Cutest Engineer Ever

Finally, my weblog pop ups when you Google "cutest engineer". I found this out yesterday - it made me extremely pleased. The feeling was similar to finding out that you made the cheerleading squad - too much excitement that eventually fizzles when you realize that everyone hates cheerleaders and throws empty beer cans at them during pep rallies. My bubble burst today when I googled cutest engineer again to prove to my coworkers that, yes, I am the cutest engineer.

CE: "See!! My site pops up first. I'm the cutest engineer in the whole wide world!!"

Coworker 1, forcing a smile: "Congratulations, Carrie...", clears his throat, looks down at the carpet.

Coworker 2 with a shit eating grin: "Yeah, Carrie, that's really great!! Hey, what's that site four down? What does it say? Bad Blogs?"

I looked at the posting before clicking on it. I could feel my face turning red; I swallowed hard a couple of times. I knew before opening that cyber door what this website was all about, and yep, there it was. I have been cited for keeping a bad weblog. A guy named Josh, who appears to police the triple W, has booked me on charges of bad blogging. He, of course, referenced one of my less than stellar entries: "Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!!". Which, I have to admit, when reading it on his Bad Blogs website made me cringe and suddenly get major stage fright. Well, whatever, this all started out as a silly idea, along with my entitlement of Cutest Engineer. I mean, shit, I got excited playing Hi Ho Cherry-O when I was a kid - I loved those little plastic cherry things. So it shouldn't be shocking that I would get silly over finding my weblog on google or in trying to make it happen. But, who knew that there would be someone lurking around the corner waiting to piss on my parade.

I bet Josh sucks in bed - sucks major donkey dick!!

I was driving home from work yesterday - traffic completey sucked ass; it was a Friday - Friday the 13th. The Friday before Valentine's Day. For some reason, I started comtemplating the word Fuck. The first time I remember hearing the word Fuck was around the age of 10 in 1984 (the year of my birth when I'm 50) - I was watching some Paul Newman movie with my dad, and every other word out of Paul's mouth was Fuck. I began to hear Fuck more often when I entered Junior High School. Now mind you, I went to private schools up until 9th grade, so, I guess, it's not too surprising that I was inundated with the word Fuck upon entering the public school system. My usage of the word Fuck became more regular when I started college, and now it is one of the most commonly used words in my vocabulary. I might be ashamed of this, if I still lived in the south - guilt is as heavy as the humidity on a hot August day in the south, so heavy that it seeps into the mucus lining around your brain, where questions can no longer bloom and the currents around you are accepted without struggle. But luckily, I've joined the community of fruits, flakes and nuts - a cereal that's best served without guilt, where I feel mighty fine floating around and using the word Fuck as a precursor to many adjectives, adverbs, noun, verbs, prepositions...

So fuck! How do you define/desribe the word Fuck? If an alien speaking turkey gobble lanuage were to visit earth tomorrow and wanted to know what Fuck meant, what would you say? Well, sure, you could be a loser and hand the alien a dictionary, like the one I just found on Jen's desk: "(1) fuck: to engage in sexual intercourse (2) fuck around: to fool around (3) fuck off: to leave at once (4) fuck over: to treat unfairly (5) fuck up: to bungle (6) fucked-up: totally confused (7) fucker: one that fucks or acts offensive" Well, I have to admit, the dictionary covered it pretty good. I have a couple more for those aliens:

"Fuck me" - used when in disbelief of oneself
- "Well, fuck me, if it isn't old so and so - how are ya doin', old man? It's been a long time since...."
- "Fuck me, if I didn't bring the plyers... Goddamn - now, I have to go all the way back...."

"Fuckin'" - a common adjective or adverb to further intensify one's countenance
- "This fuckin' thing wouldn't work right if..."
- "Goddamn it!! Look at the fuckin' ass on that chick to the right. She's got more junk in her trunk, then Carter's got pills. What I wouldn't do to get a piece..."
- "Man, Harold fuckin' lifted the bologna at the corner store and fuckin' got caught. Now what do we fuckin' do? Maybe the pet store..."
- "Do you fuckin' get what I'm sayin'? 'Cause I don't wanna have to bust a cap in your ass. You dig?"

"Fuck" - a curse word used in frustration or pain
- "Fuck!" yelled when stubbing one's toe into a piece of furniture that was purposely placed in one's way to precisely cause the action stated
- "Fuck!" yelled when locking one's self out of her apartment without car keys, while car is about to be towed (refer to entry "All Because of a Turkey Gobble")

"Fuck you" - telling someone to go to Hell
- "Fuck you!" yelled at an idiot driver gulity of cutting one's car off
- "Fuck you!" yelled at the many men who feel they must comment on one's ass as one walks by, when one is not in the mood to deal
- "Fuck you!" mildly replied when one's friends feel the need to harass

"Mother Fucker" or "Mo' Fo'" - similar to "Fucker"; may be used negatively or with love
- "You, Mother Fucker!! How did you get these tickets? This is awesome - I've been dying to see Britney shake that ass. Thanks, man!"
- "Hey, Mother Fucker - I was waiting for that parking spot. Don't make me get out of this car!"
- "That Mother Fucker..." said under one's breath, while passing the Kiss Ass in the office

As I was sitting in that God forsaken traffic yesterday, I was more or less contemplating why the word Fuck has become more accepted and more widely used now than ever. Well, I'm not really sure I settled on one theory, but here's two: (1) Fuck has so many different meanings that an abacus would need more wooden ball thingys to help us keep track of them (2) Fuck emphasizes and intensifies the meaning being conveyed. It's versatility is unfathomable - so versatile that at times, it takes on a meaning the exact opposite of its meaning in a prior statement. My Generation has tapped into Fuck's flexibility, and I'm not sure how it all happened. I don't hear my parent's generation use it very much (except for Paul Newman when he plays a hockey coach or a pool shark) and even the generation after that - I guess that generation would be better defined as the "St. Elmo's Fire"/Brat Pack generation. My generation adopted Fuck and took it to a new level. You easily hear the word Fuck as you're passing people on the street, and you don't think twice of it.

What happened to make Fuck the word of our generation? Were we rebelling and taking on a word that was considered extremely foul? Did all the divorces during our childhoods create such anger that we needed the strongest curse word to express our rage? Or maybe it was the advent of Quentin Tarantino movies that made the word Fuck so cool... Nonetheless, I hereby declare my generation as "Generation Fuck". Fuck the "X"! "Generation X" (reportedly born between 1965 and 1980) is a derogatory term. The stereotype has been presented as a generation "made up of cynical, hopeless, frustrated and unmotivated slackers who wear grunge clothing, listen to alternative music and still live at home because they cannot get real jobs" - quoted from some website. A guy with the last name Fussell used "X" to describe a group of people who want to pull away from class, status and money in society. Some guy with the last name Coupland coined the term "Generation X", describing characters in his book written in the 1990's. The stereotype, as well as Fussell's definition, piss me off. I look at my friends - I don't see anyone trying to pull away. I see them asking questions; I see them wondering how we're going to clean up what several generations have left behind; I see them wanting to make life more meaningful beyond material positions and the supposed power created by climbing ladders in the corporate world.

I think a 15 year span is too large in defining a generation. My generation is "Generation Fuck", and we were born in the 1970's. "Generation Fuck" consists of many who need the release provided by yelling the word Fuck, due to the onset of the competitive job market, increased traffic, computers crashing, and the pressure put on us to follow the main stream channeled by our parent's generation. "Generation Fuck" is the most educated generation, saturated with college degrees that generally do not apply to any of our current jobs; it is the generation that finally sat up and asked, "Do I really want to be a slave to my job? Is paying a mortgage and planning for retirement all there is? Aren't we supposed to enjoy life? What fulfillment do I obtain by being the most powerful? Fuck the ideology of the old - it's time I find my own way!" That's "Generation Fuck", and I'm mighty fucking proud to be a part of it.

With that said, I wonder if the following generation will have a curse word of their own - not necessarily to be used in their title/description. Hopefully the angst felt among "Generation Fuck" will have dissipated by the next generation's birth. Maybe their "bad word" will be a little less potent...

Will Fuck be a passing fad, like leg warmers and electric blue mascara? Will the world of slang revolve back into the season of Goddamnit and Fuck be placed on the shelf, only to be used as a secondary condiment - the Apple Butter of slang? Who fucking knows? I think it's pretty fucking cool that Fuck is in the dictionary. And to the people who get offended by the word Fuck, I say to them Fuck Off!! (for definition, refer to above).

This whole concept of airing your thoughts out into a world where identity is boiled down to a binary code leans along the fence of voyeurism. Not only do you allow yourself to be seen by those you can't, but you also have the freedom to look into other's lives without your presence revealed. It's so secretive - any whim can be pursued, and thoughts you normally wouldn't follow become culverts to worlds where physicalism does not matter. Sitting behind a monitor that helps you monitor the day to day lives of those behind other monitors, just watching, remaining anonymous, you hang out with the other flies on the wall and sneak a peak. Those thoughts that make you feel naked when said outloud are revealed freely; there's no hesitation in slipping out of the dogmas infesting and worming themselves between the seconds of your life. We're invisible to one another - a voyeur's playground.

So I registered my "Cutest Engineer Ever" weblog using the link to the left over there - "Register for Free...." I registered yesterday - still nothing has happened. I've typed in "Cutest Engineer" in four search engines - those same damn four websites keep coming up. The sad thing is that those four sites aren't even cool. I'm not giving up - people are going to know who the Cutest Engineer is or I'll be damned!!

Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!! Cutest Engineer!!

Okay, I'm freakin' pissed. I love writing to this blog, and to be honest, part of the reason why I started the whole blog geeky thing was in hopes of finding the writings of others out there with a similar outlook on life - minds cluttered with introspective thoughts provoked by the mundane, such as vending machines for Christ's sake. I'm looking to read stuff born from the brains with the same sense of humor, so that I can laugh and relate. But, shit, I go to google and other search engines, type in "Cutest Engineer", and 4 weblinks show up, none of which are mine. I feel slighted by the lords of the search engines - those geeky, computer, "let's spend all day searching on the internet instead of fornicating with my wife/husband", speed-of-light typing assholes out there. You guys suck big donkey dick!! <---This is supposed to be funny, Dawn!!

There's something about buying a soda or some partially hydrogenated snack food from the vending machines at work. Maybe it's an excuse to leave your office for two minutes; maybe it's the thrill of the gamble, knowing there's a possibility that the vending machine will suck your money from your hand but will give nothing in return. Nothing given for the change you scraped from the bottom of your purse, leaving small particles of who knows what stuck beneath your finger nails. No matter how many times you push the change return button (which, by the way, doesn't work if you insert a dollar bill - it's gone for sure) no clinking of coins is heard down in that small begrudging metal box that allows only two fingers inside to collect the difference. That bully of a vending machine leaves you hanging just like that bag of chips stuck, dangling from one of the revolving circular rings - that circular ring so powerful, shielding what's coveted and then dispersing... but, oh, so temperamental.

For me, it's just that I crave a Diet Dr. Pepper. It's a treat from the grueling work day; it's the break from the frustration caused by the crashing of my computer. I've thought of buying a 12 pack of Diet Dr. Pepper, putting a few cans in the department's refridgerator, constantly revolving the warm to cold. It's just not the same for some reason. It's analagous to enjoying a sandwich made by someone else more than the one you made. I've been tracking my expenditures of late and have determined that in a month's time I spend between $26 to $39 on Diet Dr. Peppers from the beast upstairs. I have an addiction, and it's the vending machine...

VM Haiku... (bless you)

Oh, vending machine
From downstairs, I heed your call
"Diet Doc Pepper"

A few weekends ago I went to this party down in Woodside. Supposedly, Woodside is a fairly affluent community - I wouldn't know - my kind don't mix with their kind, and that was obvious at the party. I was one of the younger people there, and I think my age put me at a disadvantage. I, at least, want to believe that. The women present were probably in their mid 30s to early 40s, and for their ages... well, let's just hope I can keep it together as well as they have - I'm sure their faces weren't lacking of botox. Anyway, the party sucked ass - I definitely didn't feel like I was welcome - I think my outfit was too hokey compared to their standards, and as I mentioned above, the women were jealous of my youth - I'm pretty sure. BUT there was lots of free booze and the catered food was to die for (I snuck a lot in my purse).

I went to another rich person's party about a year and a half ago - the music was worse than the scrapings off a shoe that had walked through a sand box frequented by the neighborhood cats. The food was great; the drinks were served by bartenders you didn't have to tip; and they even had cigarettes laid out on a nice silver platter. But, like I said, the music sucked major donkey dick. The DJ looked like his name could be Biff, and he played Pump Up the Jam over-easy (not remixed or sampled or anything) - that song sucked even in the early '90s. When I was an exchange student to Spain during the summer of 1990, one of the girls I met asked me what "jam" meant - she was referring to that piece of shit song. I couldn't explain it in Spanish - I don't even think I can explain it in English. Jam: jivin' with the music? In this case, really bad music.

I had an ex-lover tell me that, in his experience, you can expect the music to be less than mediocre at a rich person's party. I'm beginning to think he's right. I went to a some-what rich person's party a while back, but stayed all of 10 minutes: music sucked, no food or alcohol left, and the people all had black leather jackets and seemed to have come straight from the Marina. Music makes a party, in my book. The food can suck; you may have to bring your own alcohol; even the company may leave a lot to be desired; but if there's good music...

Good music: sultry sounds beating to a rhythm that makes your head nod up and down without a tinge of effort.

I can't even tell you how elated I was regarding the posting on the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist, which was obviously about me (refer to the previous entry "Coworker Forwarded This to Me"). I had one of the more horrible weekends of my life prior to this posting - got some pretty bad news on Sunday, and, not to mention (but I will anyway), the events that took place on the previous Friday (refer to "All Because of a Turkey Gobble")... and then this posting - out of that horrible Friday comes this "knight in shining armor" type of feeling. There I was helpless and pitiful while wearing only one sock on my flip-flopped feet, and someone notices me - notices me when I'm disheveled and looking my morning worst. Someone notices how cute it was that this girl (me) was wearing just one sock and was tickled by it - touched. This someone was a decent writer - their style somewhat similar to mine. I could tell their sense of humor was right on par with mine - did it matter what this man looked like? Look!! He's 30!! Only a year older than me, but still older!! Then, I thought, what if this is a woman - a lesbian... Well, then I have a new friend, I guess... I already have lots of friends but here's another... yeah, that's really cool - sigh... BUT surely this was posted by a dude - I convinced myself that it was a dude. I mean, everyone knows that lesbians don't particularly care for one socked mamas.

All the girls in the office were sooo excited for me. Jill, who forwarded the posting to me (she reads Craigslist religiously, especially the "Missed Connections" section - she's hoping - she's single), was jumping up and down - more excited than I was. Sandie described it as fate - it had to be, "Carrie like here you are having like one of the worst mornings ever - when someone like spots you, and it's like love at first sight. Like if that turkey gobble thing hadn't happened, then you would have like had no reason to plead with that parking ticketer person and then you would have like never been spotted!!" I had to admit, it made sense - it was fate. Then there was having to deal with the whole ABC rule ("Always Be Cool"). Should I respond to the posting today or wait three days? (the unspoken but mandatory rule, if you want to be cool) Like I said, my heart was floating to the top of my brain - finally, I find a romantic like myself and just as equally funny and witty. Yes, out of that shit day was born a rose - unexpected, the best kind. I felt as if I was dreaming, already wondering what he looked like, and deciding that mediocre would do, sense he was so well-spoken and funny, I'm sure.

Well, I was about to call all of my girlfriends. Sandie was still in my office, begging me to email him back with the largest smile I have ever seen on her face. Jill was going from office to cubicle expressing her excitement for me, "Hey everybody, can you believe this? How wonderful is this? This guy noticed Carrie last Friday when she got locked out of her apartment and her car got towed." Jen (coworker - not roommate - with neighboring office) seemed to give a shit less - she's pretty grounded, and I think she had some kind of client trouble that day; the shit probably wasn't flowing through the pipes right, and the City was getting pissed - just kidding. Jen's a great engineer - I would trust her with my shit anyday. It was really exciting - I mean this was out of a movie. My horrible Friday seemed like a scene out of a sitcom, and here it was blossoming into a romantic comedy.

Yes, well, I picked up the phone to call Jen, my roommate and soul sister; Dawn, my best friend; Holly, the best friend I go to for life's wisdom; Christine, my best friend who appreciates my cattiness; Jodi, my best and most reliable friend who has no inner voice; Kerry, my sweet and non-judgemental best friend... When, right as my index finger is on top of the 9 button to get an outside line, Jill, Jen, and Sandie gather by my office door. Jill: "Uh, Carrie... well, I made the posting up. It's me. I mean, I knew you were in a bad mood, and I thought this would cheer you up." I was thinking, "Yeah, Jill, it cheered me up alright - I thought there was a purpose for my bad day. But, now I see, that my suffering played a purpose for one of your jokes." I tried my best to laugh it off, but the disappointment shown through my face like a kid's on Christmas day when opening presents and getting clothes instead of some Nintendo game. My ballon of a heart dropped like a dead weight, falling lower than it's former residing circle in Dante's Hell. "Oh, Carrie, we were just kidding. You're not mad, are you? Oh, now, I feel guilty!" exclaimed Jill. Sandie and Jen didn't really much care how I took the joke. Jill was fretting with guilt. She wouldn't stop telling my how guilty she felt. I tried my best to reassure her that everything was cool. I didn't want people to think that I couldn't take a joke - I was just really sensitive at the moment - I probably would have laughed if it had been any other day.

Well, I started to feel guilty that my disappointment was making Jill feel guilty. Great!! Not only am I shot down from being somewhat dumped by an imaginary guy, but now I'm made to feel guilty because I can't take a joke. Jill started pointing fingers, "They were all in on it, Carrie. You can't direct all of this to just me - they played roles too. I mean, Cara thought we should go so far as to arrange a meeting somewhere with this secret admirer once an email correspondace was established, and then we would all be there to surprise you." Well, that's pretty cruel. That hurt the most - my little Cara, thinking of doing such a thing. She's my sweet thing who sits right across the hall from me - we do lunch and crack jokes with one another. We shoot rubber bands at one another across the hallway. I was deflated. But, hey, it's okay - we all need to be "punk'd" every now and then, right?

Jill likes reading my weblog - at least, that's what she says. And, well, the joke played on me makes a great story, so I'm appreciative of her shenanigans. Jill wanted me to include a brief description of her that she wrote up, in case there are any single guys out there (she's cute - but she's not the Cutest Engineer Ever).

Here it is: Delicious (that's if you like fish), wacky, (how about wack job), sometimes neurotic (how about always), always charming (like the bells ringing from an alarm clock), left-handed (right out of her mind), half-Japanese (the other half being monkey), and a civil engineer (not so civil, if you ask me).

Thanks, Jill, for giving me another reason to post an entry into my weblog!!!

After hearing about my rough morning last Friday (see "All Because of a Turkey Gobble"), my coworker forwarded this Craigslist posting to me this morning...


I HAIGHT GETTING PARKING TICKETS TOO - 30

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Reply to: anon-23672285@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-02-03, 11:15AM PST


Driving to work last Friday morning, I saw you in the Haight pleading with a parking officer about your illegally parked vehicle. You caught my attention then and, even days later, I can't shake your image from my mind. You were holding an umbrella with one hand and waving the other passionately in a futile attempt to plead your case to the parking nazi. But what really grabbed my attention was not the look of desperation on your face or your wild bed-head hairdo or the rumpled clothes. No, it was the intriguing sock you were wearing. Yes, that ONE sock with the flip-flops was really quite something. I've been wondering the past few days...what would you look like with that sock off?

Please email me back as I would love to meet up with you. If you choose to email me, please identify yourself by providing me with the intersection where your misfortune occurred. Incidentally, if we do meet up, I can drive…just in case your car has been impounded.