Wyszdom

Pretty soon after starting work at Google, I began using the onsite dry cleaning service. Okay, it’s not really onsite, you drop it in a bin and they take it somewhere, but as far as I need to know, everything happens at work. I just put anything that I don’t know how to wash or that would involve ironing in a bag, and dump it in the lobby. A few days later, my clothes return on hangers. It’s pretty convenient.

At one point, I decided that I would start using a local dry cleaner instead of taking my clothes to work. I can’t remember why I did this. I think I figured out that it would be slightly less expensive. For a few months, this worked out perfectly. I would take a pile of clothes to the counter, say, “I’d like these to be cleaned,”* and come back at the end of the week, when my clothes are available on hangers. One day, I went in and was helped by the husband of the husband/wife owners instead of the wife who usually helped me. I handed him my pile of clothes, and he asked if I would like them dry cleaned. I didn’t know what else one would want at a dry cleaner’s, so I said yes. I never know what to say at one-service places like this. Whenever I go to get my hair cut, they ask, “How can I help you?” I say, “I’d like a haircut.” I always feel like an idiot when I say that though, because it’s so obvious. But what else could I say?

When I returned to pick up my clothes, my bill was a few times higher than it usually is, and I learned that this was because dry cleaning is more expensive than laundering. I did some research online that day, and read that for many articles of clothing, laundering is just fine, but dry cleaning is actually better, but not totally necessary, but it can make your clothes last longer, but it’s more expensive… and I didn’t feel like having the responsibility of making that decision. Is it worth it to spend more on dry cleaning, or is it easier to buy new clothes? I don’t want to have that problem.

Now I drop my clothes off at work again. No questions asked.

I had to buy a dress shirt on my own last week. It was confusing.

Before going out to the store, I let some people at work know about my mission, and told them that I didn’t know what size I was. They suggested that I first go back to my apartment and look at the tag of a dress shirt that I already own. I looked at a few, and they all just had an M on the tag, probably for Michael or medium. I knew that there should have been numbers, but I couldn’t see any. At this point, though, I was pretty confident that I would be able to find at least one line of shirts that would have a letter as its only indication of size.

I headed to Macy’s, which was promised to be “safe.” I didn’t feel immediately threatened when I walked in, but I quickly realized that there are a ton of different white dress shirts in that store, with little differentiation beyond the name on the tag. This was somewhat promising though, because I was convinced I could find an M amongst them. The first pile of shirts I looked at gave me hope: I found a tag with an M! Unfortunately, it was an M along with three different numbers. No worries, I thought, just as long as I can confirm that all of the Ms have the same numbers. They didn’t. Onto the next pile.

I went through every stack of white dress shirts in the store, and all of them had those crazy three numbers. At some point in the process, a salesperson called out to the room asking if anyone needed help, but I ignored her offer at the time, hopeful that I would be able to find an unenumerated M and not have to interact with a human being beyond handing over a credit card. When I realized that I would not find this exclusively letter-based sizing, I did what any single man would do in my situation. I went outside and called my mom.

Me: I’m trying to buy a shirt and I don’t know my size. Do you know what my measurements are?
Mom: No, just ask them to measure you.
Me: Can’t I just get a medium? The shirts in my closet are medium, but in the store they have three numbers. What do they mean? There’s one at the top, and then two below it.
Mom: It’s the neck and sleeve size.
Me: But there are three numbers. One at the top…
Mom: That’s the neck.
Me: And then two at the bottom.
Mom: The sleeves.
Me: But there are two numbers.
Mom: That’s the sleeve length.
Me: The sleeves are different sizes?
Mom: No.
Me: But there are two numbers on the bottom.
Mom: It’s a range.
Me: They have to estimate the length of the sleeves? They can’t measure that within an inch? Don’t we have the technology?
Mom: Ask someone to measure you.
Me: I don’t like to be poked.
Mom: [sends an eye-roll from 3,000 miles away]
Me: I’ll also need a tie.
Mom: Just tell them that you have a dark suit and you need a white shirt and a tie.

At this point, I was resigned to the fact that I would have to be measured. I headed back inside to look for help. One employee was there folding shirts. I don’t shop often enough to know what the proper procedure is in these types of situations, so I didn’t know if I should interrupt her. She was obviously already busy doing something else. I went over to where the counter was and figured I’d just wait in line. After several minutes of waiting for a customer and an employee to discuss a return, I figured I had been in there too long, and couldn’t really spend any more time walking around the store as by now they were probably starting to think I was weird. I headed to Nordstrom.

This time, I walked in with a new attitude. I was going to walk right in there, admit I know nothing, and walk out with a shirt. And I pretty much did that.

Me: I need a white dress shirt and I don’t know my measurements.
Her: Trim?
Me: [Having no idea what this means] Sure.

I was then measured, and headed to the back and got a shirt my size. Before she went to the back room, I let her know that I would also need a tie. “There are ties on all of the tables,” she said, trusting to find something that matched. I picked what appeared to be the only non-pink tie (I would have been fine with pink if I didn’t think that pink ties were a fad on their way out), and brought it to the counter. And by the way, for the little amount of material they use, ties are expensive!

Me: Will this match a dark suit? I obviously know nothing about fashion.
Her: Charcoal? Gray? Black?
Me: [My mom said "dark suit!" Trying to think of what my suit looks like...] Black.
Her: Oh, yes, that will look very nice. You picked a good one. This is a [says some brand name that I can't remember] tie. They last forever. One customer always buys these kind of ties and says that he’ll be able to give them to his son when he’s older.

That was easy, and kudos to the Nordstrom employee for being so friendly. I don’t really enjoy shopping because I don’t feel confident doing it, but it does feel good to dress nicely.

After all that, I proudly presented my wardrobe to my parents only to learn that I was wearing the wrong pants.

One of these days I want to get a painted portrait of myself which shows me with my eyes closed, so I can hang it over my fireplace. I’ll then wait until someone asks me why my eyes are closed, setting me up for the punch line: “I blinked.”

He drew this for me in Seattle.

Everyone in the US should have just gone through this experience, but I’m blogging about it since I may find it fun to read later, and you may find it interesting if you’re not in the United States.

On March 8, 2010, I found a plastic bag hanging on my door. It contained a census form. I knew it was coming, because about a week before it arrived, I received a letter from the US Census Bureau informing me that I would soon be receiving one. It’s a good thing they spent money on sending me that warning letter, because if the form had arrived unexpectedly, I would have no idea what to do with it, even if it came with a letter explaining how important it was, just like the warning letter had done.

Inside of the bag was an envelope:

The envelope contained a letter explaining a little bit about the census. It asked me to mail back the form that day, so even though I saw the census when I came back to my apartment after work, I got it in the mailbox before midnight.

The back of the letter revealed an interesting note about confidentiality. I didn’t know that the replies were kept confidential for 72 years and then made public.

Ah, yes, the old “use the destination address as the return address to avoid postage fees” trick

It was comforting knowing that if I ran into trouble, help was only a phone call away:

I didn’t need any help, though, as the form was very short, and only took me a couple of minutes to fill out. Here are some pictures of it:

Full first page | Full second page

These are the ways Person 2 could be related to Person 1:

And here were some of the options for race:

Pretty painless, huh? All that was left was to seal the form inside of the postage-paid envelope and drop it in the mail. And the U.S. Census Bureau even had a well-placed thank-you note on the flap of the envelope:

1. I earn enough points from using my Chase credit card that I’m eligible for a rewards check.
2. I’m lucky enough to log on to my bank’s website during a time that it’s not down for maintenance, and order a check.
3. A week or so later, a paper check is dispatched from Reward Headquarters, USA, and arrives in my mailbox.
4. A week or so later, I get around to checking my mail and place the check on my coffee table.
5. A week or so later, I drive the check from my apartment to a Chase ATM and make a deposit.
6. On the next business day, the money is available in my Chase checking account, which I use to pay my Chase credit card.

Sometimes I dream about stupid things. Last night, before I went to bed, I packed up some papers so I could staple them at work. I don’t have a stapler in my apartment because I would probably fidget with it and hurt myself.

This morning, I found myself sitting at my desk wondering where the stapler was that I had seen earlier. I then realized that I didn’t actually have a stapler at my desk… last night I dreamed that I had one at work.

I don’t watch TV often, but I was relieved tonight when I didn’t have to choose between watching Letterman or Conan.

Biking is pretty cool because while it’s good exercise, at least you get to sit down.

I grabbed a new pen from the supply cabinet today:

The package, however, frustrated me as I initially tried to open it without scissors. I hate tough packaging.

But this made me laugh:

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