Freudian . . . Slip?

One night Kaylin sat down next to me in the living room while I was watching TV. The show I was watching had just started and I said to Kaylin, "This theme song makes me think of you. I think you'll like it."

And then the song started to play.

"Bent and broken is the family tree . . . "

An uncomfortable pause permeated the room before Kaylin said, "Excuse me!? Why would this song remind you of me?"

Awkward.

Mama Always Said I'd Be A Star

My company must have run out of Adobe stock photos of smiling, happy employees so they put me on their website instead. If you need a good laugh, check it out here.

Friday Night

Friday night. I'm watching Medium and staring at the same document I've been staring at for the past two hours. Ugh. Work is frustrating sometimes. So is doing it on a Friday night.

Taking On the Man

So all joking aside, when my boss and I discussed how to infilitrate a small army of male construction workers, I really was listening. This project isn't like anything I've worked on. When I first started working on construction jobs, my boss said to me, "Don't talk to them like you're their friend. They don't like that. Just tell them what you want and then hang up the phone." She said this in response to my mentioning that every time I talk to one of those guys on the phone, they always sound super confused. I find this weird . . . I'm not asking them for directions on how to dismantle an atomic bomb. I'm just asking if there are going to be any traffic impacts that I should tell people about.

I've been working on this advice. It is so hard. I have a hard time just calling someone and barking out an order. I like to ease into why I'm calling. I like exchanging pleasantries. In short, I'm all girl. I prefer to say hi and then say why I'm calling. Isn't that the polite thing to do?

Here's what's funny: it totally works to bark out orders to these guys. They like it. Weird. I'm finding that almost all men are like this--not just construction workers. Just think about that.

Last week, I introduced myself to one of the construction managers. I stuck out my hand to shake his.

"I haven't met you, yet. I'm Melissa."

"Oh, hi, it's nice to meet you."

He just stared at me. Not in a creepy sort of way, but like he's expecting me to say something that will really impress him. Obviously, I did what anybody would do.

I panicked and started to ramble.

"Um, the last project you worked on--that huge one in Salt Lake--I work for the company that did the public information on it. You know my co-worker, right?"

He continued to stare at me. Nothing. No words came out of his mouth.

I started to breathe heavy.

"Well, she says hi."

Actually, no, she didn't say hi. I just had no idea how to wrap up.

I Totally Meant to Do That

Saturday my sister Alicia was in town. So we headed out for some shopping.

By the way, I should not be allowed inside of DSW. I can't say no to anything in that place. And as I write, I'm wearing some fabulous new shoes I probably shouldn't have bought.

While at Target, Kaylin proclaimed she was going to reach into the depths of her generous heart and buy me a clock for my bathroom. Apparently every bathroom needs a clock. Who knew? I never gave it much thought.

We stared at a selection of $5 clocks. Simple . . . and cheap. Good enough for me.

Until Alicia said, "Those clocks are so noisy. You don't want that."

"Why does it matter?" Kaylin countered.

Personally, I didn't care, but Alicia made a big deal about how you can hear the tick of the clock and that it's so annoying. She has one in her apartment.

But I couldn't hear anything. I'll admit, I thought Alicia was being a little overdramatic.

"I can't hear anything." I said. I leaned down and put my ear right up against the clock. "No, really, I can't hear anything."

I was trying to make a point . . . I couldn't imagine it would be THAT big of a deal.

Alicia gave me a funny look. "That's because there aren't any batteries in the clock."

Oh.

Speed Dating . . . Sigh

As the Activities Co-Chair at church, I occasionally get roped into stuff I don't want to do. Take speed dating, for instance. What a treat.

I expected the worst. No, really, I expected to leave the "event" in tears. Instead, I can safely say it wasn't that bad. But make sure you understand it wasn't really that good either.

A word-for-word account of my highlight of the evening:

Dude: Hi.

Melissa: Hi. Tell me about yourself.

Dude: I'm a spy. I spy on all sorts of stuff that would result in your death if I told you.

Melissa: Huh. Yeah, I'm a model.

Dude: Yeah, obviously. You should be a model. Look at you, you're the Bond girl and I'm Bond.

Awakward silence.

Melissa: No, really, what do you do.

Dude: I'm an artist.

Picture a flourish of the hands and a dramatic look to the sky. This is also when I realized that labeling him as a "dude" was a bit too masculine a title for him.

Melissa: Really? Art? What is your . . . um, medium?

It's just all falling apart right now.

Dude: I'm so glad you asked. I specialize in digital 3D art. It's the most inspiring work I've ever done. I've had jobs before where I can't wait for the day to be over. Now I'm wishing the day would never end! I just had my first show.

Melissa: Oh. Wow. Um . . .

Dude: It's so amazing to be able to do something with my hands . . .

Melissa: Oh. Yeah. Um . . .

Dude: Like, it's so inspiring. Because I'm an artist. I create masterpieces out of nothing. I am practically a hero.

Melissa: Yeah, I bet. Tell me about your show.

Dude: Well, we're running out of time.

He's suddenly bashful.

Melissa: We've got a second. What were they?

Dude: If you really want to know then you should email me.

This is my number one pet peeve. Do not put the ball in my court.

Melissa: Oh, well . . .

Dude: Let me give you my email address.

Melissa: Um . . .

Dude: Write my email address on your notepad and we can keep up this discussion.

Melissa: See, if I were brave, I would tell you that really I was only interested in you telling me about your "art" so that I wouldn't have to talk to you. It's much easier to appear interested than to sound interested.

Melissa: Clearly, I cannot win here.

Dude: Okay, it's [insert name]lovins@gmail.com

And this is when I looked into his beady eyes and thought to myself, I doubt you know anything about lovin. Just saying. At the end of the night, I left his email on a chair.

I couldn't help but agree when Kaylin said, "You know it's bad when you fail at speed dating."

You Never Forget Your First Time

Lately, it seems that I keep hearing about the dangers of Facebook promoting infidelity among married couples. Maybe it's only Utah that is concerned about this, but there's always some warning against using Facebook as a means to reconnect with members of the opposite sex. The point is that it eventually leads to relaxed boundaries and suddenly, these newly reconnected friends are in love and leaving their spouses.

I think that this argument makes a fairly good point actually. When I think of marriages that disintegrate, it always starts with the small, insignificant stuff.

Yesterday, my old friend Dan* popped up on Facebook.

Dan: Melissa, how are you going to work on a road project and make sure your neon orange vest and hard hat don't clash with your Jimmy Choos?

Melissa: Dan, rest assured. If anybody can do it, that would be me.

Dan (in a sudden burst of excitement): This is so exciting! I've never actually IM'd on Facebook before! You're my first!

Melissa (in a typical burst of inappropriateness): Is it special for you? Because it's special for me.

And there you have it, folks. It always starts so innocently.

*Names changed to protect the innocent . . . i.e., the spouse.