Steve Jobs, that is. I heard he was back to work this week. Is he available?
I am here to discuss my spinning rainbow of death and the schizophrenic light that has taken residence in my charging cable. Should I make an appointment? Or could I just see him now?
No, I will not make an appointment at the 'Genius Bar'. First of all, I am fairly certain that Steve will not be there. Also, I abhor referencing anyone that 'fixes' my ongoing battle with this malignant hunk of metal by giving me a third new power adapter, as a 'genius'.
Oh, he's not available right now? Are you sure? Did you tell him it's Heather? He will remember me, I am certain. He has turned over at least two of my emails to the local authorities. The first of which was simply annotating my displeasure with the continued presence of the spinning rainbow of death and the little square man with x's for eyes (I call him Lucifer). I don't understand why he found it threatening. I promise I was admonishing Lucifer, not Steve.
Ok, well if you're sure he can't see me now, when would be a good time for me to return? Why do you need to know my height and weight? No, I will not pose for a picture!
Just tell him I will be back on Wednesday around three. No, I don't know my license plate number! Why do you ask such things????
Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Do Pharmaceutical companies pay referral bonuses?
**My friend Sam asked me to post the article I wrote for a local mommy blog last year, so here you go. This has nothing to do with anything really, just a weekly outing for the Terks. Feel free to quit reading at any time as I am sure you know I tend to ramble.**
Do Pharmaceutical companies pay referral bonuses?
If they don’t, I would certainly advise that they consider a plan if for no other reason than to ensure my financial future. Most are unaware, but I am apparently the source of the recent (perhaps undocumented) increase in adolescent female depression. If there were something in it for me, I would be more than happy to direct tragic victims of these misdirected encounters to a specific company with brand name, dosage frequency, and dosage amounts of the latest wonder drug neatly printed up on a leave-behind card. Allow me to enlighten you as to the circumstances surrounding the first of what has come to be known as an ‘offend and run’ spree. Of course, like any supermom let’s start with what I did right that summer day. It was a typical Saturday morning of toasting frozen waffles (as not to taint my status of supermom, I must clarify that these are homemade, organic, whole wheat waffles). Our table conversation centered on negotiating issues of equal importance to today’s energy crisis and stock market crash—specifically is Thomas the Train toothpaste is to be spat or swallowed, and whether leaving ones penis outside of the hole in the front of underwear is truly a more efficient way to wear clothing. My dear son just loves to appeal to mommy’s neurotic desire for efficiency regardless of the method.
The morning was off to a pleasant enough start and the event that was to follow did not appear to be one that would affect anyone’s future existence. There was nothing to indicate that our mundane errand would take the hopeful and confident spirit of an innocent young girl and crush it as if an aluminum can under the wheel of a passing H3. Shortly after breakfast, the family loaded into the Jeep and headed to our local shopping center to return a shirt. A shirt I might add that no size 6 in even the most delusional of conditions should have ever purchased and worn in public unless giddily prancing down Bourbon Street. Walking from the car to the store—admittedly a store that I shouldn't have entered beyond the age of 15—my husband and I made an egregious error in route calculation. Beyond the point of no return, we realized that we were walking directly past the Snappy Candy Store. The store that sells candy by the pound and diabetic supplies in bulk. There should be a sign above the front door reading, “Type I or Type II?” However detrimental the error, already well into the lion’s den, we realized that feeding the lion cubs the candy they'd spotted was less painful than the battle that was certain to ensue when we attempted to sell the line about the Snappy Candy store being “closed.” Explaining away crowds of people in a "closed" store failed to suffice years ago. As such, into Snappy Candy we went, awaited by our unsuspecting victim.
She was blonde, tan, tall, and gorgeous—from what I could gather from my quick glance upon entering the store. In retrospect, I am certain her incredibly thin physique made her look significantly taller. To be completely honest she was probably only an inch or two taller than my five foot two inch frame; however, her blonde ‘hair down to there’ created a bit of an optical illusion. She was somewhere near 16, potentially closer to 18 but those who know me are aware of my ability to misjudge age by a decade or more. It's a talent, really. I digress... She was at that age when a beautiful girl realizes the power of her beauty and the possibilities that nature has gift wrapped in a package adorned with taught bronzed skin and highlights that no mother has the time to maintain. She did not deserve what was coming, I doubt that many young girls have done something so heinous before the age of twenty to deserve what was coming. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t see it coming and let’s face it, there was nothing I could have done about it if I had. Thing One was finishing a custom Jelly Bean selection process entailing many, quite involved, taste testings with his Dad when he realized that I was no longer where he left me. Critical to the story is the known fact that in the world of a three year old, mommy not being within eyesight is the emotional equivalent of mommy moving to China to have superior replacement children. A fit of monumental proportion ensued as he frantically searched for his heretic, philandering mother on whom he has not laid his eyes in an eternity spanning at least a week. Finally, after an arduous 15 seconds of frantic searching and much to his relief, he spots me waiting in line to pay for an enormous bag of candy that is certain not to alter the size of my waist by even a centimeter. Eyes locked, focused like a laser, he traverses the galley-style store, determined not to let me out of his sight again. My behavior, as he barreled toward me, should have rendered him confused. He should have been concerned as he watched while I openly flirted with two teenage boys standing uncomfortably close to me while I waited for my turn at the counter. He was however, undeterred, unaware, and unstoppable. He had located his mother - the defector - and was committed to his mission of reaching her no matter the cost.
It was obvious by the near glacial pace of movement in the line that the cashier had more customers at one time than she had seen in her entire two months of working at Snappy Candy. Had the upcoming events not transpired, her tales of woe having juggled all 7 of her customers that day might have been the story that served as the culmination of her undoubtedly exhilarating day. However, what came next would surely trump the record-breaking masses she'd served. Its onset was confusing. A sensation so foreign that she couldn't make sense of it. As with most atrocities, the initial reaction was denial. Yet, there it was. The undeniable feeling of two sticky little hands sliding not so gracefully around two meticulously toned thighs. Further, as if to add insult to injury, and squeezing tightly, an unreasonably jubilant little creature shoved his grimy little face in between those very thighs and screamed, “Mommy! I found you!” Every mommy who has ever been shopping with a small child who has become convinced that they are, in fact, lost forever even when standing right beside you would agree - this was an adorable moment. Despite this fact, I am certain that the blonde, tan, tall, gorgeous young girl that Thing One had mistaken for his mother was not at all amused by the mystery gunk plastered over the entirety of her lower half. No doubt it would require nothing short of baby wipes and a chisel to effectively remove.
The look of shock was profound and immediate as she realized that not only a stranger, but also a sticky, dirty, and unusually short stranger was touching her in a oddly violating manner. Her full look of horror, however, was not unveiled until I opened my mouth and uttered a statement whose damage I would not fully comprehend until after leaving the scene. Upon realizing that my son had not only mistaken this young girl for me, but had grabbed her quite forcefully, I made a desperate attempt to make light of the situation with the first remotely pardonable excuse I could concoct. Without a second thought I said, “Oh! I am so sorry! I just cut off all of my hair and he’s not used to it! He must have just thought you looked like me from behind! Come on sweet boy, let’s go. So sorry!”
The statement seemed perfectly acceptable to me. In fact, I had cut off twelve inches of my blonde hair only a few days prior. In my apparently delusional state it was completely understandable for my three year old to spot someone who had mommy’s haircut and color, and assume it was me. It wasn’t until we had safely escaped Snappy Candy that my husband pointed out the gravity of my comment, my obvious lack of self awareness, and exactly how out of touch with reality I had truly become. As he so politely informed me…..I had just told a five foot six inch, 110 pound teenage girl with silky blond ‘hair down to there’ and a tan enviable by any Tahitian swimsuit model, that she bore an uncanny resemblance to my 25 year old, five foot two inch, 125 pound, shoulder length ashy-blonde-haggard-mommy appearance. And to think that in certain circles I am known as sweet.
So for you pharmaceutical magnates reading this, my name is Heather, and I strongly encourage you to develop an incentive for me to send my unknowing victims your way. The possibilities for all parties are endless. You see, as of today, September 19th, 2008, those that have succumbed to my tragic methods of “verbal hit and run” include more than just the candy store girl with ‘hair down to there.’ Indeed I have left a trail of victims—the stunning blonde cashier at Chili’s Curbside-to-Go; and the precious clerk at the boot factory who made a near immediately regrettable decision to let my son ride the mechanical horse spring to mind. And most recently, my beautiful, innocent, naive, babysitter who did nothing more than love my children as she would her own younger siblings was ambushed by what I’ve come to refer to simply 'pulling a Heather'. Not one deserved this. It is my heartfelt hope that with time and therapy—and of course the proper dosage of your latest anti-anxiety treatment —they will learn to forgive me and go on to lead normal lives. It was not my intention that morning (as I toasted my previously discussed homemade, organic, whole wheat waffles) to put yet another adolescent girl into a lifetime of medication and therapy to conquer the insidiousness of low self esteem, poor self image, and altered self awareness.
It's funny how my days turn out sometimes....
Do Pharmaceutical companies pay referral bonuses?
If they don’t, I would certainly advise that they consider a plan if for no other reason than to ensure my financial future. Most are unaware, but I am apparently the source of the recent (perhaps undocumented) increase in adolescent female depression. If there were something in it for me, I would be more than happy to direct tragic victims of these misdirected encounters to a specific company with brand name, dosage frequency, and dosage amounts of the latest wonder drug neatly printed up on a leave-behind card. Allow me to enlighten you as to the circumstances surrounding the first of what has come to be known as an ‘offend and run’ spree. Of course, like any supermom let’s start with what I did right that summer day. It was a typical Saturday morning of toasting frozen waffles (as not to taint my status of supermom, I must clarify that these are homemade, organic, whole wheat waffles). Our table conversation centered on negotiating issues of equal importance to today’s energy crisis and stock market crash—specifically is Thomas the Train toothpaste is to be spat or swallowed, and whether leaving ones penis outside of the hole in the front of underwear is truly a more efficient way to wear clothing. My dear son just loves to appeal to mommy’s neurotic desire for efficiency regardless of the method.
The morning was off to a pleasant enough start and the event that was to follow did not appear to be one that would affect anyone’s future existence. There was nothing to indicate that our mundane errand would take the hopeful and confident spirit of an innocent young girl and crush it as if an aluminum can under the wheel of a passing H3. Shortly after breakfast, the family loaded into the Jeep and headed to our local shopping center to return a shirt. A shirt I might add that no size 6 in even the most delusional of conditions should have ever purchased and worn in public unless giddily prancing down Bourbon Street. Walking from the car to the store—admittedly a store that I shouldn't have entered beyond the age of 15—my husband and I made an egregious error in route calculation. Beyond the point of no return, we realized that we were walking directly past the Snappy Candy Store. The store that sells candy by the pound and diabetic supplies in bulk. There should be a sign above the front door reading, “Type I or Type II?” However detrimental the error, already well into the lion’s den, we realized that feeding the lion cubs the candy they'd spotted was less painful than the battle that was certain to ensue when we attempted to sell the line about the Snappy Candy store being “closed.” Explaining away crowds of people in a "closed" store failed to suffice years ago. As such, into Snappy Candy we went, awaited by our unsuspecting victim.
She was blonde, tan, tall, and gorgeous—from what I could gather from my quick glance upon entering the store. In retrospect, I am certain her incredibly thin physique made her look significantly taller. To be completely honest she was probably only an inch or two taller than my five foot two inch frame; however, her blonde ‘hair down to there’ created a bit of an optical illusion. She was somewhere near 16, potentially closer to 18 but those who know me are aware of my ability to misjudge age by a decade or more. It's a talent, really. I digress... She was at that age when a beautiful girl realizes the power of her beauty and the possibilities that nature has gift wrapped in a package adorned with taught bronzed skin and highlights that no mother has the time to maintain. She did not deserve what was coming, I doubt that many young girls have done something so heinous before the age of twenty to deserve what was coming. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t see it coming and let’s face it, there was nothing I could have done about it if I had. Thing One was finishing a custom Jelly Bean selection process entailing many, quite involved, taste testings with his Dad when he realized that I was no longer where he left me. Critical to the story is the known fact that in the world of a three year old, mommy not being within eyesight is the emotional equivalent of mommy moving to China to have superior replacement children. A fit of monumental proportion ensued as he frantically searched for his heretic, philandering mother on whom he has not laid his eyes in an eternity spanning at least a week. Finally, after an arduous 15 seconds of frantic searching and much to his relief, he spots me waiting in line to pay for an enormous bag of candy that is certain not to alter the size of my waist by even a centimeter. Eyes locked, focused like a laser, he traverses the galley-style store, determined not to let me out of his sight again. My behavior, as he barreled toward me, should have rendered him confused. He should have been concerned as he watched while I openly flirted with two teenage boys standing uncomfortably close to me while I waited for my turn at the counter. He was however, undeterred, unaware, and unstoppable. He had located his mother - the defector - and was committed to his mission of reaching her no matter the cost.
It was obvious by the near glacial pace of movement in the line that the cashier had more customers at one time than she had seen in her entire two months of working at Snappy Candy. Had the upcoming events not transpired, her tales of woe having juggled all 7 of her customers that day might have been the story that served as the culmination of her undoubtedly exhilarating day. However, what came next would surely trump the record-breaking masses she'd served. Its onset was confusing. A sensation so foreign that she couldn't make sense of it. As with most atrocities, the initial reaction was denial. Yet, there it was. The undeniable feeling of two sticky little hands sliding not so gracefully around two meticulously toned thighs. Further, as if to add insult to injury, and squeezing tightly, an unreasonably jubilant little creature shoved his grimy little face in between those very thighs and screamed, “Mommy! I found you!” Every mommy who has ever been shopping with a small child who has become convinced that they are, in fact, lost forever even when standing right beside you would agree - this was an adorable moment. Despite this fact, I am certain that the blonde, tan, tall, gorgeous young girl that Thing One had mistaken for his mother was not at all amused by the mystery gunk plastered over the entirety of her lower half. No doubt it would require nothing short of baby wipes and a chisel to effectively remove.
The look of shock was profound and immediate as she realized that not only a stranger, but also a sticky, dirty, and unusually short stranger was touching her in a oddly violating manner. Her full look of horror, however, was not unveiled until I opened my mouth and uttered a statement whose damage I would not fully comprehend until after leaving the scene. Upon realizing that my son had not only mistaken this young girl for me, but had grabbed her quite forcefully, I made a desperate attempt to make light of the situation with the first remotely pardonable excuse I could concoct. Without a second thought I said, “Oh! I am so sorry! I just cut off all of my hair and he’s not used to it! He must have just thought you looked like me from behind! Come on sweet boy, let’s go. So sorry!”
The statement seemed perfectly acceptable to me. In fact, I had cut off twelve inches of my blonde hair only a few days prior. In my apparently delusional state it was completely understandable for my three year old to spot someone who had mommy’s haircut and color, and assume it was me. It wasn’t until we had safely escaped Snappy Candy that my husband pointed out the gravity of my comment, my obvious lack of self awareness, and exactly how out of touch with reality I had truly become. As he so politely informed me…..I had just told a five foot six inch, 110 pound teenage girl with silky blond ‘hair down to there’ and a tan enviable by any Tahitian swimsuit model, that she bore an uncanny resemblance to my 25 year old, five foot two inch, 125 pound, shoulder length ashy-blonde-haggard-mommy appearance. And to think that in certain circles I am known as sweet.
So for you pharmaceutical magnates reading this, my name is Heather, and I strongly encourage you to develop an incentive for me to send my unknowing victims your way. The possibilities for all parties are endless. You see, as of today, September 19th, 2008, those that have succumbed to my tragic methods of “verbal hit and run” include more than just the candy store girl with ‘hair down to there.’ Indeed I have left a trail of victims—the stunning blonde cashier at Chili’s Curbside-to-Go; and the precious clerk at the boot factory who made a near immediately regrettable decision to let my son ride the mechanical horse spring to mind. And most recently, my beautiful, innocent, naive, babysitter who did nothing more than love my children as she would her own younger siblings was ambushed by what I’ve come to refer to simply 'pulling a Heather'. Not one deserved this. It is my heartfelt hope that with time and therapy—and of course the proper dosage of your latest anti-anxiety treatment —they will learn to forgive me and go on to lead normal lives. It was not my intention that morning (as I toasted my previously discussed homemade, organic, whole wheat waffles) to put yet another adolescent girl into a lifetime of medication and therapy to conquer the insidiousness of low self esteem, poor self image, and altered self awareness.
It's funny how my days turn out sometimes....
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Hello, my name is Heather and I have control issues.
Well, now that you've heard my mantra, you should be able to 'read' me and gather insight into my world without the purchase of a 'Dummies' guide. If you had to place me in a box (or several boxes), I would fit somewhat cumbersomely into the crunchy granola/career woman trapped in the body of a SAHM/professional student/devout disciple/overgrown daydreamer box. My sister often inquires as to the color of the sky in my world on any given day. Despite my detest for her flippant and patronizing method of asking how I am doing, she is not far off par. I have been known to go to bed in one world and arise in another....... quite literally in my younger days. Be it career choice, number of children I would prefer to have, type of car I would like to drive, or whether or not I am truly set on removing certain substances including but not limited to flavor from my family's diet (their words, not mine), I waffle quite frequently. In fact, my girlfriend references me as Heather, the girl that claims all five love languages. I prefer to view it as adventurous and open to opportunity rather than fickle and indecisive. Yes, my view rings much more pleasantly. However, there is one stability in my life that is steadfast, consistent, and unambiguous beyond reproach. That is the ever-present voice of the one, true, living God. He is my heavenly Father, teacher, leader, and friend regardless of the infinite aggregate of my heartbreaking betrayals.
Another aspect of my multifaceted and often irritating personality is that of my incessant need for control.... thus, my mantra and the title of this post. Its not that I have to be in control of my destination, as I am very much aware that I have zero control over where God leads my life, but more so that I feel the need to control every step of the journey. I swear if I didn't love food so much I would be anorexic just to assert another level of control. Just to cover my bases, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my future daughters-in-law for the unavoidable, irreparable damage I am most certainly inflicting upon my unsuspecting children.
Speaking of children, I will tell you a little about my family now. My husband, we'll call him Terk, is a wonderful christian man that loves me more than any woman deserves. He does have his moments of temporary insanity in which he fails to value his life enough to think before he speaks, but those close encounters are few and far between. My children, we'll call them Thing One, age 4 (this little Mickey Blue Eyes as he has the bluest eyes you'll ever see), and Thing Two, age 2 who truly moves around the world like a spider monkey. They are the light of my life and the bain of my exsistence all within the blink of an eye. I have been known to threaten to sell them for their kidneys if that tells you anything. Thing One is certain that he can survive with just one.
I think that is enough for my first post. Hopefully this will become a habit as I am certain my 'friends' on facebook are tired of me updating every two hours simply because I have something to say. This blog will inevitably become my own little acre of word vomit on the internet, so feel free to stop reading at any time.
For today, my sky is the color of contentment and I am the gracious wife of one and mother of two. Thanks for sticking with me if you made it this far. Happy Wednesday.
Another aspect of my multifaceted and often irritating personality is that of my incessant need for control.... thus, my mantra and the title of this post. Its not that I have to be in control of my destination, as I am very much aware that I have zero control over where God leads my life, but more so that I feel the need to control every step of the journey. I swear if I didn't love food so much I would be anorexic just to assert another level of control. Just to cover my bases, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my future daughters-in-law for the unavoidable, irreparable damage I am most certainly inflicting upon my unsuspecting children.
Speaking of children, I will tell you a little about my family now. My husband, we'll call him Terk, is a wonderful christian man that loves me more than any woman deserves. He does have his moments of temporary insanity in which he fails to value his life enough to think before he speaks, but those close encounters are few and far between. My children, we'll call them Thing One, age 4 (this little Mickey Blue Eyes as he has the bluest eyes you'll ever see), and Thing Two, age 2 who truly moves around the world like a spider monkey. They are the light of my life and the bain of my exsistence all within the blink of an eye. I have been known to threaten to sell them for their kidneys if that tells you anything. Thing One is certain that he can survive with just one.
I think that is enough for my first post. Hopefully this will become a habit as I am certain my 'friends' on facebook are tired of me updating every two hours simply because I have something to say. This blog will inevitably become my own little acre of word vomit on the internet, so feel free to stop reading at any time.
For today, my sky is the color of contentment and I am the gracious wife of one and mother of two. Thanks for sticking with me if you made it this far. Happy Wednesday.
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