I've long wondered about meteorology. I strongly suspect weather forecasting is a matter of twisting up a big fat joint, smoking it, walking outside in whatever city you're in – say Tulsa - to get a look at the skies and saying “dude, that cloud totally looks like your old Camaro!”, then just making shit up and posting it as the weekly weather outlook for Rochester.
Weather is a thing I can't get used to. Southern California, where I'm from, is a place which is not in the company of real weather. Forecasting is easy: it'll be kinda cool, or kinda warm, or kinda overcast in June, or kinda windy, but, you know, mostly nice, or maybe just sort of nice, but still nice.
Here in Charlotte we reside under the end of the jet stream, which whips about like the the goddamn tail of a puppy chasing a bug. Yesterday we were told to expect a week of warm weather, partly cloudy, nice. Today we are slated for thunderstorms for ten days straight. Tomorrow? Who the hell knows? Snow, maybe?
One thing for certain here – an umbrella should always be at hand.
On to the tempestuous and perilous issues wrought by the staff at Slate under the guise of letters to Dear Prudence. I am feeling a little peckish at the moment, and have less patience than usual for this unimaginative drivel. I need my therapy though, and so I shall carry on.
Originals can be had here.
And we're away...
Truly Torn – Why, oh why does Slate need to complicate things so much, and so poorly as well? These little notes they invent for our amusement are hysterically trite enough without making massively stupid mountains out of silly molehills. Recap: one of your coworkers (married) is fucking another coworker (not his wife) and you're thinking about turning him in (nobody likes a tattletale). Oh, and he's slacking at work, which is very bad and sets a dark tone to the letter. Oh, and he's fucking her right there in the office in the middle of the work day, which is really just a not-too inventive device Slate inserted to pep up an otherwise bland story. Oh, and your mommy and daddy divorced under remarkably, amazingly, unbelievably, coincidentally similar circumstances, which sets the hook, sort of.
I'll play along.
This idiotic bullshit must end. Not just his, moron – yours too. Here's how: notify the sexmaster and his little sex kitten that the news is out, you are sick of the public fuck-fest and you're going to turn them in. Wait three days. If they persist in banging each other in the office, follow through.
Was that so goddamn hard? You need a Paxil? Any questions? Gawd.
Overshadowed or Overly Sensitive – Godamighty, I hate working with people like you. Recap: post-promotion, you and your more adroit coworker performed parallel work and she presented before you. Bonus – she's a pal.
She's not a “pal”, Mary. She's a coworker. Unless you two are pulling a LW1 and banging each other in an empty office during the day, she's doing her job and that means, evidently, she's making you look like what you are: less experienced. This is the nature of a workplace. This troubles you? Go be a cashier or a florist. Offices are places where some people get shit done, some people fuck around all day (literally, see above), and some people provide fodder for more ambitious and experienced coworkers, but if they have a shred of cerebral material available in their thick skulls they learn from this.
Where do you figure you are in that food chain? If you need a hint then you're just scary dumb.
Tell her? Don't tell her? Please. You both wasted many hours – hours you were paid for – performing the same task, and even though she did it better there is a measurable waste of time in there somewhere. There must be better words than that, but I'm sure you can find a way to let her know this fact and move along.
Neglected (Almost) Newlywed – Welcome to Schuyler The Cat's World of the Flagrantly Obvious Answer. Ready? Recap: you want more sex, he doesn't, and you aren't even married yet. This vexes you, apparently.
Feels like you may as well be married, huh?
Well, you'd better do a little soul searching, sweetums. All that self help bullshit about careers and stress and life intruding to the point that your sex life dies before you were married is a lot of bullshit – the laws of attraction work your entire life, Plain Jane, and I'd bet something about this relationship is amiss. Are you ugly? Are you stupid? Are you boring? Are you whiny? Are you smelly? Are you just completely normal with no issues, no baggage, no bullshit?
Whatever, the spigot is on full blast in the beginning of most relationships and it tapers off as time goes by, sure, but you're not even forty yet and the tap is closed? Something is either amiss, or (as I suspect) you've finally met your REAL fiancee. Laughing at you when you try to entice him with lingerie? That's not only fucking rude, but it's indicative of something: lingerie isn't funny, you know. There are entire populations of fans of the Vicky's Catalog who fight over who gets the next look at Adriana Lima in $95 panties and a $180 bra. A woman in her late 20's who poses for her man in his early 30's in something skimpy who gets laughed at has a little problem on her hands.
What's it all mean? Is this a habit that needs to be broken? Seems the habit IS broken, sister, and as you aren't at the top of his menu any more, you might start thinking of chopped liver. I bet nothing feels better than realizing a toss with you is less important than football, sleep, surfing the internet, or changing the oil.
You'd better have this out. Talk. Argue. Threaten. Get your goddamn mouth open and let him know – you will be miserable and unhappy the rest of your goddamn life if you don't.
B.A. Who Wants Out – Congratulations on that whole college graduation thing – always an impressive achievement. It is evident, however, that you didn't major in communications because a fucking third grader can communicate better than you have in this case. Recap: You are graduating, lotsa relatives are coming to see it, your mom can't afford to take them in, and your gramma's a manipulative fucking hag who likes to call you a fatty. Stress is the byproduct.
Graduating college is, I think, one of the rights of passage that sends kids hurtling into adulthood, even if they are ill prepared to go there. You are an example. See, I am going to give you some very grown-up advice, and unfortunately from the tone of your letter you seem to be unprepared to carry out this simple, adult task. No matter. Here it comes, Pinkie:
1 – Guests overtaking your mother? That's her problem, not yours. You might talk to her (that's one) about it, but she's got her own brain and her own way about her, and that's the end of that. Let's move on.
2 – Mean relatives coming? That IS your problem, and there's only one way to cope: Talk to them (that's two) and let them know how you feel about their attendance and attitudes. Better: find one you like and talk to that person about it. There's got to be one, and as word gets around it might grease the skids if you end up dropping the hammer on them all. Failure to do this means a. you aren't ready for the world or b. they really aren't that bad. Your call there.
3 – Gramma's a bitch. Yeah, I said it. There's an old saying – “you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family.” Well, I have a new saying – “assholes are assholes, just so, and need to be clearly informed of this fact sometimes.” When gramma sees you and says “well, well, if it isn't fat old fat ass. I see you're still a big fat fatty, you fat old fatso” you just might need to have a little talk with her (that's three). Indeed, you might reply by saying “I see you're still an croggled-up old loudmouth bitch, and given my girth which you seem to hate so much you might want to know that if I sit on you I'll crush your creaky, rusty old goddamn bones like twigs, but at least then you'll shut the fuck up about my weight you grimy, wrinkled old wad of overcooked haggis.” Or, you know, something along those lines.
We all tolerate a lot from our families, but that's no excuse for shitty behavior, and you – a college grad any day now – need to know this fact. You have exactly one hour to grow the fuck up. Then: Go git 'em.
Not much happening in my weather-challenged life, these days. Interviews for jobs still go on, but I am beginning to feel the effects of NOT graduating from college like LW4 up there. I can tout 27 years of experience, but the only thing I majored in was falling asleep during Accounting 101. I slept very studiously, though.
Vacation this weekend, for me – a little trip to the nearby mountains and a small cabin with a stream full of trout. We have poles and some tackle and not a single goddamn clue how to catch trout from a stream, but as there will be much very cold cheap beer in attendance, my wife and I shall throw our lines in the water and hope for the best. We will watch our backlog of unwatched DVDs (Corpse Bride, Hurt Locker, The Fountain, Pan's Labyrinth, Kill Bill 1 and 2, No Country for Old Men, Avatar, Burn After Reading, District 9) and eat and lay about like lazy people and forget that there's a mortgage restructure, two kids, a shitty job, a Persian cat who is evidently allergic to cats, and a lawn to mow. And a 40% possibility of thunderstorms.