Its no great secret that I’ve been having a love affair with Google for quite some time now. Google is great. Everything I could want, but lately… I dunno. That connection we had at the beginning, you know that fierce passion, that flame, well it’s dying out. And lately I’ve been feeling a little under-appreciated.
Like just the other day. I said I wanted to go to a store in Gaithersburg. “Did you mean Montgomery Village?” As if I didn’t have the address right in front of me with Gaithersburg written on it. Like I’m some kind of idiot who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I mean its not like I was off by a letter or two. And yet Google insisted over and over again until finally I was like FINE! I meant Montgomery Village!!
But I didn’t mean Montgomery Village.
And before I used to think it was cute the way we’d finish each other's sentences. We were so in sync...
Yesterday I was looking for the “percentage of wom-“ and before I could finish Google jumps in with “percentage of women who shave their pubic hair!”
WHAT?!
Where the hell did that come from right? And to make matters worse I was at work. What if someone had walked in? What then?
So, I don’t know what to do. On one hand Google is really smart and helpful. And really when you look at the alternatives, Google is the best choice. On the other hand, I feel like I deserve better. And I don’t know how long I can put up with the condescending tone or these lascivious innuendos of late.
I need advice and I’m tempted to go to my ex to ask what to do.
I know! It’s so wrong… But what can I say?
Yahoo answers.
********************************
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Last Man Standing
Over the years I've watched my dog Gally run down the list of dog haters, non-believers I like to call them, and turn them each into cooing, petting, food sharing hypocrites.
I know what you're thinking. "EVERYONE thinks their dog is the best dog in the world."
On the contrary, I do not think my dog is the best dog in the world. She's stubborn, has selective hearing, and won't sleep on her bed unless the fluff inside is evenly distributed to her liking. Every story my mother shares about this hellion of a dog brings me that much closer to taking her to a shelter during my next visit home and leaving her there for a night so she can see how the other half lives. So she can understand that not every dog is getting omega 3 enriched food and an oscillating space heater by their beds during the winter time. And I use the word winter very loosely as she currently resides in Los Angeles.
Yet with all of her faults she still manages to fool everyone into thinking that she's special, worthy of their affections. where all others were not. Everyone except for my dad.
Because "back in Guyana dogs are not pets. They guard the property. They rummage through garbage for food. And under NO circumstances are they allowed inside of the home."
He held firm to his beliefs. For years I watched him treat Gally like she was nothing more than a common houseplant. He seemed impervious to those endearing human like tendencies that had worked to win over so many before him. I wondered how long he was going to be able to keep up the facade until I realized it was no facade. My father did not like dogs. Not now. Not ever.
*******************
In hindsight I should have seen the signs, the beginning of the end if you will. Maybe I did and just chose to ignore them.
I believed my dad when he said he was washing Gally's food bowl and putting in fresh water because he didn't want to attract bugs into the garage.
I believed him when he okay'd her bed being moved into the house because of the exceptionally cold Southern California winter.
I even believed him when he started bringing home meatless steak bones from restaurants masked as "leftovers" claiming he didn't realize how little meat was left on them.
Still, he never did anything to show Gally the love and affection she demanded from all those around her. He never pet her. He never took her for walks. He never fed her from the table... And Gally, not one to degrade herself by grovelling, withdrew her attempts.
And so grew a rift between them. For years they lived together under the same roof, each holding the other in contempt.
Gally was okay with this arrangement. As long as she had my mom to dote on her, what did it matter that my dad didn't like her. I don't think that was the case for my dad... I think it began to wear down on him. There's only so many times you can come home to a dog who doesn't even bother to raise her head in acknowledgment of your arrival, before you start to feel bad about yourself. Its human nature. No one wants to be disliked. Especially in their own home.
And so on Thursday, October 8, 2009, after six years of standing his ground, my father waved a white flag and extended an olive branch in the form of a steak bone to his opponent Gally. And no, he didn't give it my mom to give to her. He didn't slyly drop it into her bowl when she wasn't looking. He gave her a bone for her to take from his hands.
After my mom told me the story I had to call my dad to confirm. It was true. He gave the dog a bone.
She didn't take the bone from him at first though. She just looked at him. I'd like to think she was carefully calculating the repercussions of her next move. When in reality she was probably just confused. Thought my dad had unknowingly let his hand drift down in front of her face while holding a bone... And he'd developed two lazy eyes that made it seem like he was maintaining eye contact with her while doing this. Once she realized that this offering was legit, he says she took it, and enjoyed it.
Is this the beginning of a beautiful relationship? Only time will tell. Even though she broke him, as she knew one day she would, he still lasted longer than all the rest. And for that, I take my hat off to him.
Daddy, this blog post is for you... the last man standing.
I know what you're thinking. "EVERYONE thinks their dog is the best dog in the world."
On the contrary, I do not think my dog is the best dog in the world. She's stubborn, has selective hearing, and won't sleep on her bed unless the fluff inside is evenly distributed to her liking. Every story my mother shares about this hellion of a dog brings me that much closer to taking her to a shelter during my next visit home and leaving her there for a night so she can see how the other half lives. So she can understand that not every dog is getting omega 3 enriched food and an oscillating space heater by their beds during the winter time. And I use the word winter very loosely as she currently resides in Los Angeles.
Yet with all of her faults she still manages to fool everyone into thinking that she's special, worthy of their affections. where all others were not. Everyone except for my dad.
Because "back in Guyana dogs are not pets. They guard the property. They rummage through garbage for food. And under NO circumstances are they allowed inside of the home."
He held firm to his beliefs. For years I watched him treat Gally like she was nothing more than a common houseplant. He seemed impervious to those endearing human like tendencies that had worked to win over so many before him. I wondered how long he was going to be able to keep up the facade until I realized it was no facade. My father did not like dogs. Not now. Not ever.
*******************
In hindsight I should have seen the signs, the beginning of the end if you will. Maybe I did and just chose to ignore them.
I believed my dad when he said he was washing Gally's food bowl and putting in fresh water because he didn't want to attract bugs into the garage.
I believed him when he okay'd her bed being moved into the house because of the exceptionally cold Southern California winter.
I even believed him when he started bringing home meatless steak bones from restaurants masked as "leftovers" claiming he didn't realize how little meat was left on them.
Still, he never did anything to show Gally the love and affection she demanded from all those around her. He never pet her. He never took her for walks. He never fed her from the table... And Gally, not one to degrade herself by grovelling, withdrew her attempts.
And so grew a rift between them. For years they lived together under the same roof, each holding the other in contempt.
Gally was okay with this arrangement. As long as she had my mom to dote on her, what did it matter that my dad didn't like her. I don't think that was the case for my dad... I think it began to wear down on him. There's only so many times you can come home to a dog who doesn't even bother to raise her head in acknowledgment of your arrival, before you start to feel bad about yourself. Its human nature. No one wants to be disliked. Especially in their own home.
And so on Thursday, October 8, 2009, after six years of standing his ground, my father waved a white flag and extended an olive branch in the form of a steak bone to his opponent Gally. And no, he didn't give it my mom to give to her. He didn't slyly drop it into her bowl when she wasn't looking. He gave her a bone for her to take from his hands.
After my mom told me the story I had to call my dad to confirm. It was true. He gave the dog a bone.
She didn't take the bone from him at first though. She just looked at him. I'd like to think she was carefully calculating the repercussions of her next move. When in reality she was probably just confused. Thought my dad had unknowingly let his hand drift down in front of her face while holding a bone... And he'd developed two lazy eyes that made it seem like he was maintaining eye contact with her while doing this. Once she realized that this offering was legit, he says she took it, and enjoyed it.
Is this the beginning of a beautiful relationship? Only time will tell. Even though she broke him, as she knew one day she would, he still lasted longer than all the rest. And for that, I take my hat off to him.
Daddy, this blog post is for you... the last man standing.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Elephant In The Room
"No one wants to talk about the elephant in the room." Oh?
Let's imagine you're at a party. You're enjoying a few drinks, chatting with folks , exchanging witty anecdotes... Suddenly out of the corner of your eye, you spot... could it be? No...
Yes.
An elephant. For argument's sake, we are also imagining that this is a very large and very crowded room where you wouldn't have noticed the 10 ft 10,000 lb animal when you initially walked in.
Is this English idiomatic expression inferring that most people would continue to carry on in normal conversation pretending not to see this elephant? What happens if the elephant walked over and hit you in the head with its trunk, throwing you to the ground? Do you complain about the uneven flooring? And what if the elephant starts making elephant noises. Do you turn up the music a little louder? Feign a coughing fit to divert everyone's attention?
There are a lot of topics that people will go to great lengths to avoid talking about due to a fear of violating social norms, an elephant however, not one of them.
If I ever found myself in this situation, I feel like I'd have to something, just to make sure I wasn't going crazy. Hey I've seen Donnie Darko. And Harvey. Suffering from delusions, not a good thing.
Me: Sorry to interrupt the conversation but does anyone else see the elephant in the room?
Fictional Friend #1: I see it.
Fictional Friend #2: Me too.
At which point I would redirect the conversation cause contrary to the old adage, EVERYONE wants to talk about the elephant in the room.
Let's imagine you're at a party. You're enjoying a few drinks, chatting with folks , exchanging witty anecdotes... Suddenly out of the corner of your eye, you spot... could it be? No...
Yes.
An elephant. For argument's sake, we are also imagining that this is a very large and very crowded room where you wouldn't have noticed the 10 ft 10,000 lb animal when you initially walked in.
Is this English idiomatic expression inferring that most people would continue to carry on in normal conversation pretending not to see this elephant? What happens if the elephant walked over and hit you in the head with its trunk, throwing you to the ground? Do you complain about the uneven flooring? And what if the elephant starts making elephant noises. Do you turn up the music a little louder? Feign a coughing fit to divert everyone's attention?
There are a lot of topics that people will go to great lengths to avoid talking about due to a fear of violating social norms, an elephant however, not one of them.
If I ever found myself in this situation, I feel like I'd have to something, just to make sure I wasn't going crazy. Hey I've seen Donnie Darko. And Harvey. Suffering from delusions, not a good thing.
Me: Sorry to interrupt the conversation but does anyone else see the elephant in the room?
Fictional Friend #1: I see it.
Fictional Friend #2: Me too.
At which point I would redirect the conversation cause contrary to the old adage, EVERYONE wants to talk about the elephant in the room.
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