senses working overtime

It's 7:16 PM and I'm still at work. I walked into the bathroom a short while ago and was met with an aroma. Sadly, I couldn't tell if building maintenance had just sprayed Raid in there or if one of my coworkers had recently doused herself in perfume. Maybe my sinuses haven't fully rebounded after all.

I then returned to my desk, parked myself in front of the computer and launched my iGoogle home page which contains news feeds, Google Reader and Gmail among other personalized items. I quickly glanced at the following New York Times headlines and had to do a double take:

I swore the last one read: FEMA Official Addresses Barfing Scandal.

Uh yeah, I think I'm going to have to head on home right about now.

Good night.

dude...

...I'm 34. The hell? How did this happen?

Whatever. I'm not all freaked out that I'm getting older. I don't feel old or anything. I'm just surprised that I'm like a full-blown adult now and stuff. Who knew I was capable?

My birthday is off to a sweet start. Here's one of my favorites birthday greetings so far:

Thanks, Petey!

This is the fourth birthday I've celebrated on my blog. It was interesting to go back and read where I was and what I was doing when I was 31, 32 and 33. Here's a look back:

2004
:: I Say It's My Birthday...

2005
:: Guess What Today Is?
:: And Sows a Bird in Her Knickers

2006
:: On This Day in History
:: 'Cause We Care and Crap

Thanks for all the emails and Facebook and MySpace comments, you guys! Once again, sorry I've been absent from my blog. The new job is really a time suck. HOWEVER!!!! Guess what? At long last, I'm finally getting an office! I move into a nice wee space overlooking 6th Avenue on Monday. No more Journey or upspeak in close proximity! More slacking and Scrabulous! I can't wait.

Thanks again!

bingo!

I have a meeting at the obscene hour of 9:00 tomorrow morning. Gawd, isn't it still dark outside that early? I fully expect a bugler to be blowing Revele during my march to the subway.

That is the ass crack of dawn for Internets [sic] folk like myself. My dainty ass doesn't roll into work until at least 10:00. I don't willingly schedule meetings for myself until 2:00 if I can help it. I don't have a healthy relationship with mornings, you see.

Making matters worse is the fact that I have to attend this meeting with people renowned for saying things like "touch base," "low-hanging fruit" and "moving the needle."

Ew. Even typing that makes me feel all pukey.

Looks like I'm going to have to arm myself with some Irish coffee and Jargon BINGO to get me through.

I expect to have a full board by 9:10, 9:15 tops. I'll "circle back" and let you all know. Please be sure to "reach out" if I fail to "follow-up."

Best,
Curly

robert smith is my homeboy

I had a crappy morning. My subway ride was completely jacked making me late for a meeting, which is never a good thing but it's particularly horrifying when you're the new girl. Aaaawkward.

In my frenzy to get into the office, I had to blow off my usual coffee pitstop. So not only was I tardy and stressed, I was not sufficiently caffeinated.

Curly - caffeine = Major cranky pants³.

After I returned from the meeting, the loud chick with the upspeak problem who sits next to me announced that she was tuning her radio station from Top 40 to an "oldies" channel. Because she's the self-appointed office DJ, apparently.

When I heard her announce the switch, I was a bit relieved because I thought those of us in earshot were going to be treated to The Beatles and that ilk.

Silly me.

Apparently her idea of oldies is music from the 90s. Bitch subjected me to Hootie and the Blowfish and that song that keeps repeating the line "Please Don't Go" and, ew, Mariah Carey.

You know, that's enough to send me into a rage on a good day but when my baseline is already bitchy, I'm ready to go all Dr. David Banner on people's asses. I'd tell her that but she'd probably go, "Wait, who?"

You know, because she's 12.

So, since I can't afford to bust through any more of my clothing and it's impolite to run around the office destroying things, I opted instead to insert my headphones and soothe my sullen, scowling self with selections from The Cure's discography. Ah, much better.

Speaking of the macabre, The Lovely Jess has once again cracked open her notebook of angsty adolescent poems. You do NOT want to miss this one. I had to cup my hand over my mouth to conceal both gasps and giggles. Check it out.

on work and roastin' weenies

I'm officially into week 2 of the new job. So far, still so good. I'm working long hours but once I get the hang of the things, I can manage my time better. Kindly bear with my blog neglect until I'm back in the occupational comfort zone. Translation: When I feel comfortable enough to slack.

Reminder! The Weenie Roast is almost upon us!! Are you coming? Here's the info:

Click to enlarge

When: Sunday, July 15, 4PM - ???
Where: Roof Deck at Cattyshack
249 4th Avenue, Brooklyn;
(between President & Carroll Streets)
Directions & more info: cattyshackbklyn.com

Gay boys, breeders and non-bloggers (oh my) welcome!

UPDATED: Weenie Roast: FAQ

*************************

Attending: Me, duh; The Ninth Circle of Helen; Surplus; Joe.My.God., Tina-cious; House of Jero; Post No Bills: New York Adventures in Banality; NY Radical; Zeebahtronic; Babs' Travels; This Girl Called Automatic Win; Meanwhile; The Misadventures of an Adult Onset Athlete; Hyperdonut; Royspeaking; Confessions of a Southern Boy in Yankee Land; Rusty's Balcony; Crash and Byrne; Uffish Thoughts; Blind Cavefish; Cheryl B; Kelli Dunham; See My Briefs; The Lunar Gemini

Let me know if you're coming and I'll link to you. Spread the word! Danke und bitte.

on new starts and bad booty

Today was my first day at the new job. The verdict: I didn't hate it. Of course, the office is dead quiet because of the holiday so I may soon change my mind but the outlook so far is good. I even wrote myself a to-do list and on it, I included the terms "deliverables" and "speculation." I think that's the first time I ever used jargon when writing a note to myself. I can talk the talk and "manage up" when need be but I usually spare myself the lingo. But whatever, maybe it means I'm taking my job seriously and I'm engaged and want to do well. Let's hope.

One downside... the chick sitting next to me (temporarily) is in sales and she's on the phone a lot. Even worse, she's guilty of the upspeak. You know what I'm talking about? When one's inflection suggests that everything is a question even when it's not?

It goes a little something like this: "I'm just calling to touch base? And to tell you that just sent you an insertion order? For your run of site campaign? Blah, blah, blah?"

I also heard her say to someone in a completely lifeless monotone, "Oh my God, you're so funny." And she was being complimentary, not sarcastic. I don't get that. See, for me, when I'm extolling the virtues of someone's sense of humor, it's usually through fits of laughter while desperately trying to simultaneously catch my breath and suppress pee squirts. My bladder's trigger finger is getting itchier and itchier, you see.

But I've said too much.

On a completely unrelated note, I saw a report on the news this weekend about the Veggie Booty recall. Personally, I think that stuff is gnarly so I didn't have to clean out my cabinets. I'd be more upset if it were Pirate's Booty or Potato Flyers making people ill. That shit's good. Veggie Booty = very very bad.

But back to the news... The CW 11 News at 10 aired the following graphic during the report (highlight mine):

Is it just me or does that last bullet point sound like an ass injury? Perhaps one of the side-effects of too much shaking of said booty? The result of some over-aggressive booty slaps, maybe?

Whatever. It made me giggle?

pot pourri

So, remember back a month or two ago when I mentioned a possible poaching? Well, it's official -- I've been been poached. Um, to clarify, it's not in the salmon or eggs sense. No no. See, I've decided to let the river run. I poured myself myself cup of ambition and gave a big ol' "fuck you" to putting cover sheets on the TPS reports.

In other words, I quit my job.

A former manager called me up a little over a month ago with a business proposition. Long story short, I'm officially rescued from days of cubicle-dwelling in close proximity to cheese-cutting consultants. Bless her.

So yes, I've gots me a new job (starting Monday). It's in the same building so my commute, benefits and the rest of that junk stay the same. That whole different elevator bank thingy will be quite a challenge next week but other than that, most of my creature comforts will remain intact and for that, I'm grateful.

This past Tuesday was my last day at my previous job. Because I've been sickly the past month, I haven't been all that fond of the drink and as a result, my tolerance has taken a serious hit. I had a few Blue Moons the other night and well, I was lit. Just ask The Lovely Jess since she was the victim, er, I mean, recipient of a bit of drunken emailing. Here's an excerpt from the email I sent:

"no t drinkin gfor two weeks made me a lightweighsst. ha ha ha ha. i'm hammmerrdd."

I'm scary -- and overly fond of consonants -- when I'm drunk.

Changing gearrrrrrrs slightly... Here's a scan of a postcard the parents just sent me from Scotland:

Click to Enlarge

There's nothing noteworthy about it other than I think it's funny that my parents don't bother to send me scenic postcards. I used to go to Scotland all the time as a kid so I know from heather, thistle and Shetland cows. I appreciate the landscape, mind you, but been there, done that. I dig it that they appeal to my sense of humor instead. Need further proof? Here's the card they sent me last year:

Ha ha ha. I love my parents.

In other news, the list of attendees for the Weenie Roast is growing! Come out and join us. If you're feeling sheepish about meeting a bunch of strangers, just send me an email and I'll talk you into it. I'm very persuasive. All -- queer and otherwise -- are welcome. See you on the 15th!

on yugoslavian resistance groups and barry gibb's dentures, among other things

I have now reached Day 6 of The Funk That Won't Leave. The strangling 3AM coughing fits are holding steady and as such, I continue to become reacquainted with the early seasons of 80s sitcoms on Nick at Nite.

The real bummer about this cold is that I don't have my usual accompanying sexy sick voice. I usually get this hot raspy thing going on but I sound more like Fran Drescher than Janis Joplin this time around. It's sad, really.

I've also been having some really funky dreams. I passed out during the day yesterday and boy, did my subsconscious have a time of it. I dreamt that I was part of some armed resistance group in the former Yugoslavia. And the dude from The Full Monty was there. Alas, he wasn't naked nor did he dance around to "I Believe in Miracles." Bummer.

Last night I dreamt that I went on an interview at HBO (not where I work/will be working, FYI) and I was taken into a room where I was grilled by a panel of lame question-asking corporate suits. I could see them deriving pleasure as I squirmed and floundered while trying to tackle their poorly-worded queries.

It was one of those dreams that felt like it was endless. It was so frustrating. I understand why I had the dream though -- I've been approached about a new position and part of me is concerned that my job will be nebulous and ill-defined. The Yugoslavian rebel strike force dream, however, well, that's just baffling.

I'm a little down in the mouth but once I rid myself of the evil that's been plaguing my body, I'll be back into the swing of things. However, I have been able to amuse myself lately by making fun of Barry Gibb's dentures. It's a really effective treatment. Try it sometime.

ricolaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Okay, so it turns out, it wasn't allergies. Well, it's partly allergies but dude, I have been sidelined with the nastiest chest cold the past few days. I have one of those coughs that lifts me out of my seat whenever I'm seized with a fit. My eyes tear up and even my abs get a workout. It's wonderful. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I started coughing like a fiend and my throat got sooooooooooooooooo dry. Ever cough so bad you start to choke? Well, that was me. So I got out of bed, drank a glass of water and sat on my couch watching an episode of Roseanne on Nick at Nite while sucking on a Ricola. It was one of the early episodes where Dan had a head of curls more lustrous and springy than mine.

I went back to work today but as I sit here congested up to my eyeballs, coughing my brains out and again, sucking on a Ricola, I'm thinking it was a bad idea. I've become the annoying noisy cubicle mate now. Hey, it could be worse... I could be farting up a storm. I'm pleased to report that I'm not. Even if I was, I certainly wouldn't tell YOU. Oh, the shame. I'm from the same school of thought as the mother of my childhood friend, Arnold: "Girls don't fart, they squeak."

Um, okay... random tangent alert: I was just offered a job. I literally just got off the phone. I'm being poached from within. Wow. I was having a crappy week. Things just took an upturn. Gotta go!

lend me your ear[phones]

Since I can't send this to the department listserv here at work even though I REALLY, REALLY want to...

Dear Douche Bag Who Stole the Headphones off My Desk:

I won't even get into your lack of scruples. Instead I'll focus on the fact that you are now wedging something into your ears that had been in mine eight hours a day, for weeks and months on end! How gross are you? I hope you get a raging ear infection, you nasty fuck. Granted, I should not have left them out to tempt a klepto such as yourself but still, your dickheadedness trumps my carelessness big time. Barring an earache of epic proportions, I can only hope for a wicked short in the wiring, ass munch.

Cheers,
Curly McDimple

I am SO sending out my resume today.

breaking [wind] news

The Gas Man is being moved. I repeat, The Gas Man is being moved. Apparently his intestinal onslaught was a bit too much for his cubicle mates and he and has stinky "musical" stylings will be banished to a corner, well out of ear- and nose-shot.

Even though it wasn't my doing to have him moved, victory is still mine.

the new pollution

As some of you may recall, I was recently downgraded from an office to a cubicle here at work. I did my best to suck up the disappointment and embarrassment because causing a scene is not really my style.

Um, usually.

Prior to the move, my office neighbor approached me and said, "If it wasn't shitty enough that you're losing your office, I hear that we'll both be flanked on either side by some obnoxious guy who's a real loud talker."

This was a troubling development but, again, I did my best to just suck it up and deal. However, after about five minutes of occupying my new seat, I discovered that the rumors were in fact true... and he was sitting right.next.to.me.

I believe this is what you call adding insult to injury, my friends. The situation is far from ideal. If he was at least friendly, I'd try to cut him some slack. But he's a complete douche. And an eyesore, to boot! He's all oily-looking and sounds winded whenever he talks.

He also visits the bathroom with alarming frequency. It's noticeable because he even walks to the john loudly. It's uncanny. Theories as to why he's in there so much range from chronic masturbation to coke addiction to frequent urination due to an enlarged prostate. Actually, those three are my theories and mine alone. I'm not sure anyone else has given it much thought.

Furthermore, he sniffles and clears his throat louder than I thought humanly possible. He fidgets and fusses at his desk and frequently peers over into my cube. I really don't care for this practice in particular. Since I can't really hang up curtains or some nice blinds, I think my only option is to aim a gun at him the next time he does it.

Picture it: He slowly rises into his creepy prairie dog pose and meeting him at nose-level is a double-barreled shot gun. You know, kind of like the one Elmer Fudd carried around when he was hunting wabbit.

Fear not, the gun would contain the same kind of ammunition used in cartoons where the only injury sustained is a blackened, gun powder-filled face and crispy, teased hair.

Or, on a day I was feeling rather cheeky, perhaps I could launch a preemptive strike and shoot him in the ass. Oh relax! It's not like he'd bleed out or anything. Cartoon ammo, remember? The only trauma he'd suffer is that his red-and-white polka-dotted underwear would be revealed through a blast-shaped hole in his pants. Again, just like in the funny pages. I'm not out to kill the man... just ruin his complexion and perhaps a nice pair of trousers.

Today he took his bad cubicle etiquette to a new level. I've come to expect the egregious use of speakerphone and his Chris Matthews-like manner of speaking, what with the ear-splitting volume and baffling inflection, but this is the day we entered into brand new territory.

Today, my friends, I was treated to a deluxe combo platter of burps and farts, with some productive nose-blowing thrown in for good measure. It was symphonic at times. At one point, he reached a crescendo which reminded me of that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Ferris had all the bodily function noises programmed into his keyboard and then proceeded to play "The Blue Danube" waltz. :: WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze. WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze.::

You get the idea...

A loud fart punctuated the gruesome medley, after which a palpable tension and discomfort filled the air. Mercifully, those elements did not rendezvous with a noxious smell. Thank God for small, odor-free mercies.

The quiet didn't last long because I began giggling uncontrollably. You know, because I'm five. My less-than-subtle sniggering made the woman to my right laugh loudly which then made me giggle even more.

It showed no signs of stopping so I thought it wise to walk away from the crime scene and get the giggle out of my system in a neutral zone.

Good plan, right? Wrong. Unfortunately, I timed my escape at precisely the same moment the gas man decided to haul (noisy) ass to the bathroom. Of course there was a near collision which set me off into another fit of giggles right in the poor man's face, which then caused the woman to my right to laugh even harder.

I disengaged from the awkward tangle and then staggered into the nearest open office still laughing, which unleashed an infectious wave of chuckling among two other women who didn't even know the details of the fart-fueled fracas. Once they found out, however, the laughter reached a fever pitch, which no doubt was overheard by the gas man who was hiding out in the men's room.

Ten bucks says he's doped up on Beano tomorrow. At least I hope he is.

we are the goon squad and we're coming to town

Dear Grown Men and Women Who Wear Denim Shirts (or Any Article of Clothing, Really) Adorned with Embroidered "Looney Tunes" Characters:

Um, could you not?

Thank you,
Curly McDimple

i used to be by the window, where I could see the squirrels and they were merry

I've found in the 10 odd years that I've been working in corporate America that the best way for management to look busy and effective is to inconvenience their underlings. Boring, senseless meetings are scheduled in Outlook on a weekly basis even though nothing is ever accomplished in those gatherings other than annoying the attendees and the poor admin who had to arrange the thing on behalf of the organizer. Productivity is measured by pissed-off expressions it seems. The more annoyed people look, the harder management is working. It's all very Costanza-esque.

The office move is another tactic brand new management likes to unleash to make its mark in an established department. By moving people hither and yon, the powers-that-be look effective and definitive and powerful. Flowcharts and floor plans are the weapons of choice. Their executive assistants know VISIO and they are not afraid to use it. Mark.their.words.

So, if you couldn't tell already, I fell victim to a reshuffling of sorts at my job. Long story short, I no longer have an office. It wasn't a demotion, mind you, but I along with a few others in the creative department (read: non-revenue generating employees) are back to the 1-1/2 fabric wall arrangement. Gone is my closeable door and that highfalutin sheetrock I had grown so accustomed to. Sigh.

Yesterday was my first day in a cubicle. To say that the new feng shui didn't agree with me would be an understatement. With a little help from Meg, I started a little list of ways to revolt. Passive-aggressively, of course, 'cause that's how I roll...

1) Display symptoms of a permanent cold or infection of sorts that leads to lots of coughing, sneezing, nose blowing, etc.

2) Eat lunches at my desk that smell like farts, i.e. Hale and Hearty's Cauliflower Cheddar Soup.

3) Listen to music loudly and sing along, in particular the orgasmic wailing parts of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" and the "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" portion of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing In The Name."

4) Use speakerphone always and often.

5) Call my gyno and talk about oozing sores, rashes and bumps.

6) Explain my BMs in excruciating detail to my gastro doctor.

7) Discuss the various fungi plaguing my nether regions and feet.

8) Ask my shrink if eating one's own dandruff is cause for concern.

9) Call my doctor to see if the results of my TB tests are in. Then say, "Oh."

10) Use my blog to solicit job offers. Seriously, hook me up.

More to come as my frustration levels rise.

an open letter to the building facilities person(s) in charge of ordering paper goods for the bathroom at my job

Dear Building Facilities Person(s) in Charge of Ordering Paper Goods for the Bathroom at My Job:

While I don't expect my tush to be treated to the gentle and forgiving cotton of Quilted Northern here at work, I was just a bit chagrined to discover a new brand of parchment-like T.P. occupying the stalls today.

If I wanted to roll out some phyllo dough or draft a new version of the Declaration of Independence, this would be suitable paper stock. It is less than ideal, however, for wiping one's backside.

Lest you think I'm being a prima-donna, I assure you I have the greater good in mind when lodging this complaint. I dare say that scratchy toilet paper cannot be good for long-term company morale. It's simple math, really: A sore ass = a disgruntled employee.

And think of the potential absenteeism! And the cost of all the hemorrhoid doughnuts that will no doubt appear on numerous employee expense reports!

Please take this under advisement when placing your next order. If not, kindly plant a big wet one on my chapped, irritated ass. No, really, please kiss it as it might help soothe the burn.

Sincerely,

Curly McDimple

helpful hint #2

If when listening to Soft Cell's "Tainted Love" at work you attract the unwanted attention of annoyed coworkers by, say, banging your mouse down on the desk in time to the "dun dun" beat of the song, simply pretend your mouse is malfunctioning. Assume a look of frustration, loudly exclaim "Piece of crap!" and then pick up the mouse, shake it, remove the ball, blow air into the compartment and reassemble. If incredulous looks persist, make a pretend phone call to the help desk requesting a new mouse. Works like a charm.

Again, so I've heard...

i sit by and watch the traffic go

I've never had good timing. My luck, in general, is bad. I've often bemoaned my cursed fate... except this week. Dude, I'd have to say that the sun is shining out my ass. I had to burn off some vacation days so I selected this week well over a month ago. An impending transit strike wasn't even a factor in my decision. I knew I'd have Christmas shopping to do and friends in town so voila! Vacation time requested and instantly granted. Thanks, boss!

I haven't done an ounce of schlepping because of this transit strike. Sure I've altered some plans, which is unfortunate, but I'm not hauling ass over the Brooklyn Bridge in arctic temperatures. Nor am I shelling out money to take dollar vans, livery cabs, etc. For those of you who are, I'm really sorry. It really sucks and with any luck, it will be over soon.

I'm sort of enjoying the vacation in my neighborhood. I did all of my Christmas shopping here, save for a couple of purchases on Amazon.com. The Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece is getting The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper and The Muppets Take Manhattan from her favorite aunt. Oh and I also got her The Neverending Story. I just need to get her a classic book and I'm done. I've been stocking her book and movie collection with my favorites since she was born.

I've also been getting caught up on movies. So far I've watched Rize and I'm halfway through Crash. I started getting sleepy and turned off the latter last night. I'll resume today. So far, I'm not really digging it. Everyone seems to be conveniently racist and super mouthy about their views. But perhaps that's the filmmaker's intent? Don't know. I have to watch the whole thing before I can legitimately critique the film.

I had a dream last night that was SO cool I didn't want to wake up. I was disappointed when I realized it wasn't real. I was in a diner having lunch with Ally Sheedy. What?! For some reason, I started talking about Andrew McCarthy like I knew him. And then Ally said, "He's a great guy. I know him well." And I said, "Oh right! You did a couple of movies together!" And then we talked about how much we both loved Andrew McCarthy. Yes, I know I'm a lesbian but I was positively smitten with the boy. How could you not love him in St. Elmo's Fire?!?! Or Pretty in Pink? His charm and cuteness completely transcended my sexual orientation. That is until he made Mannequin with Kim Cattrall and I was all, "Helllllllllllllooooooooooo, nurse!" I thought Kim was hot, yo (as discussed here).

Wow, this might be my least coherent and most random post ever (but do let me know if you have other nominations for this distinction). I don't have the mental energy to compose anything with a theme. Perhaps after a full vacation, my mind will once again be buzzing with activity. As it stands, my brain has not fully congealed after months of punishing it at work. It still has a mush-like consistency, you see.

I'm outta here. I'll check in again before Christmas. In the meantime, I've got presents to wrap, clothes to launder and blessings to count that I don't have to travel this week. Again, my sympathies and best wishes to those of you hoofing it back and forth!

let them suck wind

I really love how the fat cats in upper management at some companies are advising employees to walk or ride bikes to work in the event of the transit strike tomorrow. Mind you, these are the very same people who haven't set foot on the subway in ages. They don't need a contingency plan since they can go about their usual routine -- car service to and fro the office, usually at the company's expense. Either that or they live in the suburbs where the mass transit systems are not affected by the strike.

You can question my "New York grit" all you want but if there's no contract in place come midnight, my ass ain't budging from Brooklyn tomorrow morning. In case upper management hasn't noticed, it's a bit nippy outside, it being December and all. Walking a couple of blocks is rather unpleasant in this weather so hoofing it from borough to borough just ain't in the cards. The suits (and the MTA) can, how you say, suck it.

Normally, I welcome the opportunity to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. However, I like to do it at a leisurely pace and, you know, when it's not AS COLD AS ALL FUCK OUTSIDE. As it is, the winds blow a gale across that gorgeous span on a summer day when it's hot as balls outside. In July, for example, the breeze provides a lovely and most-welcome respite from the heat. Now I'm no fancy weather expert or anything but I don't imagine those same winds would be nearly as pleasant in fucking December. Call me an overly delicate sort but being slapped in the face by an icy gust and possibly blown off the bridge into the chilly waters of the East River below just ain't all that attractive an option for moi.

Thank God I'm on vacation next week.

i'll have the big gulp, thank you

Okay, so there's this woman at work who's relatively new and, I swear to God, I CANNOT shut up around her.

Did you ever know one of those people who, despite your best efforts, you simply cannot help but yammer incessantly whenever they are near? Well, it happens to me occasionally and it sucks. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. It's like a sickness.

Believe it or not, I'm considered quiet at work... [I'll pause for the incredulous, "Youuuuuuuuuu?!" response. To which I say: "How very clever and unexpected! Now, suck my left nut and let me get on with my story!" Mama has the PMS, you see...]

So, as I was saying before I was hypothetically interrupted, I'm considered one of the less talkative people in the office. This woman, however, would be inclined to disagree.

It's not that she even makes me nervous or flustered. I don't like her or anything like that. I mean, she's nice and stuff but I'm not stricken chatty because I have a crush on her. I swear I don't. I realize that I'm opening myself up to accusations that I doth protest too much but those of you willing to levy such a charge can taketh thine Shakespeare and shove it up thine arse(s). Me lady is not even me type.

Anyhoo, I think I may have discovered the root of the problem. The first time she and I spoke, I had just emerged from a day of not really socializing with anyone. I was really busy all day and didn't have a chance to chat with any of my coworkers. I bumped into her in the pantry late in the day and SPLAT! Verbal fucking diarrhea. A day's worth of pent-up chit-chat, small talk and mindless banter exploded from my mouth with such speed and force that I could NOT put a cork in it. I had the oral runs. The talkative trots, even. The spoken shits, if you will.

I caught myself jawing away and was actually telling myself to shut up in my head. But I couldn't reel it in. What spewed forth was an unending stream of uninteresting, useless, overly-detailed information, observations and the like. I was holding that poor woman hostage but could.not.make.it.stop. I felt like Ted Striker constantly talking about the war to his fellow passengers in Airplane! How this woman wasn't dangling from the rafters or sucking on a bullet by the time our conversation ended is nothing short of a miracle.

And now whenever I see her, I try so hard to be cool and not talk a lot that I get nervous and well, the incessant babbling begins. I feel like emailing her and saying, "Look, I'm not usually such a talkative fucktard. I swear I'm not. May we please wipe the slate clean and begin again?"

Maybe I should invest in a sedative. I can have it on me at all times like an EpiPen so that I can just jab myself in the thigh whenever I feel an attack coming on. That should do it. OR!!! I can follow her into the bathroom every time she goes in. At some point, she's bound to emit an embarrassing noise or odor and then won't she be ashamed that I witnessed it! The balance of power will finally be restored!

Ooh, there she goes! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go "fix my hair."

a rebuttal

According to a recent study 90% of women wash their hands after using the bathroom whereas only one in four men do. Over the past day or two, I've seen this study cited in numerous publications and newscasts and the headline is always the same: "Women are cleaner than men!"

Um, no they're not. Clearly they did not include corporate women in this study. Now I'm no fancy researcher or anything but I am a keen observer of people and I can say without hesitation that a lot of "professional" women are filthy bitches sorely lacking in basic manners and social skills.

The biggest offender of all was a former manager of mine. Not once did this woman wash her hands in my presence. In fact, on one occasion I saw her emerge from a bathroom stall EATING A PIECE OF PIZZA. I stared at her in disbelief but she was unfazed and just smiled, waved at me and kept on walking. No shame. No embarrassment. No soap and water. My coworker also saw her leaving the can with a half-eaten sandwich. Now, I admire those who can multi-task but there has to be a limit, you know?

Actually, there were several people at that job who had issues. Those of us who did wash our hands and you know, not eat lunch in the john, were forced to form a support network. We tipped each other off to the bad bathroom habits of our coworkers. We disseminated the information and maintained a stash of alcohol wipes and hand sanitizers in the event that we couldn't avoid direct contact with the guilty party or something he or she touched.

Those of us in-the-know abstained from eating the fruit salad at the holiday potluck when we discovered that a person guilty of the pee-and-run prepared it. It was all very, "Don't drink the milk! It's spoiled!" (Little Rascals, anyone? Anyone?)

Furthermore, Instant Messenger windows flared open on multiple desktops whenever a social taboo was spotted (i.e. "Don't touch the Fast Company in the common area. I just saw so-and-so come out of the bathroom with it!")

But gross bathroom behavior is not limited to hand washing and the defiling of shared periodicals. Far from it. I've worked in several different office buildings in my career and there's always one common element -- bombed-out stalls. Oh, and bad coffee too.

I've witnessed the same piss on the seats, clogged plumbing courtesy of tampons/pads, and the ubiquitous ring around the toilet comprised of half-dry, half-soggy toilet paper. I'm assuming these piles form when so-called "careful" bathroom users line the seat with TP before parking their asses on it. The result: Some of the paper "catches" after flushing and goes to its rightful destination. The rest either lingers on the seat or falls to the floor. While the culprits are trying to be all sanitary, all they're really doing is leaving a gross, disgusting mess for the next person. Since obviously it's their biggest fear, I cannot help but wish hemorrhoids on these people.

The pattern of piss on the toilet seats really blows my mind. Sometimes, it looks like the urine was deliberately and maliciously applied. The distribution is all scattered, swirling and angry-looking with pooling in certain areas. It looks like a fucking Pollock painting or something. For most of us, it's a toilet seat. For others, it's a blank canvas apparently.

If it's a light sprinkling concentrated in one area, that clearly means that the stream of pee became a tad unruly while the pisser was hovering over the bowl (as I do). An errant sprinkle of tinkle happens to us all. However, when normal people spot the misdirected flow, they reposition themselves accordingly. If not for the sake of the person who has to mop up at night, we do it for the sake of hygiene. Pee bounces, yo. Both porcelain and plastic are reflective surfaces and if you pee on them, they'll pee right back.

I could further belabor my point with examples of smells and people forgetting to courtesy flush (or just flush period) but it's all been said many times, many ways. In fact, I'll wrap this up right now with links to some suggested related reading:

:: The Sarcastic Journalist: If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle...
:: PoopyJoe.com: The Work Poop
:: PoopReport.com: Splatter Stopper
:: The Random Muse: Potty Politeness

Enjoy!

more fun with stock photography

I'm taking a quick break to come out from under the pile of work I'm trapped under to say hello. Work has been a bitch this week -- 12-13 hour days of working at a frenzied pace. And I have PMS. Pleasant would not be a word to describe me this week.

I've been doing LOTS of photo research the past few days. In the process of looking for financially-strapped mothers and irritable babies (separate stories, by the way), I came across two very interesting pictures. Let's take a look at the first:

Corbis

Am I wrong or is this not Stacie J. from The Apprentice? I knew she was a model but frankly, I'm hoping her career consisted of more than posing for crappy royalty-free photos. It's not the most respected gig. In fact, in terms of prestige, I think it comes after modeling for a K-mart circular or the JC Penney catalog. You're so busted, Stacie J.

And here's number two (pun fully intended):

PictureQuest

This image, without question, blows my first encounter with a scary baby stock photo right out of the water. What parent would do this to a child? Again, I see what looks like hair spray in this kid's ridiculous 'do. I'll avoid the obvious mullet criticism but is that a comb over? And those bangs!!! He doesn't even look like a baby. He looks like a smaller version of some of the men I've seen wandering around Paramus. Poor thing. Here's hoping that when he's older, parental emancipation -- and a good mirror -- will right these wrongs.

occupational hazard

A portion of my job involves photo editing for some big ass websites. An assignment I'm working on today requires finding images of tween girls who emulate celebrities to an extreme. The hook is that these stars are not necessarily the best role models. Some of the text I'm working from is rather cut and dry so I've been finding pictures through my regular sources quite easily. However, I seem to have hit a snag on the last one. The editorial calls for a young girl who dresses like Britney Spears. This was the assigning editor's polite way of saying she needs a 12-year-old who looks like a cheap whore. I've got my work cut out for me.

Searching via keyword on stock photo sites is a fine art. I can't search for "dresses like Britney Spears" because I won't get any results. The sites' search algorithms just don't work that way. I'm taking great pains to execute relatively harmless Boolean searches so that I don't end up on some pedophile watch list. Do you know how hard it is to think up legal-sounding synonyms for "slutty-looking tween"?

Won't it be an interesting day in the offices of Corbis, Getty and PictureQuest the next time they check their logs? Actually, thanks to this post, the logs for my site will get pretty foul too. As it is -- and as I predicted -- a lot of individuals curious about foot fetishes have been dropping by recently. Good God, what have I done?

fun at work

Hey ladies, do you know what's a really fun and enjoyable way to banish monotony and rid yourself of the workday doldrums? Why just walk into the bathroom and play an impromptu game of Musical Stalls until you find the one toilet that isn't clogged, riddled with pee sprinkles and/or completely shit-streaked!! Even better, you can burn calories and work off a big lunch as you zig-zag back and forth until you find the clean can! Bonus points if you get the pristine potty on the first attempt! Please note that gagging on offensive odors, the trailing of toilet paper and/or slipping on puddles will negatively affect your score. Now get out there and have yourself a game of it!!