Coachella 2005
We're going a third time, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
They announced the lineup this morning at www.coachella.com. Cocteau Twins! I'm so excited I could pee.
1.31.2005
1.26.2005
Typ-o.
Typ-o.
I just cried in my friend's office over the stupidest of typos ever to be a stupid typo.
Friday afternoon, I finally released a document I've been writing since May. Nine months of gestation. Anyway, I didn't write all of it, as evidenced by my next paragraph. Today, I finally got ahold of a printed sample from our vendor. It was shiny and beautiful. Mostly.
In one section, I pulled a lot of work from stuff my subject matter expert compiled in the field. I quickly cleaned it all up and fixed his insistent misspelling of "minute" as "minuets" and made the grammar a little happier. I'm TOTALLY NOT RISKING MYSELF FOR DOOCAGE here by naming the actual offending assembly, but I'll tell you that something on one of our machines is called a somewhat common word with an added "-or" at the end. Almost everyone accidentally writes "-er," except us dilligent technical writers and other nice law-abiding people who follow rules.
My subject matter expert marches to the beat of his own drummer in many ways, one of which being his writing. He's a very intelligent, educated, literate man (we once argued about "optimal" vs. "optimum" when used as an adjective and he busted out the latin root definition and original usage, without looking anything up), but he CAN'T SPELL MINUTE. Nor can he decide to use "-or" or "-er." He had both.
Spell check is a ridiculous tool in our documents in Frame Maker. I like to turn off the "smart quotes" feature, otherwise my inches turn into curly little quotations, but spell check stops on every.single.quote telling me that I can't do that and I certainly can't add that shit to my dictionary. I end up pressing "skip" a lot. Also, the "-or" word isn't a real word, so I either add that to the dictionary or get lazy and press skip.
I, apparantly, missed some "-er" words. I know it's not that big of a deal, because nobody really knows/cares how to spell the assembly name anyway, but I'm just disappointed in myself. I was fine until I relayed the story to someone else and realized how preventable of a mistake this was, a giant non-hormonal but instead hygene-neglect-based blemish on my beaming pride of project completion.
Stupid -er words. Fuckors.
I just cried in my friend's office over the stupidest of typos ever to be a stupid typo.
Friday afternoon, I finally released a document I've been writing since May. Nine months of gestation. Anyway, I didn't write all of it, as evidenced by my next paragraph. Today, I finally got ahold of a printed sample from our vendor. It was shiny and beautiful. Mostly.
In one section, I pulled a lot of work from stuff my subject matter expert compiled in the field. I quickly cleaned it all up and fixed his insistent misspelling of "minute" as "minuets" and made the grammar a little happier. I'm TOTALLY NOT RISKING MYSELF FOR DOOCAGE here by naming the actual offending assembly, but I'll tell you that something on one of our machines is called a somewhat common word with an added "-or" at the end. Almost everyone accidentally writes "-er," except us dilligent technical writers and other nice law-abiding people who follow rules.
My subject matter expert marches to the beat of his own drummer in many ways, one of which being his writing. He's a very intelligent, educated, literate man (we once argued about "optimal" vs. "optimum" when used as an adjective and he busted out the latin root definition and original usage, without looking anything up), but he CAN'T SPELL MINUTE. Nor can he decide to use "-or" or "-er." He had both.
Spell check is a ridiculous tool in our documents in Frame Maker. I like to turn off the "smart quotes" feature, otherwise my inches turn into curly little quotations, but spell check stops on every.single.quote telling me that I can't do that and I certainly can't add that shit to my dictionary. I end up pressing "skip" a lot. Also, the "-or" word isn't a real word, so I either add that to the dictionary or get lazy and press skip.
I, apparantly, missed some "-er" words. I know it's not that big of a deal, because nobody really knows/cares how to spell the assembly name anyway, but I'm just disappointed in myself. I was fine until I relayed the story to someone else and realized how preventable of a mistake this was, a giant non-hormonal but instead hygene-neglect-based blemish on my beaming pride of project completion.
Stupid -er words. Fuckors.
1.24.2005
Marathon.
Marathon.
I'm currently on my third week of training for a marathon. I've been a little hush about this because I'm more scared of letting people down than I am of AT-band injuries. I didn't want to build up people's expectations and then not have it work out. I didn't want to be a disappointment.
Tomorrow night will be my first meeting with the Leukemia/Lymphoma Team In Training local group, where I'll actually, officially, commit to this. Technically, I got a Team In Training discount on my recent running shoe purchace, to replace my ratty old trail shoes with far too much mileage on them, just because I was talking to a former-Team In Training participant in the store about what the group will be like, and the sales clerk overheard. So, yeah, I'd feel like I needed to go back and give the shoe store a few bucks if I dropped out.
But what I know will be driving me through mile 5 and 25 and finally past the finish line is the exact same thing that got me started and will keep me training over the next 5 or 6 months.
As I was going through my mail one night a few weeks back, I was talking to a very good friend about his father who passed away last year from leukemia. I just felt so much heartache and frustration in his story, and I think there was a little more than chance involved when a quick shuffle through my junk mail revealed the bright purple cardstock Team In Training brochure. I told my friend right then, without even thinking about it, that I was going to do it. (I somehow wasn't concerned about letting him down if I didn't make it, moreso with getting him to do it with me. We quickly decided that wasn't going to happen.)
I'm sure I'll be learning a lot about leukemia and lymphoma as my work with Team In Training progresses, but for now I know that future research could prevent people from literally dropping dead or suffering so much because of these mysterious diseases, and that makes me want to do something drastic, something important, something meaningful, something 26-odd miles long. I guess it is good that I worry about disappointing people, because "other people" is what this is all about. Sure, there'll be a lot of personal gain and accomplishment, but that's just not it. I'm not doing this for Julia.
But for now, I really need to dip my weary body into a piping hot bath.
I'm currently on my third week of training for a marathon. I've been a little hush about this because I'm more scared of letting people down than I am of AT-band injuries. I didn't want to build up people's expectations and then not have it work out. I didn't want to be a disappointment.
Tomorrow night will be my first meeting with the Leukemia/Lymphoma Team In Training local group, where I'll actually, officially, commit to this. Technically, I got a Team In Training discount on my recent running shoe purchace, to replace my ratty old trail shoes with far too much mileage on them, just because I was talking to a former-Team In Training participant in the store about what the group will be like, and the sales clerk overheard. So, yeah, I'd feel like I needed to go back and give the shoe store a few bucks if I dropped out.
But what I know will be driving me through mile 5 and 25 and finally past the finish line is the exact same thing that got me started and will keep me training over the next 5 or 6 months.
As I was going through my mail one night a few weeks back, I was talking to a very good friend about his father who passed away last year from leukemia. I just felt so much heartache and frustration in his story, and I think there was a little more than chance involved when a quick shuffle through my junk mail revealed the bright purple cardstock Team In Training brochure. I told my friend right then, without even thinking about it, that I was going to do it. (I somehow wasn't concerned about letting him down if I didn't make it, moreso with getting him to do it with me. We quickly decided that wasn't going to happen.)
I'm sure I'll be learning a lot about leukemia and lymphoma as my work with Team In Training progresses, but for now I know that future research could prevent people from literally dropping dead or suffering so much because of these mysterious diseases, and that makes me want to do something drastic, something important, something meaningful, something 26-odd miles long. I guess it is good that I worry about disappointing people, because "other people" is what this is all about. Sure, there'll be a lot of personal gain and accomplishment, but that's just not it. I'm not doing this for Julia.
But for now, I really need to dip my weary body into a piping hot bath.
1.21.2005
Best Kiss.
Best Kiss
I was just thinking about the best kiss I can remember, and because I spent upwards of a month trying to kiss Erik while he repeatedly squirmed away, my first real kisses with Erik weren't necessarily text-book great. Sure, there were butterflies and potential and crushes and the the beginnings of the best love I've ever had, but Memorable-Oh-My-God-That-Was-Just-An-Amazing-Kiss-wise? I don't know. It's a whole other emotion-less category. "Best Kiss" is one of those kisses that throws you off, and rather than keep making out and um, progressing, you're more likely to stop for a moment to think to yourself, "Dude. That was a great kiss." It doesn't necessarily depend on love, but a deep relationship definitely helps already-lovely lips taste that much better.
The best one I can think of was late summer, 2000, with an ex-boyfriend. He was an ex at the time. We had broken up that spring after over two years of being together. Our physical relationship tapered quite lacklusterly in those waning last months. A few months later, we hung out and kissed. I think the combination of something so familiar -- the softness of his lips, the way he offered his lower lip just a little bit to be tugged, and a companion I had known so, so well -- combined with the unknown and the absense, made the kiss stop me in my tracks.
I've written about this before, but we tried to stay together for a few more weeks after that kiss. It didn't work out at all. Sure, he's a phenomenal make-up kisser, but that doesn't pay the bills.
So, what was your very best kiss? It's time to kiss and tell. Names, of course, may be changed to protect the guilty.
I was just thinking about the best kiss I can remember, and because I spent upwards of a month trying to kiss Erik while he repeatedly squirmed away, my first real kisses with Erik weren't necessarily text-book great. Sure, there were butterflies and potential and crushes and the the beginnings of the best love I've ever had, but Memorable-Oh-My-God-That-Was-Just-An-Amazing-Kiss-wise? I don't know. It's a whole other emotion-less category. "Best Kiss" is one of those kisses that throws you off, and rather than keep making out and um, progressing, you're more likely to stop for a moment to think to yourself, "Dude. That was a great kiss." It doesn't necessarily depend on love, but a deep relationship definitely helps already-lovely lips taste that much better.
The best one I can think of was late summer, 2000, with an ex-boyfriend. He was an ex at the time. We had broken up that spring after over two years of being together. Our physical relationship tapered quite lacklusterly in those waning last months. A few months later, we hung out and kissed. I think the combination of something so familiar -- the softness of his lips, the way he offered his lower lip just a little bit to be tugged, and a companion I had known so, so well -- combined with the unknown and the absense, made the kiss stop me in my tracks.
I've written about this before, but we tried to stay together for a few more weeks after that kiss. It didn't work out at all. Sure, he's a phenomenal make-up kisser, but that doesn't pay the bills.
So, what was your very best kiss? It's time to kiss and tell. Names, of course, may be changed to protect the guilty.
1.18.2005
Dip.
Dip.
On Interstate 5, just south of the I-805 merge, there's one of those programmable light-up CalTrans/Dept of Transportation/whatever signs on the freeway that says "Dip Ahead." And then, there's no dip. There are signs on both the north-bound and south-bound lanes. Also on both: no dip.
Of course, I am always, every single time, ready and braced for the dip and undergo a series of ease-off-the-gas, arms-steady flinches for the next half mile past the sign, like when you finally drop a bad bout of hiccups but are then plagued with that rhythmic psychosomatic anticipation where your hiccups used to be.
Either take down the fucking signs or dig me a better dip.
On Interstate 5, just south of the I-805 merge, there's one of those programmable light-up CalTrans/Dept of Transportation/whatever signs on the freeway that says "Dip Ahead." And then, there's no dip. There are signs on both the north-bound and south-bound lanes. Also on both: no dip.
Of course, I am always, every single time, ready and braced for the dip and undergo a series of ease-off-the-gas, arms-steady flinches for the next half mile past the sign, like when you finally drop a bad bout of hiccups but are then plagued with that rhythmic psychosomatic anticipation where your hiccups used to be.
Either take down the fucking signs or dig me a better dip.
1.17.2005
Inhaling thrills through twenty dollar bills.
Inhaling thrills through twenty dollar bills.
It's bad when you drive to work and red lights bring you to tears. This might have something to do with putting The Postal Service's highly depressing "This Place is a Prison" on constant repeat as you drive in darkness trying to get there early enough to clean up a project by an unreasonable deadline you agreed to without enough information. Or maybe the whole world is against you, including the computer chips that control the traffic lights.
It's bad when one of your best friends tells you you were the high mark in an otherwise dismal 2004, and that makes you feel warm and fuzzy and very very happy, but then every conversation you have with them since then can never measure up to that moment and that makes you a little sad and paranoid and over-analytical. For the love of all that is holy, Julia. Someone just told you the nicest thing ever and you manage to ruin it.
It's bad when you go to bed not for the rejuvenation of sleep, but just so yesterday will be over.
It's bad when you sit in a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon by yourself pretending to get some work done only as a partially-subconscious excuse to get out of the house and be alone, but then the people at the next table over are quoting Napoleon Dynamite and you just sort of want to be friends with them and join in.
I'm going through another one of my little spells. Everything around me is surprisingly wonderful. I have a fabulous, loving husband, amazing friends, a deep relationship with God, and other little momentary happinesses like when sweet baby Grace thinks my purse is called Julia and plays with the little faux-leather flower decorations and the zipper with her tiny fingertips singing "ju-la, ju-la, ju-la" to the purse, over and over again.
However, I still manage to find something, somehow, to be melancholy about. I'm such a fucking spoil-sport and I need to snap out of it, now. The good news is that I've felt like this before, and it will indeed pass.
I feel like any emblem of happiness is scarred by my own psyche telling me that it's not as good as it feels. That I'm not as happy as I should be. That I'm not as loved as I think I am.
My cup runneth over and all I can think of is the waste and the mess.
What does it take, how long must I wait?
It's bad when you drive to work and red lights bring you to tears. This might have something to do with putting The Postal Service's highly depressing "This Place is a Prison" on constant repeat as you drive in darkness trying to get there early enough to clean up a project by an unreasonable deadline you agreed to without enough information. Or maybe the whole world is against you, including the computer chips that control the traffic lights.
It's bad when one of your best friends tells you you were the high mark in an otherwise dismal 2004, and that makes you feel warm and fuzzy and very very happy, but then every conversation you have with them since then can never measure up to that moment and that makes you a little sad and paranoid and over-analytical. For the love of all that is holy, Julia. Someone just told you the nicest thing ever and you manage to ruin it.
It's bad when you go to bed not for the rejuvenation of sleep, but just so yesterday will be over.
It's bad when you sit in a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon by yourself pretending to get some work done only as a partially-subconscious excuse to get out of the house and be alone, but then the people at the next table over are quoting Napoleon Dynamite and you just sort of want to be friends with them and join in.
I'm going through another one of my little spells. Everything around me is surprisingly wonderful. I have a fabulous, loving husband, amazing friends, a deep relationship with God, and other little momentary happinesses like when sweet baby Grace thinks my purse is called Julia and plays with the little faux-leather flower decorations and the zipper with her tiny fingertips singing "ju-la, ju-la, ju-la" to the purse, over and over again.
However, I still manage to find something, somehow, to be melancholy about. I'm such a fucking spoil-sport and I need to snap out of it, now. The good news is that I've felt like this before, and it will indeed pass.
I feel like any emblem of happiness is scarred by my own psyche telling me that it's not as good as it feels. That I'm not as happy as I should be. That I'm not as loved as I think I am.
My cup runneth over and all I can think of is the waste and the mess.
What does it take, how long must I wait?
1.14.2005
Propaganda.
Propaganda.
The following is a list of propaganda I believe without any quantitative facts, research, or proof (that I know of) to back it up. Why? Because I'm a left-wing socialist pig.
The following is a list of propaganda I believe without any quantitative facts, research, or proof (that I know of) to back it up. Why? Because I'm a left-wing socialist pig.
The following is a list of never-before-seen propaganda I am hereby proliferating. Normally, I'd keep these theories/observations to myself, but someday you'll notice these things, too, and muse to yourselves, "oh, I remember reading this on the internet back in the day."You can indeed waste water. I know it's raining like ass these days, but I don't care. A plant-based diet is better. The way we live right now will ruin our children's children's lives. Speaking of global warming, Al Gore is handsome. Everyone is going to heaven. And God does not "hate fags." The moment you stop obsessing about a flaw, the more flawless you become. Gasoline should cost far more than it does right now. Organic produce should be cheaper to grow, and therefore should be cheaper for me to buy. Pesticides should cost more. You can totally vote with your dollar. Boycotting makes a difference. Dark chocolate is really good for you. People who believe propaganda without quantitative facts, research, or proof to back it up proliferate the mindset that left-wing socialist pigs are followers who can't think for themselves. And I'm okay with that, bitches.
Eagle Scouts are better in bed. Former Eagle Scouts, that is. Umbrellas are poorly designed. Spandex is not fooling anyone. Oprah is not real. She does not exist. Maybe she did once, but now she is a fake robot. Same with Regis. Not that I've been watching hollywood gossip shows or watching daytime television or anything. Gym memberships are for pansies. The future of everything, absolutely everything, is completely captive to the future of the internet. It has already changed our lives as we know them, and as people start growing up who have never known life without the internet, it's just going to be even stronger of an influence. Notice I didn't specify that it is a good or bad influence. Okay, so that last one isn't a new theory or anything. I just wanted to get it out and it didn't really fit in my first category. "Reporters" and barbara-walters-y people who ask questions like, "How did that make you feel?" are not worthy of my time. That's the stupidest question ever. Oprah does this, too. See also: bullet #4. Lists are a genre.
1.12.2005
Surely, I'm on crack.
Surely, I'm on crack.
Last night, I almost pulled an all-nighter, except for an oh-so-collegiate 2:30-4:30am nap. In and of itself, that's not so bad.
However, around 7:15am this morning, as I packed up the computer, my running tights caught my eye hanging in the guest bathroom. So of course, I put them on and went running. When I only got 2 hideous hours of sleep. When I didn't even finish all the work I was trying to finish. When 7:15 is really late for me to even start getting showered, much less start a run.
One of my most favoritest and dearest friends, Kathryn, called me out of the blue yesterday, moments after I finished telling my coworker a story about something that happened to us during college. She's such an easy friend and she's moving back here. !!. Only for a few months, but I'm so happy nonetheless.
So, back in college, Kathryn was over at my apartment, and we ate dinner with my boyfriend and one of his friends. Around the coffee table, of course. As we were all cleaning the dishes, I just did my usual wash-then-place-in-drying-rack routine. Kathy stopped in her tracks. "Don't you rinse??" I suddenly realized that no, I guess I don't rinse. I insisted that my mother did her dishes this way, and I just copied her. [Before you make fun, since that very moment, I've rinsed all my dishes.] A few months later, Kathy and I were at my parents house, and my mother was, sure enough, doing dishes. And rinsing. And insisting that she never taught me not to rinse. Traitor.
John thinks that not rinsing your dishes is very English, and apparantly he has stats on this. Or something. Therefore my mother has not only betrayed her loving daughter who has provided her with the pure joy of motherhood for some twenty-five years now, but she has also betrayed the homeland and the Queen.
Last night, before Erik went to bed, he brought me a plate of delicious foods. I caught you a delicious bass! Instead of bass, it was truffles, candied ginger, pistachios, macadamia nuts, a delicious almond-butter with dark chocolate, some pita bread, and peeled and segmented tangerines with the pips all cut out. Consider this a giant "FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION" splashed over the bottom of the movie screen for the Best Husband Ever award. He got lots of tangerine-flavored kisses.
I know I've departed from the "surely I'm on crack" subject line, but this might count: tonight, in addition to attending a local Society of Technical Communicators meeting (meh.), I also have to finish calligraphing all of my sister's wedding invitations. All while catching up on Lost and Alias, because, clearly, I can't show my face on the internet tomorrow without having watched either episode.
1.10.2005
Lather.
Lather.
Last summer, while Erik was away working for the forestry service, I was standing in the shower, wasting precious non-renewable resources and planning out a blog post. It wasn't until I started stringing the sentence together in my head and picking the exact words I'd use, I suddenly realized that I am indeed stupid.
Let's start from the beginning. Erik and I, like most normal couples with coordinating sanitation routines, share a bar of soap. There are no major downsides to this symbiosis, outside of the very uncommon brown hair disgustingly left stuck to the soap. I have noticed though, since we usually have an open-door bathroom policy EXCEPT WHEN POOPING, that he lathers differently than I. He will hold the bar of soap in one hand and rub it over his body. I like to swivel the soap around in both hands for a little bit, and apply the lather to my body with my hands. It seems like it would conserve soap. You just get the soap a little wet, and rub it a little bit, versus standing under the stream of water and continuously rubbing the soap all over your body. Totally inefficient.
When Erik left for those 10 weeks, I realized that I was indeed going through soap far less quickly, and instantly attributed it to my superior lathering method.
So, back in the shower, I was thinking to myself, dude, I could totally blog about this. Let's see. I could write, "My hypothesis is proven! Muahahahaha! Erik's lathering method must be less efficient, because while he was gone, I used so much less soap. Almost half as much soap."
But then it hit me. If I'm going through half as much soap, it's only because there's half as many people showering. Oops. I suppose it doesn't reveal anything about our lathering methods. And then it hit me again. If I'm going through almost half as much soap, it can only mean one thing: my lathering method is far from superior. More soap-per-capita is consumed when it's just me.
Of course, I'm not about to change the way I lather.
p.s., Last bathroom-related post for a while, I promise.
Last summer, while Erik was away working for the forestry service, I was standing in the shower, wasting precious non-renewable resources and planning out a blog post. It wasn't until I started stringing the sentence together in my head and picking the exact words I'd use, I suddenly realized that I am indeed stupid.
Let's start from the beginning. Erik and I, like most normal couples with coordinating sanitation routines, share a bar of soap. There are no major downsides to this symbiosis, outside of the very uncommon brown hair disgustingly left stuck to the soap. I have noticed though, since we usually have an open-door bathroom policy EXCEPT WHEN POOPING, that he lathers differently than I. He will hold the bar of soap in one hand and rub it over his body. I like to swivel the soap around in both hands for a little bit, and apply the lather to my body with my hands. It seems like it would conserve soap. You just get the soap a little wet, and rub it a little bit, versus standing under the stream of water and continuously rubbing the soap all over your body. Totally inefficient.
When Erik left for those 10 weeks, I realized that I was indeed going through soap far less quickly, and instantly attributed it to my superior lathering method.
So, back in the shower, I was thinking to myself, dude, I could totally blog about this. Let's see. I could write, "My hypothesis is proven! Muahahahaha! Erik's lathering method must be less efficient, because while he was gone, I used so much less soap. Almost half as much soap."
But then it hit me. If I'm going through half as much soap, it's only because there's half as many people showering. Oops. I suppose it doesn't reveal anything about our lathering methods. And then it hit me again. If I'm going through almost half as much soap, it can only mean one thing: my lathering method is far from superior. More soap-per-capita is consumed when it's just me.
Of course, I'm not about to change the way I lather.
p.s., Last bathroom-related post for a while, I promise.
1.07.2005
Poop Bathroom Security Breach.
Poop Bathroom Security Breach.
I have a dedicated poop bathroom at work. It's genius, tucked away in a sea of cubicles generally occupied by men. There are only two women who sit over there, so there's some slight calculated timing involved. No biggie. And I'm near enough to not look completely obvious walking there. Definitely a win-win situation. Nobody witnesses me work-pooping, I can work-poop in peace, and my insides no longer have to withstand 9+ hour stretches of inactivity.
But there's been a breach. Yesterday, I was rinsing my coffee cup in the break room nearest my poop refuge, and I saw a woman from accounting, which is far, far away from the poop bathroom, come out! Of MY poop bathroom! And she surely pooped. Why else would she make the trek? My secret is out, and I'm not good at sharing when my bowels are involved.
We made eye contact as she left the bathroom. Kind of an "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING HERE" look fired back with an "I KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT I'M DOING HERE" look. Maybe a little "dude, should we call each other first from now on?" but it was primarily animosity.
Sure, there's a chance she's been pooping there longer. Maybe it was her poop bathroom long before I came to work here, and I'm the one digging in her turf. But seriously, at least I sit somewhat close and can fake some reasons for being near the P.B.
I don't know if I can go on like this. It's hard enough for me to not lock the main door and turn on loud music, much less constantly worry that she will walk in, see a closed stall, and instantly know who it is and what I'm up to with nary a peek at my shoes. This changes everything.
My new plan of action is to eliminate the poop bathroom.
No, I'm not going to resort to torturing my bowels again. I'm simply going to make the poop bathroom the everything bathroom. The other, non-poop bathroom is too crowded anyway. And the breakroom near the poop bathroom (my "of course I have a reason to be over here, look at me, rinsing my cup" cover) will become my everything breakroom. I already use the fridge for my soy/oat milk, but I'm going to completely ween myself of the other, non-poop breakroom. If the poop-breach woman sees me in that area, she'll soon realize that it's because I'm just using my breakroom, and oh look, while I'm here, I may as well pee. Or poop. It makes NO DIFFERENCE.
It's like when Sydney brought down SD-6 in season 1 of Alias and didn't have to sneak around the CIA office anymore. She could actually use the front door. My poop bathroom was my secret access door, which, while sneaky and ultimately beneficial, was a total hassle, a little shameful, and ultimately meant bad news for me and my loved ones. Sure, the show started to go downhill when she was no longer a secret double agent (incidentally, I am so thrilled about the new secret! agent! again! plotline), but at least she doesn't have to concern herself with poop bathroom invasions. What with the private dressing room and all.
I hesitated to write about this, because another female coworker has access to this blog. But I'm pretty sure she hasn't read the blog in a while so we're safe. However, on the off chance you are reading, DAMN YOU IF YOU DARE POOP IN MY BATHROOM. I'll go all secret agent on you.
I have a dedicated poop bathroom at work. It's genius, tucked away in a sea of cubicles generally occupied by men. There are only two women who sit over there, so there's some slight calculated timing involved. No biggie. And I'm near enough to not look completely obvious walking there. Definitely a win-win situation. Nobody witnesses me work-pooping, I can work-poop in peace, and my insides no longer have to withstand 9+ hour stretches of inactivity.
But there's been a breach. Yesterday, I was rinsing my coffee cup in the break room nearest my poop refuge, and I saw a woman from accounting, which is far, far away from the poop bathroom, come out! Of MY poop bathroom! And she surely pooped. Why else would she make the trek? My secret is out, and I'm not good at sharing when my bowels are involved.
We made eye contact as she left the bathroom. Kind of an "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING HERE" look fired back with an "I KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT I'M DOING HERE" look. Maybe a little "dude, should we call each other first from now on?" but it was primarily animosity.
Sure, there's a chance she's been pooping there longer. Maybe it was her poop bathroom long before I came to work here, and I'm the one digging in her turf. But seriously, at least I sit somewhat close and can fake some reasons for being near the P.B.
I don't know if I can go on like this. It's hard enough for me to not lock the main door and turn on loud music, much less constantly worry that she will walk in, see a closed stall, and instantly know who it is and what I'm up to with nary a peek at my shoes. This changes everything.
My new plan of action is to eliminate the poop bathroom.
No, I'm not going to resort to torturing my bowels again. I'm simply going to make the poop bathroom the everything bathroom. The other, non-poop bathroom is too crowded anyway. And the breakroom near the poop bathroom (my "of course I have a reason to be over here, look at me, rinsing my cup" cover) will become my everything breakroom. I already use the fridge for my soy/oat milk, but I'm going to completely ween myself of the other, non-poop breakroom. If the poop-breach woman sees me in that area, she'll soon realize that it's because I'm just using my breakroom, and oh look, while I'm here, I may as well pee. Or poop. It makes NO DIFFERENCE.
It's like when Sydney brought down SD-6 in season 1 of Alias and didn't have to sneak around the CIA office anymore. She could actually use the front door. My poop bathroom was my secret access door, which, while sneaky and ultimately beneficial, was a total hassle, a little shameful, and ultimately meant bad news for me and my loved ones. Sure, the show started to go downhill when she was no longer a secret double agent (incidentally, I am so thrilled about the new secret! agent! again! plotline), but at least she doesn't have to concern herself with poop bathroom invasions. What with the private dressing room and all.
I hesitated to write about this, because another female coworker has access to this blog. But I'm pretty sure she hasn't read the blog in a while so we're safe. However, on the off chance you are reading, DAMN YOU IF YOU DARE POOP IN MY BATHROOM. I'll go all secret agent on you.
1.04.2005
Cage free.
Cage free.
Yesterday, not only did my three sweet coworkers drive me to the grocery store at lunch and assure me that if men had such a monthly event as menstruation, they'd be sure to share their woes with me too, but also expressed interest in the concept of organic, unbleached tampons, the same box of organic unbleached tampons in our basket, touching their groceries.
However, I may have inadvertently used the word "cooter" to describe the girlie bits I'd like to keep as conflict-free as possible. I just couldn't bring myself to say the V word to my coworkers in the middle of the produce section. They may be very blurry, but I do have some boundaries.
Yesterday, not only did my three sweet coworkers drive me to the grocery store at lunch and assure me that if men had such a monthly event as menstruation, they'd be sure to share their woes with me too, but also expressed interest in the concept of organic, unbleached tampons, the same box of organic unbleached tampons in our basket, touching their groceries.
However, I may have inadvertently used the word "cooter" to describe the girlie bits I'd like to keep as conflict-free as possible. I just couldn't bring myself to say the V word to my coworkers in the middle of the produce section. They may be very blurry, but I do have some boundaries.
1.03.2005
Complete the following sentence:
Complete the following sentence:
Julia is totally JJ Abram's bitch because:
Julia is totally JJ Abram's bitch because:
a). ...she was quick to snap out of mourning for Alias this fall with the launch of his other addictive show, Lost.
b). ...she is planning on watching not one, not two, but THREE hours of mind pollution on Wednesday night for the new Lost episode and the two hours of new Alias episodes.
c). ...she is inviting people over for the afore-mentioned three hours.
d). ...she is blowing off a church event for the mind pollution. Yes. Church. God.
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