Buffalo's favorite daughter

i got the new ani difranco album this weekend. i'm back on ani's side. i hated her cool jazz period and always will. and i still think that she should put out half the albums she does and concentrate on making each one more consistent. these complaints aside, she's grown compositionally and is one of the best lyricists i've ever heard. i wanted to share some of them:

from "studying stones":

there's never been an endeavor so strange
as trying to slow the blood in my veins
to keep my face blank
as a stone that just sank
until not a ripple remains
i am high above the tree line
sitting cross legged on the ground
when all of the forbidden fruit has fallen and rotted
that's when i'm gonna come down

no one has ever articulated this post-breakup thought so eloquently--you've been burned and you're going to take it easy for a while. the last thing you want is a fiery new relationship. you don't want to be tempted by the forbidden fruit of desire, or sex.

and, from "manhole" (no, it's not a song about a gay bar):

when i realize it doesn't bother me
and heartache not so dire
cuz i looked up to see integrity
finally won over desire

do women think with their clits, much as men think with their dicks? ani seems to think so. but like all of us, ani has grown up.

i never want to type the word clit before 10am, ever, ever again. forgive me.

saturday morning

it's saturday morning, 11.17am. terry's still in bed so i'm watching semi-homemade cooking starring sandra lee. without a doubt, sandra lee is terry's most hated food network personality. but he's still in bed, so he doesn't have an opinion. i'm not sure why i watch semi-homemade cooking with sandra lee, because a) nothing she makes ever looks good; b) i don't like adding weird pre-made shit (re: condensed soup, spice packets, canned chicken) to my cooking; and c) let's just face it, the bitch is a freak. i hope that george lam is reading this, because he'll be the only one i know what i'm talking about. so, george: have you noticed that sandra lee makes some really strong, involved, fucked-up alcoholic beverage at the end of every show? she's the epitome of get-mommy-her-cocktail.

in other news, my car was rear-ended last night. as soon as we were hit, i thought to myself--or maybe i screamed to terry, who knows anymore--hasn't my car been through enough in the last year!? Apparently, the collision gods heard my plea, because my car suffered but a scratch, whereas the woman who hit me is gonna have to replace her bumper. and she's the one in an SUV. go HONDA! like i've always said, japs can do two things: work, robot-like, 22 hours a day as they bustle around tokyo, their overcrowded capital city, and build a mean car! ok, so i've never said that, but i wanted an excuse to type the word "jap" for the first time in my life.

i've just realized that this is the second time an anti-asian slur has appeared in my 'blog, yet they're quite possibly my favorite minority. let me apologize: domo arigato!

bjork is fucked

i just saw the video for bjork's new single, "triumph of a heart," taken from her stellar album medulla. let me try to explain the concept:

ahem.

bjork is a housewife, stuck in a double-bed marriage with an ORANGE CAT. it's not a cartoon cat, a la paula abdul's "opposites attract." no, it's an actual orange cat, dressed up in a variety of hysterical man-outfits. so anyway, bjork is married to this cat. she gets fed up and wildly drives to a bar in some icelandic town, where she gets wasted and parties with people who apparently contributed to her album, the aforementioned medulla. after the bar, she walks until dawn down an icelandic country road, spitting out valentine hearts (no, i'm not making this up) until her orange cat/husband finds her and picks her up in his Buick LeSabre. she realizes she still loves her cat/husband, and SHE KISSES HIM FULL ON THE MOUTH after they dance around their living room together.

ok, so all beastility grossness aside, this video is worth watching primarily because the cat is dressed up like a person. i don't care what p.e.t.a. says, kitties dressed up in big-people outfits are the most hysterical thing since jerry lewis. if jerry lewis was funny.

check the video at http://www.bjork.com.

in other news, i can hear our office manager next door screaming profanities at her ex-husband on the telephone. it must be friday.

Dangers of the job

one of the bad things about my job is that every day i see profoundly sick children. i don't mean kids with the flu; i mean kids that have conditions that i heretofore had only witnessed on kenny and dolly christmas specials.

it makes you appreciate what health you have. cliche? you betcha.

It's going to be a random day.

first off, let's talk about abbreviations, the internet kind. you know what i'm talking about: hateful things like, "lol," "lmao," "ttfn," "afk," the list goes on and on. if you're an avid reader of the reluctant receptionist (and how could you not be), you know that my boyfriend, who will remain nameless (mainly because i can't remember his name...we'll call him...pedro), really enjoys his final fantasy 11. what is most disturbing about final fantasy 11 is not the amount of time that one spends on it (it comes with a reminder to players not to forget about real-world relationships and jobs.) or the fact that it literally sucks you into an alternate universe, but that it is an online game. one forms friendships and alliances with other characters as far away as, i don't know, beijing, assuming they have the internet in taiwan or where ever that is. since you interact with other characters in final fantasy 11, or as "pedro" calls it, ff11, you use a lot of the aforementioned internet abbreviations. since "pedro" has been signing on to instant messenger more often as of late, he's treated me to a lot of these cute little sayings. today, however, it went over the line:

Pedro: hsstd
Robbi607: haha--what the fuck does that mean?
Pedro: have some science to do
Robbi607: HA!

yes, dear readers, my instant messenger name is robbi607. please, feel free to stalk me.

in other news, every day when i fix my hair i see the one gray hair at the front of my head. i've had unnoticeable ones (well, "pedro" notices them and always points them out; but they're on the side, so i can't see them, so who the hell cares) but this is my first obvious gray hair. i'm proud of it. i'm excited to get salt and pepper hair. that is, as long as my face doesn't betray my age. somebody pass me the moisturizer! get your mind out of the gutter; i didn't say lotion.

seacrest out.

To brighten a dark day

More forwards from my father. Where the hell does he find these things? this time, it's jokes against the irish. bear in mind, my father is half irish.



Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he'd just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut and bruised and he's walking with a limp."What happened to you?" asks Sean, the bartender.
"Jamie O'Conner and me had a fight," says Paddy. "That little snit, O'Conner," says Sean, "he couldn't do that to you, he must have had something in his hand." "That he did," says Paddy, "a shovel is what he had, and a terrible lickin' he gave me with it." "Well," says Sean, "you should have defended yourself, didn't you have something in your hand?" "That I did," said Paddy. "Mrs. O'Conner's breast, and a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a fight,"
===========================
Brenda O'Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door. "Brenda, may I come in?" he asks. "I've somethin'to tell ya." "Of course you can come in, you're always welcome, Tim. But where's my husband?" "That's what I'm here to be tellin' ya, Brenda. There was an accident down at the Guinness brewery..." "Oh, God no!" cries Brenda. "Please don't tell me." "I must, Brenda. Your husband Shamus is dead and gone. I'm sorry." Finally, she looked up at Tim. "How did it happen, Tim?" "It was terrible, Brenda. He fell into a vat of Guinness Stout and drowned." "Oh my dear Jesus! But you must tell me true, Tim. "Did he at least go quickly?" "Well, no Brenda... no. Fact is, he got out three times to pee."
===========================
A drunk staggers into a Catholic Church, enters a confessional booth, sits down but says nothing. The Priest coughs a few times to get his attention but the drunk just sits there. Finally, the Priest pounds three times on the wall. The drunk mumbles, "ain't no use knockin, there's no paper on this side either."



my deepest apologies to the following: the irish; those with a passable irish brogue; those with a college education; and those who stumbled upon this 'blog by accident.

What's going on with Lukai!? Don't lie, I know you've been seeing him again.

as penance for my vicious attack on terry's love for final fantasy 11, i post the following conversation.

"Terry: you should have said that you watch food network and other stupid shows which aren't interesting, which drives terry to play ff11 [final fantasy 11, for those of you who aren't computer nerds].
Robert: oh that is BACKWARD! You play, which drives me to TV.
Terry: yesterday and the day before, i logged on when mark summers was on tv--actually it might have been martha stewart the day before.
Robert: that's because you don't have a tv opinion! and if you DO have an opinion, it's who wants to be a crapass starring crapass philbin!
Terry: i do and you know it's not mark [summers, host of the brilliant program unwrapped on the Food Network] or martha [stewart]. how would you feel if we watched [who wants to be a millionaire] for 3 hours a day--you'd find something else to do too.
Robert: haha
Terry: and i do--in the form of lukai.
Robert: your other boyfriend. fine.
Terry: chalk one up for the good side (me).
Robert: obviously i'm the darkside, that goes without saying.
Terry: with your black heart and all
Robert: ok, mister. ok.

Just an old-fashioned work story

i just posted. it was all just bitching and moaning. i know this.

i have to re-post, with an addendum. though my job is monotonous, certain things happen, certain characters come in and out of the room, past my desk, that make the job bearable.

one of my coworkers--she'll remain nameless (besides, if you know me well enough to care which one she is, you'll know who i'm talking about)--just had the following conversation...



"he always want to know where that pulmonary function stuff is,"
"sho' nuff,"
"and i tell him, i don' know, chil'."
"i know that's right."



...with herself.

when you're the only one participating in a two-sided conversation, you're never lonely and you're never bored.

A General Malaise

if i were to treat this 'blog as a simple diary, not a platform for musings and anecdotes, but purely something to log my day-to-day comings and goings, it would look like this:

-ahem-

This morning I woke up at 7.20 (ok, so make that 7.35), stretched, made coffee, and watched That Gummy Sprite Katie Couric on the Today Show. then, while i warmed up my voice in the shower, terry got out of bed and had breakfast. at 8.30 am hilary came down to meet us and we all three happily headed to hopkins for our illustrious day jobs. from 9am-4.45pm today, i did the following: a) shipped pee to lenexa, kansas; b) talked to crazy people on the telephone, trying to get them to agree to have their children come in and let us take care of their asthma for a year; c) shuffled papers, both electronically and otherwise; and, last but hardly least, d) answered personal calls for the lady who sits behind me. having gotten home at 5.15pm, i practiced (for what, god only knows), went to whole foods for dinner ingredients, and cooked. from 7pm until 11pm, i watched television while terry played final fantasy 11. then i went to bed.

that's it. that's my diary. and i could cut and paste it into a new 'blog entry each and every weekday. the weekends, that's a different story. weekends are wonderful. i guess that i underestimated the monotony of having a 9-5 day job; i'd always talked (verrrrrrrry abstractly) about getting one, all through college and my masters'. who knew that having the silver spoon removed from my mouth would leave such a bad taste?

for all of you Sarah Jessica Parker fans out there, that last sentence is for you: if there was ever a Sex and the City-style metaphor, that's it.

From the desk of my father

I'm blessed to be the recipient of forwards from my father, an early 50's golf pro in Oklahoma. Enjoy.

"A blonde, wanting to earn some extra money, decided to hire herself out as a"handy-woman" and started canvassing a nearby well-to-do neighborhood. She went up to the front door of the first house, and asked the owner if he had any odd jobsfor her to do."Well, I guess I could use somebody to paint my porch," he said. "How much will you charge me?" The blonde quickly responded, "How about $50?" The man agreed and told her that the paint and everything she would need were inthe garage.

The man's wife, hearing the conversation, said to her husband, "Does she realize that our porch goes all the way around the house?" He responded, "That's a bit cynical, isn't it?" The wife replied, "You're right. I guess I'm starting to believe all those'dumb blonde' jokes we've been getting by e-mail lately."

A short time later, the blonde came to the door to collect her money. "You're finished already?" the husband asked. "Yes," the blonde replied," and I had paint left over, so I gave it two coats. Impressed, the man reached into his pocket for the $50.00 and handed it to her.

"And by the way," the blonde added, "it's not a Porch, it's a Lexus."



Happy Monday to all.

ROAD RAGE, or How to Find Nirvana in Baltimore Traffic

i don't think that i ever truly knew what road rage was until i started careening through the streets of baltimore in a car. when i'm behind the wheel of a car (only in baltimore, i find, not places like indiana or at home in oklahoma) it becomes an every-man-for-himself situation. i don't mean that i'm steering toward babies in strollers and jaywalkers (ok, so i'm not steering toward all babies in strollers and jaywalkers), but i've discovered that if you attempt to practice "defensive driving"--you know, hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, politely allowing people to change into your lane, not hollerin' every time someone makes a left turn from the far lane--you will become the hunted, not the hunter. and who wants to be hunted? then again, every day that you live in baltimore and you're not killed you learn to take as god smiling right down on you. i know what i'm talking about, i work in east baltimore.

back to the driving conversation. even though i'm a total mother fucker (can i say mother fucker on this thing? gosh, i hope so, because i don't want the internet police to come after me for my potty mouth. i really better not talk about that kiddie porn ring that i've been running from my desk at the hospital. just kidding, dubya!) anyway, even though i'm a total mother fucker when i'm driving, i get all judgmental of people when they're driving and have road rage. it's so easy for me to like find inner peace and have this total live and let live, zen attitude when i'm not the one driving. i'm sure that this makes terry crazy. picture it: he's driving along, and someone makes the classic "left turn from the far lane, cutting you off and nearly involving you in a horrible, t-bone style fiery mass of twisted metal car wreck" move. you all know the one i'm talking about. steam starts coming out terry's ears, he starts spouting profanities that make me want to secretly dial his parents' number on my cell phone and hold up the receiver, and i get all judgmental about his having road rage. terry, mind you, is normally cool as a cucumber. cooler than a cucumber, even, so it's weird to see him get all riled up.

then again, terry riled up is sorta sexy. maybe i should let him drive more often.

Crashing the Community Advisory Board

For those of you reading this who don't know or haven't guessed, i am currently a wonderfully glorified secretary. i guess that there are two problems with that last sentence: a) if you're reading this then you know me, and to know me is to know that i am a glorified, glorified, i say, secretary; and b) let's just face facts, no one's reading this.

but i digress.

the point is, since i'm a secretary in an office that runs studies of childhood asthma, i'm learning things and being involved in things that i never in a million years (or a hundred thousand dollars spent at depauw university/peabody conservatory) thought that i'd be learning or involved in. (that was quite a sentence.) i just got back from attending my first "community advisory board" meeting, a meeting which i was invited and in fact compelled to attend but at which i had absolutely no business. i attend a lot of these meetings, and they range from completely over my head to just a little over my head. for instance, it's taken me six months at this job to understand words like "concomitant," "anti-IgE," and "asthma." ok, so the last one was a joke.

i miss words like "technique," "colla voce," and "john shirley-quirk."

this 'blog might become just one digression following another. that'd be bad if i was a published, respectable author, but i'm a classical singer posing as a secretary, and you're the one choosing to read it. so deal.

What am I doing?

I've joined the ranks and just created a 'blog. Please note the ' before the word 'blog, as i refuse to admit that 'blog is a real word, whether or not it made it into the dictionary this year. call me stodgy; you wouldn't be the only one. i'm more than a little uncertain about what i'm going to put in this here 'blog, because i'm not someone who's ever kept a diary, much less am i someone who's wanted to keep a diary then share it with the world. maybe it'll be a place to put my favorite quotes, or share my favorite books or talk about tv shows. then again, how much can one possibly type about the Food Network? maybe i won't share the link with anyone at all. what's the point in that? i'm already rambling. consider this first post a test.

when it comes to the name of this 'blog, its reason is twofold: 1) i'm currently employed as a receptionist--a glorified receptionist, but still. i'm a receptionist, and though i don't want to stay a receptionist...er....i mean adminstrative assistant (as my father tells me to call myself), i'm compelled to by my landlord and bill collectors. therefore, i'm a reluctant receptionist. 2) i'm reluctant to start a 'blog, and i'm sure that i'll only be updating it while i'm at work, so...aren't i clever?

apparently i have no loss of things to type on this thing. look out, world, here comes my diary.

me.

for hilary 2

for hilary