Not Applying to the CIA

Today I got a phone call at work from some company that sells graduation caps and gowns. This call was immediately filed under the telemarketer category in my mind because the bookstore I manage has always and I suspect will always buy graduation caps and gowns from the Microsoft of graduation matters we all know as Jostens.

When the telemarketer asked me if the person responsible for making cap and gown buying decisions was available, I told her "no." This was not a lie. I'm not responsible for making that decision. However, when the woman on the line asked me the name of whoever makes that decision, I lied. I am unbelievably bad at thinking on my feet when it comes to false information. See, the reason I lied was that I didn't want to have to dig up the contact info of whoever makes that decision because I have no idea who it is. So, in a moment of brilliance, I told her that the name of the person who makes that decision is "Kisa."

I can't stop laughing as I'm writing this. Who, when attempting to avoid taking responsibility for something, falsely gives her own name as the responsible party? See, my thinking was that if I gave the name of any other employee, the telemarketer would call back asking for that person. And why not just tell her the truth: that nobody on site makes that decision? It would even have been the easiest thing to say.

Then the lady asked when "Kisa" might be available, and I told her that "Kisa" would be in the following afternoon. What kind of strategy is this? So when she calls back tomorrow I'm gonna pretend to be "Kisa"?

And the thing was, I noticed this kind of hesitation in the woman's voice, this kind of, "uh, okaaaay." I was thinking, 'how can she tell I'm lying? I can tell she can tell. But how does she know?!"

It was then that I remembered the very first part of the conversation, the part where I answered the phone and identified myself by name. The part before I knew I'd be lying to this woman in the very near future.

So a transcript of our little chat would look about like this:

Me: Thank you for calling NDNU bookstore. This is Kisa. How can I help you?
Her: I'm so-and-so from so-and-so cap and gown company. Is the person who makes the cap and gown buying decision available?
Me: Uh, no. She's not in right now.
Her: Oh. Could you tell me who that person might be?
slight pause
Me: Yeah. Her name's Kisa.
slight pause
Her: Okay, and uh, when will she be in?
Me: She'll be in tomorrow afternoon.

About 2o things went through my mind in the time it took for this conversation to transpire. I thought of when I'd be able to talk to her again, what would happen if I gave her a totally fake name, who really would make that decision, etc.. And in all that thinking and scheming, that's what I came up with...that I would be in tomorrow afternoon.

So it looks like I'll be talking to her again. Wonder if she'd give me up for a lunatic if I answered the phone without identifying myself, then when she asked for Kisa, I said, "Sure, could I put you on hold for a second?" then covered the mouthpiece with my hand, coughed, and then answered in an obviously and badly altered fake voice: "Uh, this is Kisa."

I think I'll try that.

This incident called to mind another from a few years back that involved my feeble attempts to fake someone out on the phone. Just before I graduated with my bachelor's degree, I was dirt poor and behind on my Discover card payment. I came home one afternoon to find a carefully written message from my roommate Lisa. It gave the name and number of somebody from Discover and said they'd requested I return the call. In all my then-financially irresponsible evasiveness, I did not return the call.

I was home alone the following afternoon when the same woman from Discover called back. "May I please speak with Kisa?" she asked.

"Um, she's not here right now. Can I take a message?"

"Sure, to whom am I speaking?"

Trying to stick close to what could be a true story, I said this: "Uh, this is her roommate, Lisa."

Amazing little record keepers there at Discover. She replied with, "Oh, I believe I left a message with you yesterday."

And this is where it gets really dumb. In that moment, I thought of the dilligence with which Lisa had taken that message and I felt guilty for letting this woman think that Lisa had neglected to perform her roommate secretarial duties. Lisa is one of the most responsible women I've ever known. I couldn't misrepresent her this way!

So my solution was this line: "Oh, no, you must have talked to my girlfriend. Her name is also Lisa."

Which met with this now-common response: "Uh, okaaay."

We ended it there. And the funny part is, the story was not as far-fetched as it seems. I really did have a roommate named Lisa, and Lisa's girlfriend at the time was also named Lisa (rare but sometimes occuring homosexual relationship phenomenon).

I hung up the phone and put these imagined words in the mind of the Discover lady: 'Man, this girl is so lame, she can only think of one other name in the whole world to lie with, and it's a name that rhymes with her own name?!'

And today proved that the reality is even worse than that. I can't even think of a rhyming one anymore. Cheesh.

I Want One of Those

Saw this great t-shirt worn by a man marching in this year's Gay Pride Parade in San Francisco. It read:

I Like Booty. Who Doesn't?

Don't Worry...I'm Not Really Smart

I once laughed at the truth I found in a book of definitions and usages of American slang words. Under usages for the word "like," there was a description of the "like" filler insertion that works to convince the audience that the speaker isn't really intelligent or doesn't really read, even if it might appear that way based on the content of that speaker's words. Example:

"I think that's called, like, quantum physics, or something."

I've heard this sort of thing a lot. There are other words one can use to take whatever kind of edge off the words that might otherwise be there if the naked statement just hung in the air without its (for lack of a better description) edge taker-offers.

For example, I once heard a tough-looking guy on a bus say this to another tough-looking guy: "Nah, I try to be in town at Christmas, so I can watch my kids open presents and shit."

The thought of sharing the desire to watch his children open presents was simply too touchy-feely for such a tough guy. "And shit" proves that he's aware of this, definitely aware that tough guy number two is aware of it, and he finds a way to express something close to what he means while maintaining his position in the tough guy circle. It's a useful defense, a kind of survival instinct at work.

I experienced something like this when I went to get a haircut yesterday. My hairstylist was a young woman I'll call Amy, who was sweet, friendly, tan, beautiful, and somehow able to work on her feet all day in wedged espadrilles that matched her gorgeous summer dress. I think it would be safe to say that both man #1 and man #2 from one of my recent posts would have put Amy into the hottie category.

I had pretty much just arrived and she was about to get started on the wonderful aromatherapy scalp-massage shampoos they do at this particular hair salon. We started talking about t.v., and she was telling me how she doesn't watch it. Then she was about to tell me about a study she'd read on excessive t.v. watching and internet surfing and their connection to cognitive (in)abilities. Before she told me about this, she said, "I don't remember where I read this...I think it was some science magazine...I don't even know why I picked it up."

This wasn't said in the tone of somebody who just forgot where she read something. It was an apology of sorts. It also came across as an assurance to me that she wasn't really into this sort of thing, this reading thing, just in case I didn't approve of that kind of activity.

And I'm not making light of what she said. I can understand exactly where the inclination comes from. In fact, incredibly, a lot of people don't really approve of the whole reading thing, and I wondered how often Amy ends up dumbing herself down in order to keep inline with customers' expectations of her and her interests. Hair, right? That's what she's into.

I ended up having an interesting conversation with her, and I wondered what we'd have ended up talking about if I had responded to her science study with a shrug or a blank stare.

It's weird. You know most people do this to an extent. It's not always a matter of not wanting to appear smart or nerdy. Mostly it's just two people wanting to find out what common ground exists among them, then deciding to talk about that, because it's more fun to talk about things they can share than for one to just talk at the other. At least it is for most of us. There are plenty of exceptions that popped up in my mind as I was writing that.

I like the common ground; I usually seek it out, too. What I don't like the idea of is any person feeling the need to apologize for having feelings to share or for being intelligent.

That's just, like, so sad.

People Watching on Paper

For the rest of the voyeurs out there, check out Found Magazine online. It's a collection of items (mostly pictures and notes) found by people on streets, in old couch cushions, just wherever. The guy who started it says he just appreciates anything that gives a peek into other people's lives. Some of the stuff on here is funny, some just random, some really sad. And I'm always curious about the story behind the story.

My favorite contribution so far: A post-it note that reads, simply "OUCH! Barb, I thought this was a cookie!"

Enjoy.

A Fly on the Wall

Last Friday, following two weeks of Strep Throat passed between us, Sajid and I decided to go out and enjoy our renewed health. Our place of choice was Molly Magee's in Mountain View, a supposed pub that has no pub-like qualities--it's a bit loud and clubby for that, but they have a nice patio out back, so we like to go there.

As a sidenote, I want to mention that I love going out for drinks with my husband. It's a great feeling to be able to sit and have a beer with him and people-watch as various men and women try to hook up with one another, knowing all the while that we will go home in the same car, wake up in the same bed, and spend the rest of the days together. I never liked bars all that much before, but the feeling of going with him is totally different.

Anyway, sometimes Molly Magee's is filled with mellow people having mellow times, and sometimes Meat Market is the only accurate description for it. On those meaty nights, I find myself caught in awkward, middle school dance mode during brief moments when I'm alone--usually if Sajid is at the bar getting our drinks. I learned quickly that it is not a great idea to make eye contact, because that can be followed by instant, unwanted actual contact with a likely drunk man who then makes his own awkward middle school escape when I mention that I'm waiting for my husband to return. I guess it's somewhat rare--a husband and wife out at a bar together on a Friday night...well, this bar anyway. So during those moments, I take remarkable interest in things like lighting fixtures, the legs of bar stools, and the lone T.V. playing some sporting event that I can neither hear nor see very well.

Last Friday, I had a fascinatingly strange experience. When we arrived there and Sajid went to get drinks, I went to sit down and wait for him to join me. As I passed by a group of three men, I noticed they noticed me, and then I heard this from one of them: "She's cute," followed by this response from an incredulous other, "You think so?!"

Whoah. I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to hear that. And I'm definitely sure I wasn't supposed to hear what followed. I guess these men were just drunk enough, or the place just loud enough, that they didn't realize I could hear everything they were saying. And I just looked away as I could see them all looking at me out of the corner of my eye.

What followed was a full-on debate attempting to answer the question brought forth by the first man: the question of my attractiveness (or not). I listened with interest as he made a case for me. And I listened with more interest to the case made against me. 'Yeah, I guess that's true,' I thought in answer to the first. 'Yeah, that's true too,' I thought, in answer to the second.

The first guy made a good argument on my behalf (thank you anonymous drunken man), and their willingness to continue this debate was surprising to me. Ultimately, though, I lost to this statement from guy #2: "Well, I guess my standards are higher what with all these gorgeous hotties around."

Huh.

As strange as that was to take in, this was a dream come true. How many times did I wish I could be an invisible witness to whatever Jeremy Denny had to say about me when I was in the midst of my 5th grade crush on him?! (I came to realize eventually that he had likely never said anything about me; that came painfully clear when we took a field trip to the local roller rink and he skated with Crystal Moline during the couples skate--they were a blonde-haired, blue-eyed match made in heaven.)

But this was really happening...I was, finally and absolutely, a fly on the wall. Two things made this experience less gratifying than I imagined it would be. The first is that I didn't know these men and knew they didn't know me beyond a quick visual judgement made in a bar. And when I did finally sneak a peek at them, I had the somewhat cruel, yes defensive, but honest thought that these men didn't strike me as the type that had, just, you know, the whole world of women available to them for their choosing. It brought to mind a line from the movie "Say Anything":

John Cusack (as Lloyd Dobbler): "So if you guys know so much about women, what are you doing at like the Gas-n-Sip at 3 o'clock in the morning with no women anywhere in sight?"

Something like that.

But the second and more important reason the invisible eavesdropping experiment was a bust is that how could I care what these men had to say about me when I was just about to be joined at that table by the most wonderful man I have ever known?

It felt good when Sajid got there, when I told him what was going on and we laughed at the goofiness of the situation. When I looked him in the eyes and felt my love for him, his love for me. It felt like absolute redemption. Like the permanent erasure of all those awkward middle school moments, the awkward high school ones that followed, and all those between high school and that moment, there at that bar, being sized-up by three unknown men whose opinions I did not and would never care about.

When the men became aware of my company, they turned their attention elsewhere, seeking another woman to discuss and dissect, make cases for and against. And I put my hand in Sajid's, took a sip from my beer, and was thankful for all the meat markets in which I'll never be consumer nor goods.