Monday, August 25, 2008

What's in a name?

What’s in a name?

So what’s the big deal? After listening to more than twelve months of Obama defending his Christianity, lack of Muslim, and Islam ties and adamantly aligning himself with pro-American western views, he has chosen a guy named Biden, Joe Biden. It’s almost like, Bond, James Bond. Together they could be: Obama-Biden. I can see John Candy now in the movie, Uncle Buck, “Bug? Insect? Are you seeing the similarities?”

I see Obama’s reasoning here: He went for the old fart card which, he played rather well, appeasing the Kennedy and former first Bush fans for this election. Biden gives a faux conservative flex of this power team muscle, enabling those older voters who can’t handle another four years of Bushisms and ride-em-high politics to vote for someone who refuses to use Grecian formula. But come on-really? Obama-Biden. Doesn’t have the same appeal as Bradgelina. Instead it has an after taste, like Biliary.

Obama Bin Laden? Are you seeing the similarities? I could see Obama strutting the last of this campaign leg, confident that his Obamamania politics will downplay the unfortunate name partnership. Sounds to me like someone forgot to use the P.Q.I (Predictive quantities indicator)of the G.L.M(global language monitor) of Obama’s campaign committee. I mean come on! Does anyone on his advisory committee play scrabble? You're just missing three letters which could be substituted with blanks. And when it comes right down to it, by the time we get to the polls having been inundated with campaign telemarketers, commercials, mind-numbing media coverage and political endorsements, our minds are blank and we could probably fill in the blanks with campaign vomit.

It’s kind of like this real estate agent I met, just her first name, Lola. A few times after she showed the house across the street, she asked if I wanted to go out to lunch. Something about the way she asked launched my Gaydor into overdrive. Gracefully declining, I was happy to see she had moved on from the area, no longer gawking at me as I hastily retrieved my mail and we avoided a potentially awkward conversation. And then it all made sense when I saw the SOLD sign with agent listed as: Liptrap. Lola Liptrap.

Obama Biden. The name speaks for itself.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Close Quarters versus Closed Quarters

Having recently rejoined the work force, I finally became accustomed to the usual politics, ethics and process of working in an office setting. Urinating in a Styrofoam dixie cup in front of the Human Resource officer at my new job, should have been a clue to this child of the eighties that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Privacy in the work force is dead. Close Quarters are now politically correct. Strike One: I couldn't produce urine. Strike two: I had to hum 'Day-O' to produce urine. Strike three: I peed on my new nylons. Dammit. Five dollars spent at Rite Aid down the toilet, literally.

My first day of reconnecting to what my mother calls 'The real world' was spent getting eyeballed by my future coworkers as they filed and searched for medical records in comfortable scrubs. While they disiphered just who the hell I was and if I'd cut the mustard, I was making a grave office fashion fopa. I was in heels, wearing a skirt, blouse and new nylons. I didn't get the dress code memo of 'office casual, scrubs acceptable' and spent most of the my first work day, trying to bend in a ladylike manner without giving the sparse male co-workers a peep show into old lady town. All this being accomplished while answering to the code name: "New girl." Hey, at my age, anything with "girl" addressed to me will get my employer a twelve-hour day for a minimum wage.

Three months later and I gotta tell you, me likey this job. It is tedious, fast-paced and bonus: Everyone at work is fabulous! I may still be in the honeymoon phase, but my boss is cream of the crop and everyone works very hard at their job. I have yet to note pettiness, gossip, the office slut, the office tattletale, you know? The usual suspects of today's office counterparts.

My sister, Lynn is not so fortunate. She's been in her current position for several years. Besides the fact that hers isn't just a job, it's a career. She takes it very seriously, having acquired a BA and finding her niche, her reward is working in financial services for a noted Charity and dealing with an odd co-worker directly next to her cubicle. Scratch that, he's not just odd. He’s a whack job.

I can remember back in the day, when an office space consisted of four walls and a door. A good solid door which encompased four glorious walls that kept the weirdos at bay. Visits would be on a limited basis. No one knew that your co-workers picked their nose in the privacy of their offices, talked endlessly with family members, looked through the JC Penny Catalog for eight hours, worked a half hour and got paid for an entire day of work. Now we have cubicles, not much privacy and big brother surfing your computer for internet abuse.

Lynn's co-worker has a creepy, disarming affection for Lynn. Her antennae are up around this guy and she wisely divulges scant views of her life to him. Being a private person anyway, Lynn discloses little about herself which, to some sensitive folks comes off as snobby. "Bob" (name changed to protect the guilty) has decided that Lynn doesn't share enough about herself to him and he reported her to their supervisor. The supervisor conferred with Lynn and has demanded that Lynn be more soft-spoken with "Bob" and forego the sharp replies to his prying questions she also must be more open with "Bob." Given the ridiculousness of the situation, Lynn has no choice but to adhere to her supervisors wishes. I'm sure if that if Lynn warranted the situation and if we hadn't come up with the idea listed in the following paragraphs, Lynn would take it to the next level. She doesn't take any crap.

Lynn’s reprimand is yet another sad commentary on what American workforce has become. Oh, big Brother isn't just watching... he is demanding that the working person act as the Chinese demanded their people for the Olympics this year: Pleasantries only. Must be kind, loving, appear as an open book. Hey, it's the year of the Rat after all. Wealth, charm, and most important, Order. An office certainly can't operate without order, and personal differences create conflict. So mind your "P"s and "Q"s, smile, conform, initiate redundant conversation so you may ease your whacked out co-workers brains that they are part of your life. Life+Job=order.

As most of you have discovered Lynn and I are best friends, we share everything. I have heard her complaints of "Bob" over the last few years, they had become worse and more concerning. This new complaint tops it off. There was only one thing to do:
Revenge.

My suggestion was to embrace the new Lynn. Pull "Bob" aside and confess that she has a fetish. "Bob, I have to tell you something a little personal and well, I really don't want anyone else to know about it, so please, whatever you do, don't tell people that...
Whenever someone takes off their shoes, even in the brake room, I have an overwhelming urge to reach over, grab their shoes and give it a good, long sniff. It takes everything in my power to not do that very thing during a meeting. I've had this horrible affliction since childhood." Pause for dramatic affect, fake a sniff and snob then, "Oh, it feels so good to get it off my chest. Thank you "Bob". Thank you for listening."

Lynn topped it off with something better and perhaps easier to prove in front of "Bob" because God forbid, he reach down and offer his destestable shoes for her to carry out her compulsive crime.

"OH no, I got it," Lynn laughed triumphantly, trying to contain herself, "I could tell him, in the same manner, maybe when Mona(Name changed to protect the guilty) my supervisor goes to lunch, that 'when no one is looking,
I secretly take out the lean cuisines and frozen entrees in the staff room
... and lick the tops of the plastic covering and their boxes."


Our office spaces have become almost intrusive. In some offices, pictures and personal items must be approved before placing them on the cardboard surface of the cubicle. Freedom of speech and expression has defined rules and regulations. All that pent up energy has to go somewhere.

So be weary people, do you really want to know everything about your co-workers? Is it wise for us to check all the internet sites our quiet co-workers roamed in order to ascertain that they aren't surfing porn, but they have visited the Hello Kitty site far too many times for normal people in their forties? How about the fact that the new divorcee has the Jonas Brothers clip art on her desktop? Is it healthy to be inches away from a chronic nose picker, wihtout kleenex and suddenly, your cubicle is looking a tad green? And, is it me, or do the Lean Cuisines and Smart Balance entrees really have a layer of refridgerator condensation, or is it something else?

Just remember; still waters lick deep.

All rights reserved/Wycoff August 2008

Saturday, August 2, 2008

The Husband Whisperer

Just wanted to make it official: I've had four people recently ask me: Yes, the rumors are true, my play "The Husband Whisperer" makes its debut at the birdcage theatre in Oroville, CA. Co-written by the fantastic and fabulously reluctant comedic genius, Lori Kennedy and directed by the renowned Lucille Beaty, this play uses scant profanity and yet, it is truly hilarious! There are some adult themes, and sexual references, so patrons 18 and younger may feel uncomfortable.

A dark comedy about imperfect women attempting to create the perfect man. All Rights Reserved, Kennedy/Wycoff,Copywritten and registered WGA # 107392


So, I know it is early, but Fall is fast approaching, and then we slam into our Holidays. Why not stay close to home and entertain your house guests with a short trekk to the theater?
Mark your calendars and actors are needed. If you're an actor or know anyone who is and can commit to a full play, the auditions are in September.

Here is the link:http://www.birdcagetheatre.net/schedule.html