Matt Smith,
I apologize for not giving you fair warning that I'd be ignoring you in my last post. Michael seems to be my... what number do I have now?... my third Constant Reader? I think it's three now. There's you, there's Anne, and there's Michael. Oh sure, there's a Now-and-Then Reader, but ah. My Constants. I have to give credit where it's due, Constants.
Consistency is something I've been giving a lot of thought lately. A co-worker and I were having a chat a few weeks back about some silly award-typey cards that keep being thrown about the coffee shop. They've got titles: Knowledgeable, Genuine, something else, another thing (you can plainly see how many I've gotten). People are supposed to pinpoint qualities that their co-workers exhibit on any given day, write them down on a corresponding award-typey card, and give it to them as a way of saying "thanks" for things that they do.
Well, frankly, I've got it all figured out. My minor complaint a few weeks back was that the Award-typey Cards (I think I've typed it enough for it to warrant capitalization now, don't you think?) continue to be handed out to employees who aren't always up to snuff. (What the hell does that even mean? Up to snuff?) So, really, we're just using these cards to train people that they get rewarded when they actually do what they're supposed to be doing. Like, "Hey Bob, Thanks for going that extra mile and showing up on time for work today." Or, "Thank you, Patty, for making coffee today. That really shows how much you care."
Um. No.
It doesn't.
Where's the reward for consistency? Where's the reward for doing the right thing, pretty much all the time? Frankly, it's just not something our society seems to think is very important.
Well, Matt Smith. Here I am to give out the 2007 Consistency Awards. I know it's a little early (or a little late, depending on how you look at it) for an awards show, but there aren't any awards programs during the month of July. And my July has pretty much bit the big one, so it'd be great to have something to spruce it up.
The awards go to:
* Google, for consistently searching for (and finding) all manner of goofy things that I always desperately need to find out. Right. Now.
* The fans of the Boston Red Sox, for being simultaneously consistent in both stupidity and dedication. For crying out loud though, buy yourselves a good map of the MBTA light rail system and let the rest of us go home easy.
* Books, for always being consistently commerical-free and with no rental fees.
and finally,
* you, Matt Smith. Along with Emily, Bailey, Matt, Drew, Tina, my sister, and my mother (and possibly a handful of others that I've missed), you deserve a reward for consistent... something. Consistent okay-ness? Consistent general behavior? Consistent checking-in-to-make-sure-that-people-are-doing-alright? Consistent friendship seems to fit, but it's more than that really. It's more like "consistent humanity." Yes. Thank you, Matt Smith, for consistently knowing what it's like to be a human, and treating people accordingly.
(It's a brief awards program, and the music's not great, but at least the acceptance speeches are short... what with two of the recipients being inanimate objects.)
Levicorpus and all that,
Meredith
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Ready for My Close-up, Mister...
Dear Mr. Brownlee,
Since you asked oh-so-many months ago about who Matt Smith is -- and everyone asks, so don't think you're the first -- you can follow the link the the right? The one that says "The Real Matt Smith?" Yeah. That's the one. Go on. Click it. In fact, open it in a New Browser Window so that you and I can still have this happy little chat. You can read all about my buddy, Matt Smith, later on, and I can tell you about my day. I'm sure you're interested.
Actually, you're probably throwing around some camera-object right now, hoping to get the right angle on this computer screen, hoping to find a place where you can avoid the glare, but still put my blog in the right light for photos. Don't worry. That's been done before. It IS picturesque. It's really good about sitting still and posing for photographs. And if you're doing candids, it can act natural. No problem. Just remind it to take it's glasses off before you ask it to smile pretty.
By the way, how's that photography thing going these days? Picking up? Taken any fine paparazzi-type shots yet while riding at top speed on your Harley? If so, why aren't they posted on MySpace?
That being said, I apologize for my blogging absence. Wow. That sentence gives a whole new meaning to the word "blog." I mean, it does have four letters, meaning it can be used as a "four-letter word." I might have to go back and edit that entry where I typed "bloggity blog blog," for fear someone else might have misinterpreted it, the way the Google people misinterpreted my entry about "peeing for freedom."
Truth be told (which is a phrase I'm starting to use all too often, which makes me wonder if I'm lying the rest of the time), I've just now found the something in me that can only be satiated by writing. I think I must have misplaced it for a few months, or tried to starve it somehow by only feeding it work and school and work and school and the occasional fillet of orange roughy. I fully intended on participating in "Script Frenzy" during the month of June, attempting to complete a full-length play by June 30, but didn't get around to it. And here it is, now already mid-July, and all I have to show for myself is a pile of dirty laundry, a cowboy hat, and a bib that reads "Time to get crackin'!" with a picture of a lobster on it.
But I don't miss June. I'm happy it's July -- even if it is MID-July. Things like my birthday and the 4th have passed, and now we're headed for other things... my brother's birthday, the 19th of July (which has no significance to me whatsoever), and then it'll be the 31st and I'll be on a plane to Charleston. Time for hanging out at the beach, eating some delicious food made by wonderful friends, and watching some sea turtles head out to sea.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to make like a sea turtle, and try not to pick the wrong direction when I crawl my way into bed. Like any good sea turtle, I'll head AWAY from the glowing Coke machine, and TOWARDS the moonlit sea.
Nighty-night, photo man.
- Meredith
Since you asked oh-so-many months ago about who Matt Smith is -- and everyone asks, so don't think you're the first -- you can follow the link the the right? The one that says "The Real Matt Smith?" Yeah. That's the one. Go on. Click it. In fact, open it in a New Browser Window so that you and I can still have this happy little chat. You can read all about my buddy, Matt Smith, later on, and I can tell you about my day. I'm sure you're interested.
Actually, you're probably throwing around some camera-object right now, hoping to get the right angle on this computer screen, hoping to find a place where you can avoid the glare, but still put my blog in the right light for photos. Don't worry. That's been done before. It IS picturesque. It's really good about sitting still and posing for photographs. And if you're doing candids, it can act natural. No problem. Just remind it to take it's glasses off before you ask it to smile pretty.
By the way, how's that photography thing going these days? Picking up? Taken any fine paparazzi-type shots yet while riding at top speed on your Harley? If so, why aren't they posted on MySpace?
That being said, I apologize for my blogging absence. Wow. That sentence gives a whole new meaning to the word "blog." I mean, it does have four letters, meaning it can be used as a "four-letter word." I might have to go back and edit that entry where I typed "bloggity blog blog," for fear someone else might have misinterpreted it, the way the Google people misinterpreted my entry about "peeing for freedom."
Truth be told (which is a phrase I'm starting to use all too often, which makes me wonder if I'm lying the rest of the time), I've just now found the something in me that can only be satiated by writing. I think I must have misplaced it for a few months, or tried to starve it somehow by only feeding it work and school and work and school and the occasional fillet of orange roughy. I fully intended on participating in "Script Frenzy" during the month of June, attempting to complete a full-length play by June 30, but didn't get around to it. And here it is, now already mid-July, and all I have to show for myself is a pile of dirty laundry, a cowboy hat, and a bib that reads "Time to get crackin'!" with a picture of a lobster on it.
But I don't miss June. I'm happy it's July -- even if it is MID-July. Things like my birthday and the 4th have passed, and now we're headed for other things... my brother's birthday, the 19th of July (which has no significance to me whatsoever), and then it'll be the 31st and I'll be on a plane to Charleston. Time for hanging out at the beach, eating some delicious food made by wonderful friends, and watching some sea turtles head out to sea.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to make like a sea turtle, and try not to pick the wrong direction when I crawl my way into bed. Like any good sea turtle, I'll head AWAY from the glowing Coke machine, and TOWARDS the moonlit sea.
Nighty-night, photo man.
- Meredith
Monday, July 09, 2007
I Wouldn't Step on Your Dog if He Took Up More Space.
YOUR blog is behind, Matt Smith? Let's talk for a second about THIS blog. MY blog.
And yes, since you mention it, everything DOES have to be about me. And at least one word in each of these sentences DOES have to be in all-caps. SOMETIMES TWO. Just so we're on the same page.
I'm glad you're in Seattle. Not that I'm glad that you're not, y'know, in Boston with me, but I am glad that you took a bold step in a direction that may not have seemed entirely right at the time. I think we all need to do that at least once. With most people, that bold, perhaps misguided, step is not a move across the country... or even a move to the Northeast or Midwest or anywhere else. Sometimes that bold step is simply a final decision, unprompted and unadvised by others. Sometimes that step is buying a house. Or quitting a despised job with a good salary. Or marriage.
But for you and me, our bold steps say, "Let's get the hell out of here and try someplace new for a change." We move. We move to places like Minnesota where we know no one, to Evans City where we converse with folks we normally wouldn't even dare approach, to Boston and Seattle where we thrive only with the advice and help of a few dear friends.
The thing about us, Matt Smith, is that we'll make it. We'll manage just about anywhere. We're malleable, adaptable. The places we go can take our red and blue Play-Doh selves and mix it up on their preschool desks and we'll blend into that disgusting brownish gray ball that doesn't really look like anything, until you look a little closer and you see that there's a streak of blue Matt Smith here, writing an article for some kitschy paper about his comical observations of a fishing boat, and a smear of red Meredith there, trying to get kids to understand the world by allowing them to attack each other with yellow felt top hats.
It's a rough life, and a strange life that we're pulling ourselves through. And moving our stuff within. I'm constantly realizing how BIZARRE everything seems to be lately. For instance:
Why does a certain mother on the D-line insist on breast-feeding her FOUR-year old son ON THE TRAIN, let alone breast-feeding him at all? Buy him a hot dog, for Christ's sake.
Why do people think that Starbucks orders are so confusing, and why do they equate that confusion with the French language? "Venti" and "grande" are not French words, so don't tell me, "I don't know what size. I don't speak French." I don't speak French either.
Why do Bostonians cuss as if the four-letter words were merely interjections? And why do they do this at 7 in the morning while remodeling the deck outside my apartment?
Why is a small beverage in Texas 32-ounces?
Why does the bank charge you a FEE for overdrawing your account?
Why do people carry their small dogs in handbags? Throughout history, dogs have WALKED. They have FOUR LEGS, for goodness sake. Let them use them.
Like I said, everything's wild and weird and wonderful. Someday, Matt Smith, we'll find our places where we can settle. Hopefully they're at least a driveable distance from each other.
And I'm glad your stuff fits in your car.
My stuff didn't. And I had to sell my car.
And yes, since you mention it, everything DOES have to be about me. And at least one word in each of these sentences DOES have to be in all-caps. SOMETIMES TWO. Just so we're on the same page.
I'm glad you're in Seattle. Not that I'm glad that you're not, y'know, in Boston with me, but I am glad that you took a bold step in a direction that may not have seemed entirely right at the time. I think we all need to do that at least once. With most people, that bold, perhaps misguided, step is not a move across the country... or even a move to the Northeast or Midwest or anywhere else. Sometimes that bold step is simply a final decision, unprompted and unadvised by others. Sometimes that step is buying a house. Or quitting a despised job with a good salary. Or marriage.
But for you and me, our bold steps say, "Let's get the hell out of here and try someplace new for a change." We move. We move to places like Minnesota where we know no one, to Evans City where we converse with folks we normally wouldn't even dare approach, to Boston and Seattle where we thrive only with the advice and help of a few dear friends.
The thing about us, Matt Smith, is that we'll make it. We'll manage just about anywhere. We're malleable, adaptable. The places we go can take our red and blue Play-Doh selves and mix it up on their preschool desks and we'll blend into that disgusting brownish gray ball that doesn't really look like anything, until you look a little closer and you see that there's a streak of blue Matt Smith here, writing an article for some kitschy paper about his comical observations of a fishing boat, and a smear of red Meredith there, trying to get kids to understand the world by allowing them to attack each other with yellow felt top hats.
It's a rough life, and a strange life that we're pulling ourselves through. And moving our stuff within. I'm constantly realizing how BIZARRE everything seems to be lately. For instance:
Why does a certain mother on the D-line insist on breast-feeding her FOUR-year old son ON THE TRAIN, let alone breast-feeding him at all? Buy him a hot dog, for Christ's sake.
Why do people think that Starbucks orders are so confusing, and why do they equate that confusion with the French language? "Venti" and "grande" are not French words, so don't tell me, "I don't know what size. I don't speak French." I don't speak French either.
Why do Bostonians cuss as if the four-letter words were merely interjections? And why do they do this at 7 in the morning while remodeling the deck outside my apartment?
Why is a small beverage in Texas 32-ounces?
Why does the bank charge you a FEE for overdrawing your account?
Why do people carry their small dogs in handbags? Throughout history, dogs have WALKED. They have FOUR LEGS, for goodness sake. Let them use them.
Like I said, everything's wild and weird and wonderful. Someday, Matt Smith, we'll find our places where we can settle. Hopefully they're at least a driveable distance from each other.
And I'm glad your stuff fits in your car.
My stuff didn't. And I had to sell my car.
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