I thought I was being helpful. I thought that I was helping influence the path of someone's life. I thought wrong.
This scene took place at a college fair in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Sadly, I did not realize the full magnitude of this conversation until hours later.
Brooke (directed to young 17 year old boy): Are you interested in anything particular?
Youth: Um, well, I guess I'm just looking around.
Brooke: Well feel free to take anything on the table. Hmmm...maybe industrial design? Or maybe you'd be interested in sequential art? No, game design...yeah I think you would like game design. Did you know we have a major for game design?
Youth: I'm not gay...(walks away, nervous, head down).
Brooke: Game designers aren't gay. (Perplexed look on Brooke's face)
It wasn't until hours later that I realized this is what the kid heard.
Brooke (directed to young 17 year old boy): Are you interested in anything particular?
Youth: Um, well, I guess I'm just looking around.
Brooke: Well feel free to take anything on the table. Hmmm...maybe industrial design? Or maybe you'd be interested in sequential art? No, gay design...yeah I think you would like gay design. Did you know we have a major for gay design?
Youth: I'm not gay...(walks away).
Brooke: Gay designers aren't gay. (Perplexed look on Brooke's face)
Yes so instead of being helpful, this poor kid walked away thinking that I was outing him at a college fair. I must admit, it is pretty funny because...gay designers are gay...duh.
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Six Flags over Crazy Town
I should have known. I should have known that the woman I was going to meet was slightly off her rocker. The fact she made me think her boyfriend had been killed in Katrina should have been a red flag when we first spoke on the phone(Red Flag #1). I was desperate for appointments, desperate to meet my quota for the day. The red flags just passed by me looking a shade of light pink.
I arrived at this independent counselor's office thinking that maybe I had caught her on a bad day when I had made the appointment. Independent counselors are paid by parents to help their kids get into prestigious schools. Usually these people have years of counseling experience, loads of connections and know-how, but this lady just had a load of full blown crazy person.
A woman in her early 60's answered the door looking a bit disheveled. She was in a baggy sweater and some sort of stirrup leggings that looked a bit weathered. Her hair was all mashed to one side that suggested that I had just woken her up from a nap. From underneath her sweater ran a long white cord. My first thought was that it was a bit of her worn sweater that was unraveling. In short, she looked like a mess.
As we walked back to take a seat, she noticed the cord and apologized for the wire hanging out of her sweater. She explained, as normal as possible, that she was getting electro-shock therapy in her back (Red Flag #2). I smiled calmly as if that was a treatment I too was going through and understood her pain. I sat down in the chair next to her and proceeded to retrieve the materials that I had brought to talk up the college.
I went into my normal, well-versed presentation about the school, starting with our locations. She quickly interrupted me, and I was hoping that maybe she would at least ask some pointed questions and shed her crazy person first impression. "Us women in the North hate when you Southern women say yes ma'am to us," she remarked. "Because of slavery," she continued (Red Flag #3).
Slavery? Was she kidding? "Well, I'm not sure about slavery, but we are taught in the 'South' that it is polite to say ma'am to those you are unfamiliar with or who are your elders. It is not about slavery, it is manners," I retorted.
"No, I'm quite sure it is about slavery. We here in the North...we hate slavery," she stated as plain as day.
Well then, I thought, I best be getting on the phone and calling down to my plantation and tell the the slave hand to let go our cotton pickers. I sat there stunned. First had this woman ever been down to the South? Secondly, last I checked I'm sure she was never alive during slavery...call me crazy (oh wait...no that is her name!). How was I supposed to reply to this woman? I had to maintain some sort of cool because the last thing I needed was some loony calling up my boss and saying something about how I endorse slavery. Calmly I informed her that I live in a predominantly African American city and that in no way do we condone "slavery." This whole time I can't believe I was having to explain this.
"Moving on...At our school we have three different types of scholarships," I awkwardly transitioned.
"My dad was a very famous doctor who saw very famous patients including (insert a bunch of supposed celeb names either just from Chicago or too old for me to know)," she interrupted yet again (Red Flag #4)
Yet another completely unrelated comment from the resident kook. Now you must realize that in no way was I ignoring all of these red flags. In my head I was trying desperately to organize an escape route. Maybe if I gave her electro-shock cord a tug she been instantly rendered incapacitated, and I could bolt for the door? Maybe I could pretend to get an emergency phone call...art school emergency...the artists are refusing to be creative. Nothing seemed to be feasible.
"Oh," I weakly replied. What else was I to say? I tried to turn it back to business, but I knew it was a lost cause.
"He received letters from many of the famous people. There was one that I read when he died from a very hunky male movie star, and I think this man was in love with my father. One day a couple years later I saw this man on a sitcom, and I threw up," she continued as if I wasn't even in the room. (Red Flags #5)
"Well that is a strong reaction," I commented. Now this is getting ridiculous. At what point could I just walk out of the room, and she would think it was normal. Maybe I could blame it on being southern.
"You would have that reaction too if you thought of your father having sex with another man!" she snapped in a bit of a raised voice (Red Flag #6).
This was not talk of college or art or scholarships, this was nothing that would ever make sense no matter how much I tried to bring it back to the topic at hand. Yes folks we were not in Kansas anymore, and I needed to get the first train back from crazy town.
I arrived at this independent counselor's office thinking that maybe I had caught her on a bad day when I had made the appointment. Independent counselors are paid by parents to help their kids get into prestigious schools. Usually these people have years of counseling experience, loads of connections and know-how, but this lady just had a load of full blown crazy person.
A woman in her early 60's answered the door looking a bit disheveled. She was in a baggy sweater and some sort of stirrup leggings that looked a bit weathered. Her hair was all mashed to one side that suggested that I had just woken her up from a nap. From underneath her sweater ran a long white cord. My first thought was that it was a bit of her worn sweater that was unraveling. In short, she looked like a mess.
As we walked back to take a seat, she noticed the cord and apologized for the wire hanging out of her sweater. She explained, as normal as possible, that she was getting electro-shock therapy in her back (Red Flag #2). I smiled calmly as if that was a treatment I too was going through and understood her pain. I sat down in the chair next to her and proceeded to retrieve the materials that I had brought to talk up the college.
I went into my normal, well-versed presentation about the school, starting with our locations. She quickly interrupted me, and I was hoping that maybe she would at least ask some pointed questions and shed her crazy person first impression. "Us women in the North hate when you Southern women say yes ma'am to us," she remarked. "Because of slavery," she continued (Red Flag #3).
Slavery? Was she kidding? "Well, I'm not sure about slavery, but we are taught in the 'South' that it is polite to say ma'am to those you are unfamiliar with or who are your elders. It is not about slavery, it is manners," I retorted.
"No, I'm quite sure it is about slavery. We here in the North...we hate slavery," she stated as plain as day.
Well then, I thought, I best be getting on the phone and calling down to my plantation and tell the the slave hand to let go our cotton pickers. I sat there stunned. First had this woman ever been down to the South? Secondly, last I checked I'm sure she was never alive during slavery...call me crazy (oh wait...no that is her name!). How was I supposed to reply to this woman? I had to maintain some sort of cool because the last thing I needed was some loony calling up my boss and saying something about how I endorse slavery. Calmly I informed her that I live in a predominantly African American city and that in no way do we condone "slavery." This whole time I can't believe I was having to explain this.
"Moving on...At our school we have three different types of scholarships," I awkwardly transitioned.
"My dad was a very famous doctor who saw very famous patients including (insert a bunch of supposed celeb names either just from Chicago or too old for me to know)," she interrupted yet again (Red Flag #4)
Yet another completely unrelated comment from the resident kook. Now you must realize that in no way was I ignoring all of these red flags. In my head I was trying desperately to organize an escape route. Maybe if I gave her electro-shock cord a tug she been instantly rendered incapacitated, and I could bolt for the door? Maybe I could pretend to get an emergency phone call...art school emergency...the artists are refusing to be creative. Nothing seemed to be feasible.
"Oh," I weakly replied. What else was I to say? I tried to turn it back to business, but I knew it was a lost cause.
"He received letters from many of the famous people. There was one that I read when he died from a very hunky male movie star, and I think this man was in love with my father. One day a couple years later I saw this man on a sitcom, and I threw up," she continued as if I wasn't even in the room. (Red Flags #5)
"Well that is a strong reaction," I commented. Now this is getting ridiculous. At what point could I just walk out of the room, and she would think it was normal. Maybe I could blame it on being southern.
"You would have that reaction too if you thought of your father having sex with another man!" she snapped in a bit of a raised voice (Red Flag #6).
This was not talk of college or art or scholarships, this was nothing that would ever make sense no matter how much I tried to bring it back to the topic at hand. Yes folks we were not in Kansas anymore, and I needed to get the first train back from crazy town.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
These Boots are Made for Getting Stuck!
I was on a mission from God, find the perfect knee high black boots to wear during all of my cold weather travels. The main obstacle in my way you ask? My large, beastly cankles that keep me from putting just any boot on my leg.
I was home in Dallas, shopping mecca, and I figured this was as good a time as ever. I went to DSW, shoe heaven, and started working towards making this goal a reality. I tried on a few pairs, and by try on I mean, struggle to zip my large calf into the boot so that it can dunlop over the edge.
I found a Nine West boot that was just okay. I did manage to get it zipped up all the way (a major step), but I just wasn't crazy about them. I went to unzip the boot, and the zipper was stuck on a piece of leather underneath. I tried pulling it up, down, sideways, but nothing was happening, this boot was permanently stuck....on my large, unshaven (yeah my boyfriend lives abroad) cankle!
I struggled, I started to panic. Thoughts like, "I have a wedding to go to tonight, I can't have one boot on!" were going through my head. I worked on it for about 5 minutes when a male employee spotted the panic on my face and headed my direction. He asked if I was having a problem, and there was no hiding my dilemna, I confessed that I had gotten this $150 boot stuck on my leg.
I thought that once I had turned the problem over to a "professional" that it would be off in no time, that I would be trying on other boots in a flash. Unfortunately, he too could not get the zipper to move. This baby was stuck, and I was beginning to sweat from my panic induced state as onlookers were slowly starting to gather to probably place bets on how this sucker was going to come off.
After ten minutes of a valiant struggle, reinforcements had to be called in the form of the manager and another female employee. This meant that three strangers were now going to be touching my sweaty, bulging and hairy leg in front of an audience of fellow shoe shoppers. They too were unsuccessful. This is when the phrase was uttered that brought a gasp to my audience. "Ma'm we're going to have to cut this boot of you."
The girl went to run to grab the scissors. How was this possible? I came in for boots and now they are having to cut one off of me. Just as she was coming back with the scissors, the manager got a bright idea. She ran and grabbed a bottle of lotion out of her purse, poured it down my boot leg, lubed me up and then all three pulled. That boot went flying off, and the crowd of onlookers began to clap.
Yes the boot came off without being subjected to the scissors, but it was still damaged and so was my shopping experience. Any rookie could have stopped right there and gone home, dripping in lotion, but not this shopper. I still had a mission, and I was going to accomplish it.
Yes I held my head up, and I continued to shop until I found that perfect pair that had the right heel height, nice detailing and of course, enough room for my cankles. We were a match made in shoe heaven.
I was home in Dallas, shopping mecca, and I figured this was as good a time as ever. I went to DSW, shoe heaven, and started working towards making this goal a reality. I tried on a few pairs, and by try on I mean, struggle to zip my large calf into the boot so that it can dunlop over the edge.
I found a Nine West boot that was just okay. I did manage to get it zipped up all the way (a major step), but I just wasn't crazy about them. I went to unzip the boot, and the zipper was stuck on a piece of leather underneath. I tried pulling it up, down, sideways, but nothing was happening, this boot was permanently stuck....on my large, unshaven (yeah my boyfriend lives abroad) cankle!
I struggled, I started to panic. Thoughts like, "I have a wedding to go to tonight, I can't have one boot on!" were going through my head. I worked on it for about 5 minutes when a male employee spotted the panic on my face and headed my direction. He asked if I was having a problem, and there was no hiding my dilemna, I confessed that I had gotten this $150 boot stuck on my leg.
I thought that once I had turned the problem over to a "professional" that it would be off in no time, that I would be trying on other boots in a flash. Unfortunately, he too could not get the zipper to move. This baby was stuck, and I was beginning to sweat from my panic induced state as onlookers were slowly starting to gather to probably place bets on how this sucker was going to come off.
After ten minutes of a valiant struggle, reinforcements had to be called in the form of the manager and another female employee. This meant that three strangers were now going to be touching my sweaty, bulging and hairy leg in front of an audience of fellow shoe shoppers. They too were unsuccessful. This is when the phrase was uttered that brought a gasp to my audience. "Ma'm we're going to have to cut this boot of you."
The girl went to run to grab the scissors. How was this possible? I came in for boots and now they are having to cut one off of me. Just as she was coming back with the scissors, the manager got a bright idea. She ran and grabbed a bottle of lotion out of her purse, poured it down my boot leg, lubed me up and then all three pulled. That boot went flying off, and the crowd of onlookers began to clap.
Yes the boot came off without being subjected to the scissors, but it was still damaged and so was my shopping experience. Any rookie could have stopped right there and gone home, dripping in lotion, but not this shopper. I still had a mission, and I was going to accomplish it.
Yes I held my head up, and I continued to shop until I found that perfect pair that had the right heel height, nice detailing and of course, enough room for my cankles. We were a match made in shoe heaven.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Washed Up Rockstars Behaving Badly
This time the location is Chicago. My co-workers and I were exhausted after working a very long information session on Saturday. We were at the end of a long week and food was calling our name (right after shopping - a girl has her priorities).
We headed to a quaint French restaurant where we were kindly greeted by the hostess. As she checking on table availability, a man walked in behind us.
Dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a ball cap he wasn't exactly memorable. The events that however transpired were.
He started talking to us about how although his band had won a couple of Grammys in the 90's, he was still a nice guy. That often people think fame changes you, but he wasn't like that.
He then turns to the hostess and demands a table for ten and room for 3 stretchers. I'm sitting there thinking that maybe the wounded should have been best to leave behind in the hospital, but then he elaborates to let us know they are 3 white stretch limos.
After his demands were addressed, he grabs us and pulls us to the bar claiming that since we were without drinks, we were hobos.
Slamming a $100 bill on the bar, he tells the bartender to get us whatever we like, but his attention is soon distracted.
He spots the manager of the restaurant and starts ranting and raving about the manager's suit and how he was a wannabe and a bozo and that he needed to inform him of his poor fashion decision.
As he informs the manager, there is all of a sudden a huge shift and expletives start flying through the air. He starts yelling at the manager calling him ...well very not nice names. He turns to the rest of the restaurant and began yelling, "I made 7.5 million last year. I'm above all you [naughty bad word] on the food chain. Yeah the band has been out of the spot light..our choice...our choice. I don't need to tolerate this treatment."
After his outburst, he proceeded to scream naughty bad words and storm out of the restaurant.
I have no idea what band he was with...his face was no one that I recognized. So I guess fame doesn't change you, but the complete lack of fame makes for one cranky wannabe rocker.
We headed to a quaint French restaurant where we were kindly greeted by the hostess. As she checking on table availability, a man walked in behind us.
Dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a ball cap he wasn't exactly memorable. The events that however transpired were.
He started talking to us about how although his band had won a couple of Grammys in the 90's, he was still a nice guy. That often people think fame changes you, but he wasn't like that.
He then turns to the hostess and demands a table for ten and room for 3 stretchers. I'm sitting there thinking that maybe the wounded should have been best to leave behind in the hospital, but then he elaborates to let us know they are 3 white stretch limos.
After his demands were addressed, he grabs us and pulls us to the bar claiming that since we were without drinks, we were hobos.
Slamming a $100 bill on the bar, he tells the bartender to get us whatever we like, but his attention is soon distracted.
He spots the manager of the restaurant and starts ranting and raving about the manager's suit and how he was a wannabe and a bozo and that he needed to inform him of his poor fashion decision.
As he informs the manager, there is all of a sudden a huge shift and expletives start flying through the air. He starts yelling at the manager calling him ...well very not nice names. He turns to the rest of the restaurant and began yelling, "I made 7.5 million last year. I'm above all you [naughty bad word] on the food chain. Yeah the band has been out of the spot light..our choice...our choice. I don't need to tolerate this treatment."
After his outburst, he proceeded to scream naughty bad words and storm out of the restaurant.
I have no idea what band he was with...his face was no one that I recognized. So I guess fame doesn't change you, but the complete lack of fame makes for one cranky wannabe rocker.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Up the Creek Without A...
...Paddle, Boat, Clue. What a time in Nigeria. I can't really begin to describe the time I had there. It was a good experience - no doubt - but I can't see myself rushing back to visit again. The children are amazing but the adults are not so great. Geographically it's a stunning country, but the big cities tend to spoil it with their overcrowding and pollution. It'll be interesting to see what comes of it. Hopefully the oil companies who have set themselves up in the south will begin to invest some money back into the economy. I hope these pics give you a glimpse of what my time was like there...
This is Aso Rock in Abuja. This is what the
landscape is like in Jos where Ben Onono's
family is from.
This is our driver Ado. He didn't wear deoderant and I was reminded of the fact everytime I opened the door to his minivan. Ewww!
This is Alex and I in Jos. The Onono's home town.
The name of this statue is the Statue of the Big Woman - very inventive. They're really into statues of women breastfeeding for some reason.
From Jos we made our way to a game reserve about 2 1/2 hrs. north. We arranged for a driver to take us there who were were told had a very reliable car. These are some kids we met on the side of the road selling fruit.
This is us on the side of the road after our driver with the very reliable car broke down. That's me on the right with wet naps going to do a woodsie.
So we had to hail down a bush taxi to take us to the game reserve. As it opened it's doors to us this boy's chickens flew out and he spent a few minutes rounding them up before we could continue on the journey.
In the game reserve we experienced another road trouble in that an 18 wheeler was blocking the path so the locals, instead of trying to move the 18 wheeler, just cut down the trees on one side so we could go around. There's a baboon, that we saw. It didn't wipe it's bottom and it was really gross.
This was the entrance to the warm springs.
That's me in the warm springs looking tired b/c our 2 1/2 hr journey took 4 1/2 and we only had 45 minutes there b/c we couldn't travel at night.
After Jos we flew to Lagos. Near Lagos is a town called Badagry that was a huge port for slave trade. The people of this village had to pass through something called the Point of No Return. From there they would be shipped to the US or Europe. 1 in 5 surived the journey. After hearing the horrors of this I was greeted by my favorite baby in Nigeria relaxing under a table with some puppies. How fat is that baby?!?!
These are some more kids from Badagry. They loved my digital camera.
This is a boat we rented in Lagos. We took it to Tarkwa Bay where Alex was greeted by the Equator Sun and turned a bright shade of lobster.
This is the infamous Lagos 'go slow' - their version of a traffic jam. NUTS!!! People go in between lanes and sell you all kinds of things from ironing boards to the ever important toilet seat.
That's it! What a trip! How exhausting/interesting...we'll see where's next to conquer.
Lots of love,
Court
This is Aso Rock in Abuja. This is what the
landscape is like in Jos where Ben Onono's
family is from.
This is our driver Ado. He didn't wear deoderant and I was reminded of the fact everytime I opened the door to his minivan. Ewww!
This is Alex and I in Jos. The Onono's home town.
The name of this statue is the Statue of the Big Woman - very inventive. They're really into statues of women breastfeeding for some reason.
From Jos we made our way to a game reserve about 2 1/2 hrs. north. We arranged for a driver to take us there who were were told had a very reliable car. These are some kids we met on the side of the road selling fruit.
This is us on the side of the road after our driver with the very reliable car broke down. That's me on the right with wet naps going to do a woodsie.
So we had to hail down a bush taxi to take us to the game reserve. As it opened it's doors to us this boy's chickens flew out and he spent a few minutes rounding them up before we could continue on the journey.
In the game reserve we experienced another road trouble in that an 18 wheeler was blocking the path so the locals, instead of trying to move the 18 wheeler, just cut down the trees on one side so we could go around. There's a baboon, that we saw. It didn't wipe it's bottom and it was really gross.
This was the entrance to the warm springs.
That's me in the warm springs looking tired b/c our 2 1/2 hr journey took 4 1/2 and we only had 45 minutes there b/c we couldn't travel at night.
After Jos we flew to Lagos. Near Lagos is a town called Badagry that was a huge port for slave trade. The people of this village had to pass through something called the Point of No Return. From there they would be shipped to the US or Europe. 1 in 5 surived the journey. After hearing the horrors of this I was greeted by my favorite baby in Nigeria relaxing under a table with some puppies. How fat is that baby?!?!
These are some more kids from Badagry. They loved my digital camera.
This is a boat we rented in Lagos. We took it to Tarkwa Bay where Alex was greeted by the Equator Sun and turned a bright shade of lobster.
This is the infamous Lagos 'go slow' - their version of a traffic jam. NUTS!!! People go in between lanes and sell you all kinds of things from ironing boards to the ever important toilet seat.
That's it! What a trip! How exhausting/interesting...we'll see where's next to conquer.
Lots of love,
Court
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
Corporate Accounts, Brooke Speaking...Just a Moment
Sometimes I think I'm wearing a shirt that says, "All weirdos please approach and be weird!"
I was in the midst of a conversation with Brittany as I walked into the building that houses Starbucks Regional Headquarters (my temp job from the land of boredom). I noticed an older man, about 60, kind of check me out which of course made me feel weird....down there. I didn't really think much of it because who doesn't get checked out at least daily by old Greek men?
I bet you are wondering, "Hmmm...how does she know he was Greek? Was he too wearing a novelty t-shirt maybe stating his love for Feta?" I found out because as mentioned above he decided to approach and be weird.
The following is a transcript of the conversation:
Creepy Old Greek (COG): Excuse me....(in heavy Greek accent)
Brooke (BG): Britt hold on for a sec (to the phone)...yes? (to COG)
COG: I have woman upstairs interviewing for receptionist. Her name is Becky. Are you Becky?
BG: Um..no (look of confusion).
COG: I need receptionist. Answer phones. You answer phones? You a receptionist? You want job?
BG: I'm sorry (thoughts that this man might have escaped from the local mental institution/nursing home run through head). I just actually accepted a job, but thank you.
COG: Yes...I thought that was you (Exit stage Left).
BG: Right...
Brittany: "What just happened?"
BG: "I just got offered a job to be a creepy old guy's receptionist."
After I returned upstairs to tell my co-workers (the one that talks to me) about how weird that was. She looks quite a bit like me (lucky gal), and stopped me mid-sentence. She asked if he offered me a job. She then revealed that he asks her about every other day if she wants to be his receptionist.
So yes, I'm on to the COG and his ploy to recruit a plethora of blonde receptionists to be at his beck and call, and I quickly went back downstairs and gave him Carrington's number.
JK!!!!
I was in the midst of a conversation with Brittany as I walked into the building that houses Starbucks Regional Headquarters (my temp job from the land of boredom). I noticed an older man, about 60, kind of check me out which of course made me feel weird....down there. I didn't really think much of it because who doesn't get checked out at least daily by old Greek men?
I bet you are wondering, "Hmmm...how does she know he was Greek? Was he too wearing a novelty t-shirt maybe stating his love for Feta?" I found out because as mentioned above he decided to approach and be weird.
The following is a transcript of the conversation:
Creepy Old Greek (COG): Excuse me....(in heavy Greek accent)
Brooke (BG): Britt hold on for a sec (to the phone)...yes? (to COG)
COG: I have woman upstairs interviewing for receptionist. Her name is Becky. Are you Becky?
BG: Um..no (look of confusion).
COG: I need receptionist. Answer phones. You answer phones? You a receptionist? You want job?
BG: I'm sorry (thoughts that this man might have escaped from the local mental institution/nursing home run through head). I just actually accepted a job, but thank you.
COG: Yes...I thought that was you (Exit stage Left).
BG: Right...
Brittany: "What just happened?"
BG: "I just got offered a job to be a creepy old guy's receptionist."
After I returned upstairs to tell my co-workers (the one that talks to me) about how weird that was. She looks quite a bit like me (lucky gal), and stopped me mid-sentence. She asked if he offered me a job. She then revealed that he asks her about every other day if she wants to be his receptionist.
So yes, I'm on to the COG and his ploy to recruit a plethora of blonde receptionists to be at his beck and call, and I quickly went back downstairs and gave him Carrington's number.
JK!!!!
Monday, July 31, 2006
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