What's in a Name: The Existential Crisis Edition

I hate my name. Keri. Short and sharp. No frills. Grating even. Wrap your mouth around that hard consonant and finish on an irritating up-vowel. (Up-vowel may not be a real thing.) And it's spelled ridiculously. Keychains from Disney? Not for me, ever. Keri Jean? Ugh, even worse. In my head, it conjures up an Elizabethan midwife or scullery maid. "Keri Jean will know how to get the placenta out of the dressing gowns. Fetch her from the stables at once."

When I tell people "Keri," the number one response I get is "Oh, like the movie?" Well, no asshole, not like the movie. High school was awkward but I made it through prom without murdering anyone. Barely, but still. What's more, how bullshit is it that I get lumped in with Carrie based on name alone? I'm sure people with your name have done some pretty fucked up things, but I don't associate you with their tomfoolery. And if your name is Tom, I wouldn't be so bold as to assume that you're even in to tomfoolery.

Your name is undeniably connected to your identity, but you don't even get to choose it. What people call you, what you sign on the dotted line, what you have to hear for your whole life is designated at birth by people who don't even know you yet. You don't even know you yet. Maybe you never truly know you, but I can only have one existential crisis at a time.

I refrain from bitching about my name in front of family since I was named after two family members. I never met Great Great Grandma Carrie (note the change in spelling from the movie to the lotion - way to go, Mom), but I am told she was a badass. Jean is a popular choice for middle names in my family; I think I'm the third or fourth one with that denim designation. Even typing it is starting to piss me off. Keri Jean. Yuck. Every so often, someone gets real cute and buys me Keri lotion as a silly gift, and guess what -  

I'm fucking allergic to it. So stop that.

I can only complain about something for so long without being moved to action. At 4:30 this morning I decided to take charge and change it. And I was sober, so suck on that. Why not? It's just a matter of paperwork and 30 bucks. I can do this, it's my choice now. I have the power to chose a nom de plume that fits me, something that I can stand behind, something I'd be proud to shout from the highest points of every great city. All I need to do is pick a name.

Cue moniker meltdown. Do I still want to be named after a family member? My two favorite people are younger than me, so that doesn't make any sense. My favorite uncle was like a big brother when I was growing up, so I could adopt the female form of his name. I could be Danielle and go by Dani. That's nice.

Or maybe I could get away from the family thing altogether and go looks-based. I have a lot of my dad's Polynesian features, but with a last name of "Ramos" I more often have people speaking Spanish at me than asking me to hula dance. I bet if I had an ethnically stereotypical name like Kimani or Haliaka then people would guess Hawaiian (correct) before Spanish (again, incorrect).

Well, being Hawaiian means less to me than being named after a family member. I mean, heritage is important, and I once got a piercing in my face to celebrate my culture (tell you later) but my first name based purely on that? Maybe not.

I can say I know what I don't want (noun-names like April, Daisy, Savannah; monosyllabic names; anything that ends in the letter O) but why can't I pick something I like?

I'm staying away from popular late 80s names. I know about seven Jessicas, nine Ashleys, forty-seven Tiffanys and, if I had to give a rough estimate, about 1.8 million Brittanys.

I also don't want any name that appears in a song. Just can't do it. As it stands, three people in the world are allowed to sing or reference "Carrie Anne" by the Hollies in my presence. A fourth person tried once. Once.

How about naming myself after someone I want to emulate? That could be okay. Like what about Olivia from Law and Order: SVU? Perhaps. Or how about Clarisse from Fahrenheit 451?! (See, you think she's not an important character, but she really is. I could write my dissertation on her.) Ohmygosh. NANCY. FUCKING. DREW.

Now I have too many choices. Now I am staring at the sun slowly rising through my bedroom window. Now I am afraid that all the control in the world over my name doesn't matter one bit since I can't even make a decision. Maybe taking charge is pretty damn useless if I don't have the guts to pull the trigger. Maybe I shouldn't be in charge of anything in my life at all considering I can't even decide what to name myself. Maybe I'll just have no name. I'll walk down the street and people will whisper "There she goes, she doesn't even have a name, poor girl. She choked on her name change form and left it blank and it actually went through - can you believe it? Of course Florida legislature let her change her name to nothing, fucking morons. But yeah, she's just got an empty space on her driver's license and they say she's just that empty inside."

For fuck's sake, get it together, Keri.

Hmm. Keri. Simple, but still kind of weird. Abrasive, but with a certain finesse. It's familiar, but not exactly commonplace. Snappy, curt, quick to action. Wrap your mouth around that hard consonant and finish on an irritating up-vowel. Now spell it ridiculously.

Yeah, that'll work.

I'm not selling myself short, I'm just sold out.

If I were to quit my job right now I don't think anyone would miss me, save the girl I eat lunch with and the manager we get lunch for sometimes. This is not a self-deprecating twenty-something moment, just a fact. The twenty-something self-deprecation comes later. While I'm probably the most entertaining receptionist ever, I'm not very important. And one of the managers goes on a weekly tirade about how we're all expendable and she can just get rid of us all whenever she wants, so I'm half expecting to get fired every other day anyway. Which would be okay too. 

I'm not exactly sure how it started, but someone noticed that I have more than four brain cells and the ability to follow directions, so I help a few different departments when I can. It's fun, although I'm not ever exactly sure what I'm doing because I'm not an engineer and words like "splitter add" and "jumper" and "ipid" mean absolutely nothing to me. I don't know what cut sheets are. I don't understand the process of throwing switches. But you know what, I kick fucking ass at data entry.  

I know that these kinds of work orders go on this tab in The Spreadsheet. And if it has that code? It goes over here in The Spreadsheet. I spend a few hours a week updating The Spreadsheet. I respect The Spreadsheet. I fear The Spreadsheet. 

The guy I help with The Spreadsheet is arguably one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has tattoos that I refrain from asking questions about. He is probably a foot and a half taller than me. His shoulders could carry 9 bushels of apples. (I hope 9 bushels is a lot.) I think he's an MMA fighter when he's not at work creating The Spreadsheet. He once showed me pictures of a baby that I assume is his. He sent me a link to a cool Pedro the Lion song recently. And four months ago he told me to stop saying "I'm dumb" when I make a mistake. 

He told me not to sell myself short. 

Now about The Spreadsheet; the information that I put into The Spreadsheet comes from other less revered spreadsheets and a labyrinth-like website that requires ninja access and a Nancy Drew sense of urgency to figure shit out. It gets confusing. 

And today I fucked it up.    

That's not really true. Today I realized that some of the less respected spreadsheets had been sorted a certain way when they arrived in my inbox, and I should unsort them in order to see if there was anything for me hidden in those rows and columns of mysterious technical gibberish. Did I think to do this? No. I was all like "SEEMS LEGIT, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, LET'S CALL IT A DAY!"

Creator of The Spreadsheet was very gracious, saying it wasn't my fault and not to worry about it and he maybe should have unsorted everything before he gave me the inferior spreadsheets. He told me this wasn't business critical and I shouldn't be freaking out. 

Well, I excel at freaking out. And I over-zealously attempted to fix everything. So I went through the last week of emails and looked at everything and caught a few work orders I'd missed and, feeling very smug, I thought "SEEMS LEGIT, LET'S CALL IT A DAY." And off the email went. 

Then I realized I fixed last week's but didn't update today's work orders. 

Perfect. 

And then chaos ensued - a barrage of phone calls and people needing staples and shit out of the supply room, random drama with managers screaming at each other in the hallway behind me, people on break asking me if there were anymore mints for the candy dish - just chaos. 

And I finally emailed the Creator with The Final Updated Spreadsheet. And he, of course, had already fixed it himself. 

I wanted to march back to his desk, through the drafting floor and past the soda machines, silently crying the whole time in that broken but regal way, and collapse at his feet. I would look up, and seeing the Creator would unleash the sobs I had been choking back. I would breathlessly explain that I am exhausted, I am stressed about school and both of my jobs and home and my family and I'm not really this stupid, I just haven't slept in days and I drink until I pass out just so my mind will shut down for a few hours. He would hand me a tissue with his massive arm and I would finally ask about his sleeve of tattoos. 

But that's not the way it works, because I'm at work, and I'm supposed to be all grown up. Or at least not crying in people's laps. And as much as I'd love to fling myself on someone's desk (or up on a cross, apparently) and beg for mercy, it's really not that necessary. 

What I actually did was send him a message apologizing for the chaos. He said, once again, that it was fine, that I'm still learning and it's okay, and I shouldn't sell myself short. 

What's that? A minor glitch in a spreadsheet isn't the end of the world? Well for fuck's sake, I wish I would have known that earlier. 

When so many of us define ourselves by what we do and how well we do it, I think it's important not to let little mistakes turn into anxiety-ridden stress-fests like how I did earlier. I should have made the mistake, learned from it, and moved on. Instead I let it snowball and made it so much worse all because I couldn't calm down. 

So I put on my best Tony Robbins face and told myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. I reminded myself that I'm a goddamn member of Mensa and that utilizing some of my critical thinking skills wouldn't be such a bad idea. I'm not too smart to make mistakes, but I am too smart to let mistakes get the best of me. 

Determined to take back control and not let this keep me frustrated all day, I grabbed Lunch Girl and headed to Subway to bring back food for us and Mama Bird Manager. 

Where I promptly forgot her chips. And her straw. 

Sonofabitch. 

#3, extra pickle, homophobia on the side.

It has always been my intention not to get political here. And hopefully, this post doesn't come off that way. The only agenda I'm interested in pushing is how awesome I am, and while that sounds horrible, it's at least honest. So please, don't take this as political, read it as personal. Because that's all it ever is with me.

Whenever something really gay happens, my friends look to me for my opinion because I am half gay on my mom's side. My mom is "married" to a woman who also has kids and we call ourselves the Gay-dy Bunch because we are hilarious. I'll insert a few FAQs here because I always get questions:

     1. How long as your mom been gay? Forever. She just took a while to figure it out. She's late for everything, this was no exception. Yes, she married a man (hi, dad) and had some kids and then got a divorce and started dating ladies. I was about 8 when I figured this out.

     2. Do you like your mom's wife? Yes. I love my mother's wife. She came into the picture when I was 18 and out of the house so it's not like she helped raise me. Regardless, she is a swell lady. And for what it's worth, I love her kids too. Remember when I wrote about taking my step-brother to the zoo? That's her youngest son. Any of the problems I've had with her would have happened as a result of her being with my mother and not because of her sexual preference.

     3. Did your mom try to push her gay agenda on you? Yes. As I child I was only allowed to watch Ellen and NEVER Oprah and I wasn't allowed to play with straight kids in the neighborhood. My Barbies had to date other girl Barbies and when I asked to go to church she told me I had to stay home and practice witchcraft with her. I was home schooled to avoid learning about straight conspiracies like the moon landing and global warming. Stupid questions get stupid answers.

If you have questions about what it's like to have a gay mom, you can email me and I will answer you honestly. But back to my original point...

YOU CAN NEVER EAT AT CHICK-FIL-A AGAIN BECAUSE THEIR NUGGETS ARE FILLED WITH HOMOPHOBIC HATRED AND THE SWEET TEA IS BREWED WITH INTOLERANCE.

Haha, just kidding. GUYS, it's a chicken fucking sandwich, and it's delicious. In the midst of the most recent controversy surrounding Christ-Fil-A's President speaking out against gay marriage, I've seen all kinds of "well I'm gonna boycott the shit out of that place" type things on Facebook. And as hilarious as the memes are, I am going to tell you a secret:

Liking a post does not make you an activist. The fact that you watched the Kony video or reblogged a clever quote or pinned some picture of chicks making out doesn't make you a champion for gay rights.

I have a problem with the Chick-Fil-Gay outrage for two reasons. First, the mentality that not contributing (i.e. spending money) with the enemy is helping is false. Dick-Fil-A will make millions regardless, and they will continue to donate to Focus on the Family whether or not they swindle you out of 4 dollars (American) for a chicken sandwich. Second, there is an alarming rate of inconsistency amongst reactionary boycotters. Are you boycotting Salvation Army, Target, Best Buy or Heinz? Do you know why you 'should' be? Are you doing anything else? Protesting unfair laws or campaigning for equality in any other way? Are you writing letters to congressmen or helping to lobby for equal rights? Are you fighting discrimination against the LGBTQWERTY community? No? You just gave up the chicken caesar wrap? Well, don't be surprised when the gays don't rush to give you a rainbow sticker at the next PFLAG meeting. Did you have to google PFLAG? I rest my case.

Go volunteer at an AIDS clinic. March at Pride. Donate to charities that help gay youth. Vote on legislation that matters. Do something that will actually make a difference. The fact that you swore off waffle fries isn't going to help my moms get legally married in the state of Florida.

Related: my brother, step-brother and step-sister all work at a Chick-Fil-A. As teenagers, they are smart enough to realize that they don't need to prescribe to their company's beliefs. Making milkshakes and stocking straws doesn't mean they are standing in their mothers' way to equality. And our moms are just happy they have jobs.

Unrelated: my step-brother and step-sister are Jewish, but they thank Chick-Fil-A for the Sundays off.

Missed Connection

I got hit on in my favorite way yesterday: at a red light. Timing is so crucial since you have 90 seconds to get your best "hey 'sup?" look and grin across traffic and through the distractions of stop light texting and frantic radio station surfing. I wish we had more time together... I hope you see this.

There you were, leering at me through your open passenger window, waiting for me to look up from my iPod. You were in a red truck not quite big enough to hang those classy truck nuts off the hitch, but you did anyway. Instantly I was interested.

I was in the right turn lane, white Honda all squeaky clean thanks to the rain, window down to allow the humidity to make my face oily and my hair frizzy. My eyeliner was all smudged; I know because I saw it when I left work, but I was all like "whatever I'm just going home." Little did I know I'd run into you.

I saw you as I put my iPod back in the cup holder. You were not wearing a shirt. Your tan lines indicate you spend a lot of time outside in a t-shirt. I like the outdoorsy type. Your $5.99 Circle K sunglasses hid your cool stare, but I felt the gleam in your eye. This was confirmed when you took them off to wink at me. Your smile showed that you had most of your teeth, but no concept of dental hygiene.

I smiled, as is polite. I felt your stare boring into me when I focused on the car ahead of me. It was almost too much. I fought the urge to climb across cars and into your lap. I turned my attention to your truck. Red and rusty, worn but still useful. That's good. I don't like guys who are too flashy. You had a "Student of the Month" bumper sticker. I swooned at the thought of your virility. Or maybe, since the truck was definitely older than you are, you were once that prestigious student of the month. I love a thinkin' man.

Our time was coming to a close, I could tell. The left lane was turning. Your lane would be given the green light of go time soon. I choked on my own lust. Or maybe it was the fumes from the gas tanker fueling the Hess on the corner of 301 and MLK.

You broke the ice first. "I like that song!" you shouted. I like it too. That's why I put it on my iPod and subsequently played it in my car. I smiled and looked away, my shyness getting the best of me. "Hey meet me at the gas station. We can talk." Your words came out thick like exhaust from your bent tailpipe. I smiled once more, brushing my bangs out of my eyes, pointing that I was turning right, away from our torrid rendezvous.

And like that, it was over, as quickly as it began. I got swept up with the traffic and continued my battle through Brandon to get home. In my rear-view mirror I saw that you had "Redneck Boyz" in vinyl lettering on your windshield.

God, I should have gone to that gas station. If for no other reason than to throw up.

My job and how I suck at it.

My job sucks.

I am used to running around, talking to massive amounts of people, being creative, making decisions, being in charge. I currently do none of these things. It is excruciatingly boring. At worst, I try to entertain myself with music and making things out of paperclips. At best, I get to dick around with some numbers in an excel spreadsheet somewhere. I try to be helpful. I once spent two days cleaning out the supply closet because I snapped and had to do something. I ask for things to do, if for no other reason than to keep from stabbing myself with a paperclip samurai sword, but more often than not, I'm bored. At first I would feel guilty when I got caught playing Yatzee on my phone (current best game is four Yatzees) but I slowly realized that I am supposed to be sitting at this desk, waiting for the phone to ring or for someone to need me, in a room the temperature of Siberia all by myself.

It's kind of nice to have limited responsibilities. I answer the phones. I talk to people as they leave for lunch or go on smoke breaks. I help when people ask. I help when they don't ask. I sing even though I'm pretty sure people can hear me through the window. The FedEx guy and I talk about classic rock.

The only reason I haven't pulled an Office Space is that the people I work with are just fucking amazing. All walks of life, all different backgrounds, so many different kinds of awesome. If you know me at all you know that I love people, and this place is overflowing with blindingly intense personalities. I want to meet them all, I want to know about them, more than just what's on a timesheet or an expense report.

Backtrack: when I started, I tried to look normal. I washed the purple out of my hair. I took my lip ring out. I wore something other than jeans and a t-shirt. Minimal makeup. No bar wristbands or bags of drunken shame under my eyes. This, of course, did not last long and I have eased those around me into the pierced and provocative Keri we know and... know. My socks don't match. I think people are catching on that I have the same shirt in 5 colors. I decorated my desk with dinosaurs and Legos. I talk to everyone I can about whatever I can, because I am so starved for attention and the only gratification I get comes from using up a highlighter or running out of staples. It happens.

Fast forward: now that I have been there long enough, it has begun. It is the thing that happens to me anywhere I have ever worked, be it a drugstore, mall boutique, sports bar, sports radio or otherwise:

I am the biggest slut ever. I have slept with or sucked the dick of four different guys (I hope I get bonus points since they're all in different departments). My good morning smiles? They are a nod to our passionate night before. My delivering of the mail? It's because he got in my box and now it's my turn. My calls to his extension? No, I don't need help, I just want to bang you. And my cheery attitude and pleasant inquiries about your weekend? OH MY GOD JUST DO ME ON THE COPIER. When I am nice to someone, it becomes irrefutable evidence that I want nothing more than to ditch my clothes and bend over right then and there. The engagement ring on my finger and the cutesy picture on my desk? Nah, that's just a cover for my wanton ways.

End sarcasm.

I knew these rumors and barely concealed whispers would happen, because they always do. And it came to my attention today that most, if not all of these rumors have been started by the other women. The funny thing is that I haven't been hit on once by a dude, although I did have someone look me up on facebook and try to throw me off by mentioning this blog. I told him his mugshot was super hot, and we both dropped it.

Remember how I said I'm usually not busy? Yeah, I'm the only one. The company has legit shit to do, and usually everyone has a hectic day. Our Fridays are most people's Mondays. That makes our Mondays... four times harder than theirs because I tried to come up with an analogy and failed so I'm just working the mathematical angle. My point is that I don't know where these bitches find the free time to make up stuff and disseminate it. You know why I'm friendlier to the guys? Because you ladies can be absolute cunts.

I know that if I ignore it, it'll go away. I also know that's not even close to my style. So prepare yourself for the week of slut, courtesy of low-cut dresses, dramatic makeup, high heels and a knock out leather-pants-corset ensemble ala-Easy-A on Friday. I hope the women gossip. I hope they shake their heads every time I talk to anyone. I hope they are consumed by their own petty jealousy. I hope it drives them crazy and I get under their skin all while being nice as fuck because that's my game.

And on Monday I'm going back to jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, whereas they can go back to kissing my ass.

My job rocks.

NaNoWriMo - See you in December

Sometimes I get myself into messes that even I can't explain. November will be one of them. 

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, a contest that urges both amateur and professional writers alike to bang out a first draft (at least 50,000 words) of a fiction novel. That's 1,667 words a day. That means I have to write. On. The. Daily. 

It also means I have to write fiction, which I admittedly suck at. I can write ad nauseam about eating mint chocolate chip ice cream for the first time. I once wrote 19 pages on the non-existence of aquifers, peer pressure and grape soda. 2,500 words on green markers? Done. But fiction? I have to just make shit up? Oh hell. It comes out clunky and contrived. And it does not please me. 

But luckily that's kind of the point of NaNoWriMo. It's all about quantity over quality; this exercise forces you to write now and ask questions later. I won't be able to spend hours agonizing over plot threads and character revelations like usual. I'll just have to go with it, no matter how bad it is. 

There is no "prize" for completing your 50,000 word draft, just mad bragging rights, which I plan to exploit for years. And realistically, I will have a rough draft that I can laboriously tinker with, should I try to get it published in part or in whole later.  

My friend Mike (this is his blog) is doing this as well. As you can see from his post (read it after mine, you A.D.D. sons of bitches) he's all about the community that NaNoWriMo offers, he wants to go meet the other people in Tampa who are subjecting themselves to this, and I bet he'll be all over the forums asking for and offering advice. I think he compares NaNoWriMo to boot camp- bonding through a stressful environment- which I think is stupid. This can be done solely online, there is no physical labor, no abuse, no eating and showering and bunking together, no isolation from friends, family, pop culture, etc. 

Now that I've called his point stupid, something I strive to do on the daily, I will say I understand it. It will be stressful, especially for us perfectionist types. But I'm not interested in meeting new people and building creative relationships. I want to sit in my room, writing, ignoring my phone and friends and family. I want to lose track of days, I want insomnia to consume me. I want to forget what the outside world looks like. I want to emerge on November 30th, pale and confused and wild-eyed. I want to mutter "it is finished" before collapsing. 

That's if I don't give up on November 10th.  

Here's the Super Official website for NaNoWriMo.

See you in December.

By the way, because I am sometimes a spoiled princess, Fiancé bought and built me this desk and chair from IKEA. Because I totally "needed" it for NaNoWriMo. I am in love with it.

And he says if I don't finish 50,000 words by November 30th, he will take the desk and awesome chair away from me. I swear, there is no justice in the world.  

Moving, Orange Juice and Shame.

I think moving is the worst thing in the world. Moving, and the associated packing of things, make me a neurotic mess. I would rather have a root canal than move. I've never had a root canal; I hear they're painful but I understand they come with drugs. Not that bad of a deal if you ask me. I would rather have a pap smear than move. I have had a pap smear, and they are outrageously uncomfortable, but I'll take half an hour of awkward over three days of stress and panic.

Do these genes make me look like an asshole?

My friend Eric recently shared a link on his facebook to this article about 'survival of the kindest'.  It's an interesting read, but it's what I call "scientifish" simply because of the way it's written. Although it comes from Berkeley's website, it's still a human interest piece written to be informative to a wide audience, not just people in lab coats with a vernacular specific to a certain field of study. It describes how maybe people aren't born as selfish assholes after all, and that being nice is healthy and good for society at large. Awesome. While vaguely referencing a few studies, the article asserts that a variation of the oxytocin gene receptor (OTCR) could be responsible for empathy and keeping one's cool in stressful situations.  The following line in the article irked me immensely: "One recent study found compelling evidence that many of us are genetically predisposed to be empathetic." And then this really pissed me off. "'The tendency to be more empathetic may be influenced by a single gene,' Rodrigues said."

Ummm... no. Given my very shallow background in genetics, my recognition of connotative diction in journalism and my overall skepticism concerning linking genes to everything from drink of choice to whether or not you'll enjoy a Dickens novel, I immediately called bullshit.

Video Killed the Radio Star

On my "about me" page I wrote the following: "I host the Thursday Night Threesome on The Sports Explosion Network on 1010 AM CBS Sports Radio. I talk about sporty things and I like it, but that show and this blog don't really have anything to do with each other. I guess they're like half-siblings who don't get along but play nice at Christmas and Thanksgiving." I will be deleting that after I post this. And this post is pure TSE.

5,000+ words

I often see the quirkiest things when no one is around to laugh with me. Cue cell phone camera (and every once in a while, some unsafe driving techniques).

This little gem comes from Stetson University while on a campus tour with my sister. Just seems a little counterintuitive to me.

 Jay Smith provided me with this hilarious caption: "Now serving poorage, beef welfarington, and humble pie."