68 posts tagged “qotd” (page 2)
Which foods do you eat a lot of? Too much of?
Submitted by Allishandra.
LOVETT: Since marine doesn't appeal to you, 'ow about... rear admiral?
TODD: Too salty. I prefer general.
LOVETT: With, or without his privates? "With" is extra.
I was in shock the first time I heard these lyrics, not from the subject matter, but because it was some of the most impressive writing I've ever encountered. The entire performance was stunning, but this song is really a perfect 10.
When was the last time you made a drastic change to your personal style (i.e., wardrobe, hairstyle, etc.)? What did you do?
Submitted by miyna.
This was taken about an hour after I left the salon.
Would you go on vacation by yourself, and if so where would you go?
Submitted by Sean & Stefan.
I kick over to London about once a year, almost always by myself. Specifically, I leave the Wednesday before thanksgiving, and come back the following Monday. While I'm there, I spend four days in the west end stuffing myself with theater and no-turkey, getting a head start on holiday shopping, and generally wallowing in one of my favorite corners of the world.
What's the best practical joke you've pulled or had pulled on you?
Submitted by Mike Schwartz.
Spass had a tendency to go overboard sometimes, and at some point he got it into his head that he needed to landscape the front courtyard. A normal person would put in some bark dust and planters, and toss a few plants in for good measure. They might even build a small rock garden or even plant a small tree, and if they were feeling especially ambitious, put in a drip irrigation system.
Spass was not a normal person in this respect, no sirree. He spent weeks digging up the yard, installing a zoned sprinkler system with electronic timer, building retaining walls for terraces, sculpting a walkway, building planters and a bench, and just generally spending way too much time and energy on a space that couldn't have been larger than two hundred square feet. Of course, his friends gave him no end of grief about this while occasionally helping out. We just did it for the beer, honest.
And then, right after the great landscaping project was finally finished, Spass's birthday rolled around. I've never been one to leave well enough alone, and I have just the tiniest streak of overkill myself. I decided that the courtyard, lovely though it was, needed some extra help. A trip to the local carnival supply store provided me with all the materials I needed, and I spent a few evenings getting everything ready.
The rest of the story, with additional photos, is here.
Why do you live where you live?
Submitted by memtony.
I was living in Portland, where I'd been for nearly eight years. I was well past the seven-year mark at working for Intel.
One weekend I came down with strep throat with a vengeance, and wound up spending the entire next week in bed. I was miserable and slept a ton, but apparently I also had a lot of time to think.
Around 11 a.m. on Friday I woke up and thought to myself, "Damn. I have to go back to work on Monday. I really don't want to do that." About thirty seconds later, another thought cruised through my sleep-fogged brain-- "Portland really is a small town, isn't it?"
Yet another thirty seconds later, I said to myself, "Fuck it. I'm moving to San Francisco."
I got out of bed, found a box, and packed up my aquarium books.
That was the first 60 seconds. Three months later I'd quit my job, sold my condo, put everything I owned into storage, and was at the airport heading to Europe for the summer. When I got back to the US, I went to San Francisco and looked for a place to live, and moved in. After that I started looking for a job.
I haven't regretted it for a single moment.
Tell us a true story that proves it really is a small world after all.
Submitted by havybeaks.
A dear friend of mine owns a motorcycle shop. I'm generally in there every couple of weeks, just to hang out and chat while he works.
One day while I was in there, he needed to go outside and muck with a bike for the bit. He handed me the phone and asked me to answer it if it rang. I had no clue what I might say to a potential customer, but I figured I could manage something like, "He stepped out for a moment", if anyone actually called. I crossed my fingers that the phone would remain silent, since I didn't really want to embarrass myself talking to a customer.
No such luck. The very second he went out the door, the phone rang. I picked it up and cheerfully spoke the name of the shop.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and then I heard a tentative, "Hello?"
This time it was my turn to hesitate. I recognized that voice, and in fact I knew it quite well. I'd heard it quite a lot over the past couple of years.
The one and only time I've ever answered the phone at the bike shop, my boyfriend was on the other end of the line.
Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself.
I've taken part in a debutante ball.
I nearly went to the national spelling bee in fourth grade.
I was on Jeopardy.
What's the story behind a time when you got locked out?
I blame Vox.
I have never in my entire life locked myself out of my house. Ever. EVER. Not even close. I always triple-check that I have my keys when I walk out the door. Until tonight, when I triplechecked my keys and still had the wrong set.
Here's the long story of the day from my LJ:
When I'm frustrated, the word motherfucker comes out of my mouth a lot. It's not a word I use in normal conversation, but if I'm cranky or frustrated then it shows up in my vocabulary. If you hear me utter motherfucker a lot, stay out of my way.
Today I think I wore the spots off of the word.
If you're a regular reader of my LJ, you know that I found out today that my refrigerator would be out of commission for the next two weeks. You also know that I got a brand new, wicked expensive camera lens today.
With the refrigerator dead, I decided that I'd find a cheap dorm fridge on Craigslist, use it for a couple weeks, and then sell it for what I paid for it. I scanned ads, found someone nearby who had what I wanted, and sent him mail. Then I packed up, grabbed the lens, and headed out of the office. Just as I got to the elevator, the phone rang. It was Mr. Fridge. He still had it, I could come by in the next hour to pick it up, but after that he was leaving. I grabbed a post-it from the reception desk, wrote down his address, then grabbed the lens and headed out of the building.
Next stop: the ATM at the corner. Set the lens down, grabbed cash, grabbed the lens, and headed for the garage. My phone rang, and I chatted with a friend while I set the lens down, paid the parking fee, grabbed the lens, and got in the car.
Just as I was getting onto the bay bridge I realized that the lens was nowhere to be found. MOTHERFUCKER. I rewound the sequence of events, and came to the conclusion that I'd left it sitting on the ATM. MOTHERFUCKER. Nothing like leaving brand new expensive camera gear sitting on a busy streetcorner. I did doubletime, hit Treasure Island, made a U-turn, and flew back to the city as fast as traffic would allow.
The lens was not on the ATM. MOTHERFUCKER. I dashed into the garage, and it wasn't there either. MOTHERFUCKER^2. OK, maybe just maybe I left it in the office. I went upstairs, and spent the whole elevator trip doing the closest thing to praying that I ever muster. The door opened, I dashed out into the lobby, and there on the reception desk was the most beautiful white box I've ever seen. Hallelujah!
I headed back to the (illegally-parked) car, and back onto the bridge, then over to the guy's house where I picked up a small 'fridge rather uneventfully.
Tonight I puttered, then realized about 10:30 that I was starving and there wasn't much in the house that I trusted to eat. Plus, the cat was in imminent danger of having no catfood, so I decided to make a quick trip to the grocery store. I grabbed my car keys, headed for the garage, and went to unlock the car. Shit, no remote! I'd accidentally grabbed my motorcycle keys instead of my car keys.
No problem, right? Wrong. The only key to my loft is on the ring with the car keys. MOTHERFUCKER.
I called the one person in the building who has a key to my unit, but she wasn't home. I tried to credit card the door and came very close, but wasn't able to do it. I have lock picks, but of course they're inside the loft.
After about half an hour of screwing with it, I went down to the mailroom, grabbed a phone book, and called a 24-hour locksmith. 45 minutes and $125 later, I was back in my loft. Did you know locksmiths don't ask for any sort of proof that you're supposed to be somewhere? I could easily call a locksmith and have him let me into your house. Amazing.
Oh, and I broke a fingernail. MOTHERFUCKER.
I hopped in the car, headed for the grocery store, and got there five minutes before they closed. WTF? I thought this was a 24-hour store. Guess not. I grabbed catfood and milk, then headed out.
I was still starving. The only reasonable option was Taco Bell. I despise Taco Bell, but whatever. I ordered three soft tacos, got them, drove away, and discovered when I got home that they were crunchy. Motherfucker.
I'm pretty sure this is all Vox's fault. If it hadn't asked the question...
What was the worst job you ever had?
Submitted by salaryman.
It seems like once a decade, my employer says something really insanely stupid to me.
Mid-1980s: They sent me, the most junior person there (I'd been at the company for about a month, and I had just turned 21) to visit an extremely pissed off client, all by myself. "Whatver you do, don't promise them anything."
Mid-1990s: While managing the testing for a computer game company, said to me at 6 p.m. on Friday afternoon: "We need eight more testers. Can you get them in here by tomorrow?"
Mid-2000s: While working for a dot-com: "We want to release this in 20 minutes. Sorry we forgot to tell you."
The first company couldn't manage a computer project to save their lives, but they did interactive video so I got to work with a lot of really cool artists, writers, producers, etc. I was green, and a lot of the work was interesting. Not the worst job. Plus, when I told them that I was quitting and moving to Portland, my grand-boss slammed his fist on his desk and swore loud enough that the whole company heard him. That was flattering.
The second company is where I set my record for the most hours worked in one week: 110. They were profoundly dysfunctional, and the weekly executive staff meetings were often referred to as the cat fights. The founder was completely delusional. They wound up stiffing me for several weeks pay. On the other hand, it was utterly fascinating to watch the meltdown, and the company was insanely fun. Plus, for the rest of my life I'll be able to say that I played video games for a living, and I had the title "QA Goddess" on my business cards.
I guess that leaves the third one.
