plastic pool and fill it with flour. Second, drop several dozen marbles into the flour. Third, tell the kids to find the marbles by only using their mouths. Fourth, chuckle as kids choke on marbles and flour. Hahaha! Fun field day game.

Dodgeball: Dodgeball is a much-maligned game where two teams throw balls at each other until no one is left standing. People who couldn’t throw (me) just ran around in the back of the crowd, dodging missiles thrown by students undergoing some kind of growth hormone treatment. (Fetal position is never a good idea in dodgeball. Just sayin’.)

What were your maniacal pastimes?

Things Driving Me Crazy in Phoenix

I left the strange world of Utah to travel to a warm, welcoming place called Phoenix to bask in the sun and watch baseball games during spring training. As we boarded the plane to leave Utah, airline employees were busy de-icing the wings. An hour later, we were sweating in 85 degree weather with margaritas and ball games.

While our weekend getaway was amazing, I was able to find things in Arizona that drove me bat-s*** crazy.

Sitting next to drunk people at baseball games. Drunk people are obnoxious. Drunk people at baseball games are uber-obnoxious, partly because they are already sitting so close–and then they proceed to get even MORE in your face. Once they’ve repeated the same sentence 17 times, it’s time to get up and buy a hot dog. I ate way too many hot dogs.
Listening to our hotel neighbors yell at each other at 7 a.m. Waking up to the chirping of birds: good. Waking up to the lady in the room next door nag at her husband in a shrill, ear-splitting voice: not good.

(“Abner! Abner!” Gladys Kravitz, our nosy hotel neighbor.)

Restrooms at baseball stadiums. Attendance at one ball game was more than 12,000 people. Attendance in the ladies rest room was about 11,900. And the ONE bathroom I found had such a hellacious line, I decided to find a quiet corner and an empty cup.
Gym equipment at hotels, in general. Marketing photos lie. Pictures depicting spacious workout centers give way to the truth when you walk in the gym and find three ancient recumbent bicycles, a 1985 treadmill and a squeaky stairstepper. You can work with the free weights, as long as you only wanted to use 15 pounds or 75 pounds.
Too much good food. Pizza and cheesebread at Oregano’s, pasties at the Cornish Pasty Co., scones at Rustler’s Rooste, tamales at Aunt Chilada’s, fries at the Baer’s Den, a Snickers bar at the airport. I ate way too much and now I have to eat celery and kale for the next three weeks. Blech.
Leaving to come home. There’s a stomach-dropping feeling as you board a plane that will take you back to the confines of the state of Utah. Say goodbye to sunshine. Say goodbye to the real world. Say hello to a ludicrous legislature. Say hello to Neanderthal thinking. Sigh.

Top 5 Guilty TV Pleasures

TV and I go way back. Like decades. My first love affair with television came when my mom banned me from watching “Three’s Company,” “The Love Boat” and “Bosom Buddies.” Those shows became my favorites. Various babysitters and friends allowed me to watch these forbidden sitcoms, giving me a glimpse into the naughty grown-up world.

(My mom was convinced this show would be the downfall of society.)

Today, that love affair continues. Although a LOT of the crap on TV is just that, there’s a handful of TV shows I look forward to that satisfies my need for living vicarious lifestyles. Here are the top 5:

Elementary: You’d think Sherlock Holmes would be an overexposed, overdone character, but Jonny Lee Miller plays the historic detective with the energy of a cocaine-addicted ferret. Partnered with Lucy Liu’s Joan Watson, Sherlock unlocks mysteries–almost before they even happen. Smart and quick dialogue, blended with truly crazy-ass crimes, make this one of the best procedurals on TV.

(It was Miss Scarlet, in the sewer, with an arsenic cupcake.)

The Good Wife: Will Julianna Margulies’ character leave her scum bucket politician husband who hired hookers? Who cares! Very smart episodes, delightful writing, and quirky judges and lawyers make this a must-see every Sunday night.

(‘Nuff said.)

Revenge: Emily Thorne is one devious wench. The first season of “Revenge” was better than the second as each week Emily eliminated another poor soul who crossed her deceptive path. This season has been bogged down in sub-plots, sub-sub-plots, etc., but I’m still watching, hoping it gets that evil spark back. Plus, Madeline Stowe’s character, Victoria Grayson, delivers some of the best one-liners in TV drama.

(“Hit me. This is your one and only shot, so do it like a man, if that’s even possible.” Meow.)

Dallas: J.R., Bobby, Pamela and Cliff Barnes are at it again, only this time, their children are carrying on the feud. Fun times all around! There’s truly terrible acting in this show, but the storylines are so much fun, I don’t even care. These characters couldn’t act their way out of a cereal box, but I tune in each week to see what the Ewings and the Barneses are up to–usually it’s something evilly fun. And J.R.’s comeback was a joy to watch. He was the consumate bad guy up until the very end.

(His diabolic eyebrows could have their own spin-off series.)

Toddlers and Tiaras/Dance Moms: I HATE reality shows. I’ve never watched “Survivor,” “The Bachelor,” “Amazing Race” or any of those flaming chef shows. However. My daughter is addicted to “Dance Moms,” that horrible show with the horrible dance instructor working with talented girls and their horrible mothers. It’s a train wreck–and if she’s watching it, I’m hooked. Same with “Toddlers and Tiaras.” I just can’t believe there are people in this country who yell at their 5-year-old daughters for not smiling correctly. Messed. Up.

(Training future strippers, pole dancers, and probably psychotic killers.)

What are you watching?

Utah’s Faux Spring

If you live in Utah and have seen tulips bursting from the damp soil, robins hopping around for worms, or teenagers sluffing in the park, you might think it’s spring. But natives of this state are well aware of Mother Nature’s wry sense of humor. It’s never really spring in Utah.

Here are some tricks Mother Nature keeps up her sleeve:

You look out the window and there’s a beautiful blue sky. The temperature is 55 degrees. However, you walk outside to get the newspaper and the wind is so cold your eyebrows freeze and fall off your face. “Joke’s on you!” Laughs Mother Nature. Skank.

(But the sun is shining! No fair!)

You’ll see bright green leaves gently pushing their way into the sun, soon to become daffodils, hyacinths or tulips. “Not so fast!” says Mother Nature, who then dumps a foot of snow on the poor flowers, and then runs off to bask in the Bahamas.
You walk outside with jeans and a jacket. It’s warm. It’s not windy. The sun is shining. You go back inside to put on shorts and flip-flops. You walk back outside into a blizzard.
The calendar might read March, April, May or June but any Utahn knows spring doesn’t start until June 30 and then ends on July 1 when summer hits and temperatures soar into the 90s.
Little girls in cute, spring Easter dresses huddle in down parkas whilst looking for Easter eggs. (Stupid Mother Nature. Stupid Easter Bunny.)

Just to be safe, keep two different sets of clothes in the car at all times, plus an umbrella, picnic basket, gloves, Frisbees, scarves and sunscreen. Just coverin’ the bases.

Quirky Behavior?

Everyone has strange tendencies. Some people exhibit OCD inclinations such as extreme hand-washing (not an Olympic event). Other people have creepy behaviors like collecting baby doll heads. Compared to those people, I’m not crazy at all.

Here are some of my quirks that I refuse to call weird:

Don’t pour me a glass of milk. This makes total sense to me, but my husband thinks I’ve fallen off the planet Lactosia. First, other people don’t know the EXACT amount of milk I need. Second, they might pour it too soon, and it will be warmish. Milk should be ICE COLD.

milk

(One of these is too full. One is just right. When you can tell the difference, you can pour my milk.)

If I eat one Oreo, I must finish the entire package. I’ll tell myself that 3 cookies is one serving. But in my heart, I know that isn’t true. One package is one serving. I’ll eat Oreos until my stomach aches and my poop turns black. And I’ll keep eating Oreos, even after that. It’s an illness.

(Rookie.)

Don’t touch my sides. Or any part of my stomach. Or anywhere near my stomach. This is something from my childhood, I’m sure. Probably from when I was being tickle-tortured by my grandpa. If anyone touches my belly region, they usually end up with a fork stuck in their cheek. Consider yourself warned.
Don’t make me a piece of toast. I don’t care if it’s Mother’s Day and my darling children bring me breakfast in bed. I have strict rules for toast-making, and I’m pretty sure you don’t know them. The toast must be toasted perfectly, by my standards. You don’t know my standards. There must be the correct amount of butter melted into the bread and, like my milk, it must be served at the correct temperature. If my toast isn’t still steaming, it goes in the dog dish.

(This is not food. This is charcoal.)

My foot must be outside the blankets. Otherwise, I get buried-alive claustrophobic and wake up screaming. I’ve told my husband that when I die, he has to cut a hole in the casket so my foot can stick out. Might make for an awkward viewing, but I don’t care. I’m dead.

(Sometimes the dog licks my foot. Still better than having my leg under the covers.)

I can’t listen to stupid people for any length of time. Self-explanatory.
I creak. If you’re next to me in a yoga class, you’ll think you’re practicing next to a box of Rice Krispies. Just don’t pour milk on me.

So now you won’t be offended if I come to your house and eat all your Oreos, but won’t drink your milk or eat your toast. And don’t take it personally if I punch you in the throat if you brush up against my obliques. Just an involuntary reaction.

What is your quirky behavior?

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