diaeretics part deux

They're back, and in force. As if they ever left. The diaeretics in my office, i.e. the older women who drink coffee all day and then hit the bathroom every two seconds, were in rare form today. I posted earlier about the wretch-worthy things they do in the bathroom and I just wanted to say that today, when I went into the small stall, there was pee all over the toilet seat. Now, I can understand a dude doing that (with the aiming problems and all). But women? I just don't get it. Born in a barn, I guess.

where's michael?

I once stole a toy tractor out of Jeff King's yard just to prove to my parents that I could ride a toy made for boys. I wore cut-off jean shorts and I liked the feel of mud between my toes. I wanted to be Luke Skywalker, not some princess with dumb hair. I even made my friends call me "Michael."

When that same Jeff King told me girls couldn't eat those Brachs cinnamon discs because their stomachs would catch on fire, I shoved one in my mouth. The funny thing is, at 5 years old, I actually believed my stomach might burst into flames. I just didn't care ... I hated that 'but you're a girl' shit.

When I got older, I started to realize it wasn't that I wanted to be a boy, but that I wanted people to believe and understand that I could do the same things they could. I liked Barbies as much as the next girl, but the boys on my block were more adventurous, and seemed to live on a looser leash.

I was born thinking about these categories. Boys v. girls. Religious v. pagans (my mom's catholic, hey). I even fomented revolution in kindergarten ... stood up during reading-time and said "hey kids, let's go outside and play." Apparently they followed me out, and we were riotous out there on the merry-go-round. (swear this is true - ask my mom).

Then I got sucked into school and unicorns and cabbage patch kids and math homework. I stopped thinking about it. People, including boys, were mean to me. I let them be, as long as they were popular.

In high school, I had friends who called themselves feminists, who talked a lot about gender equality. I tried reading Susan Faludi's Backlash one day on the golf course, while I sat there in my waitress uniform and waited for golfers to buy beer out of my cart. But I couldn't get into it, even in the peace and quiet of the outdoors. I didn't even get half-way through.

Since my childhood, I've turned into a pretty lazy human being. I was born curious, born thinking, but I've sort of lapsed into a runofthemill person who doesn't assert her opinion much. I don't tend to think about where I stand on certain issues - and yes, I know, I'm soo irresponsible. Sometimes it concerns me. Sometimes I think I shouldn't be spending so much time watching shit like Real World/Road Rules challenges, but hey, that Coral is funny and the boys look good in their speedoes. And it's Sunday and I have to go to work tomorrow and endure the pit of hell so I might as well enjoy my downtime.

But here I am, today, at work, feeling indignant like I did as a 5-year-old stealing that tractor. I guess that's how it is. You become a lazy thinker until something actually happens to you - something unfair.

I've been conducting little experiments lately with my boss. A male. I can't figure out if he ignores me because I'm a woman or if it's for some other reason.

So, all I'm doing right now is collecting evidence. There will be no sounding off on grand conclusions until I feel I have enough empirical data.

Here's what I've discovered so far:

1. when a male colleague says 'hey can I talk to you for a sec,' my boss turns around in his chair, crosses his legs and faces said colleague. What's on your mind, he'll say, and the colleague will talk for a good 5 minutes about a project. Boss says 'hmmm that sounds interesting, what about this and what about that and keep me posted.'

When I say 'hey can I talk to you for a sec,' I get "sure." But he doesn't look away from his computer and he never makes eye contact. There is no turning of the chair, no crossing of the legs. And he can't wait till I stop talking! I feel this! He starts to daydream, I can tell ..."hmm will Barry Bonds hit that homer, will the roast beef we're having for dinner be OK after that big lunch I just had, speaking of...I need to take a dump..." I find myself talking really fast, trying to get through it, because I want to end the torture for him. It sucks.

2. when the office is full of us girls, he spends most of the time in a separate office, closed away from us. When it's emptier, or when male colleagues are there, he's out in the open.

3. He jokes around with the males, says have a good weekend, good job on that project, etc. With me (and at least some of the other girls), we get a mumbled 'have a nice wekslkebub' and it's only after we say something first.

OK that's all I really have. Maybe I'm wrong. He does have two little adorable girls at home, and he loves loves LOVES them. His wife is also a super strong smart type; she wears the pants in the family.

So what is it?

"It could just be that your boss doesn't like being around you, finds you annoying," you say. "Or maybe you suck at your job and the boys don't." Yes, this could be true. If so, what the hell do I do? Give up and go home? Look for another job?

I feel like if I did that, I'd be betraying the child version of myself, the one who fought to be noticed, to be told with honest, non-glazed eyes, 'This is why I slight you.' That's it. That's what bothers me more than anything.

When I was a kid, I had a thing about eye contact, about disingenuous nodding.

If I were talking to my parents or anyone, and they didn't look at me and, I would move my face until it was in front of their eyes. I would force them to pay attention, and I would enunciate so there could be no mistake that hey, I was saying something important. I feel like the kid version would not let this work crap happen. I feel like she would
throw a fit or mount a protest or tell a joke. Anything. I've sort of half-assedly tried some of these things but they haven't worked yet. I wish I could go back in time, because I feel like my kid self knew a lot more than I do now. She knew what she believed in, and what she'd put up with.

She'd eat that fire-producing candy to prove a point. All I can do is whine.

I suck.

goodbye, best friend

so, my best friend is moving away next week. And I am inconsolable.

I met her when I was 29 (now I'm 31) and it was so strange because I thought I'd already met everyone who was going to really matter in my life. We haven't known each other long but it's one of those all-consuming friendships where you can't imagine a life at all beforehand. And no, we're not gay.

It was my first day on a new job. I had come from a company where I'd been sort of raked over the coals, esteem-wise. My boss had been younger than me and one of those managers who never really learned how to deal with people. And while I generally liked everyone over there and loved many aspects of my job, it was time to leave. I walked into this new place energized and ready for something new.

Ashley was sitting at her desk with her back facing the door and I remember her popping up like a little gopher to shake my hand and her eyes were big (not like Jennifer Wilbanks, but wide open, like they were taking everything in.) She is a lot like me in that way.

She started asking me question after question ... where are you from? what do you do? what do you know? what's your name? and we jibber jabbered like auctioneers for a good ten minutes before my new boss came in and said "time to go to lunch!" That meant me and the new boss, but not Ashley. I didn't walk out of the room, I backed out, and we were still talking. It was like being separated from someone after an anticipated reunion. That sounds dramatic but that's really how it was.

The way she explains it: I walked in standing super straight, eyes open (not like Jennifer Wilbanks), like "I'm here. What's up, guys" ... alert and confident like a warrior ready for battle. And that's how we've come to think of ourselves, the two warriors who always end up in the shitstorm together. I've said it to her a million times and she's said it to me - we wouldn't want to be in the shitstorm with anyone else.

In the last three years or so, we've been through a lot: Job changes, a breakup, health scares, money troubles, work drama, and all I have to say is thank god for her or I'd be dead in a ditch somewhere from the stress of it all. It's strange how life is, how when one of us is down in the dumps or bawling and blotchy faced because of some crisis, the other one is always there. I have scooped her up and she's scooped me up. She's been my blanket, my comfort in the dark of night, like a mama in a rocking chair.

But of course, there can be no talk about Ashley or about me without feces coming up once or twice or a million times. "that's a bunch of SHIT!" she'll say on the phone, in response to some BS thing that happened to me at work. Or, we'll see someone walking down the street looking like he has to go (or just went). Or maybe we ran into someone who had a little feekeez smeared on his arm. Hey, it's happened.

Ash does this imitation of a dude walking down the street in Walnut Creek (it has to be Walnut Creek) with a load in his drawers ... the best is when she's wearing these little grey Express pants and her little tiny legs are prancing oh-so-carefully so the doo in the drawers doesn't get too disturbed. Guess you just have to see it.

Then there was the time my car wouldn't start in the parking garage at midnight, and we got in to wait for a ride only to discover the electric locks were also dead. Yep, we were stuck inside and it only took about 25 minutes for us to get hungry. And to start saying things like "you know, if this turns into hours, I may have to eat your arm..." Then when Brad got there to help us, the darn thing started. If Ashley hadn't been there, he wouldn't have believed the car really died (cause I'm dumb that way).

I could tell a million stories. About Benoit, the imaginary french man that only comes out when we're eating Crepes at Crepes A Go Go. Or about the Indian restuarant in Berkeley that has the most heavenly lamb (to the point where we'd both fantasize about it at work ... a big giant piece of lamb floating in outer space). About the goatboy that shook Ashley's hand, then galloped into the sunset. We've had such adventures. Sigh.

She's only going to LA, for godsake, only a mere 6 hours away, but it's been heartwrenching. You should see us, cramming as many activities as we can into the weekends. "But she's leaving," I say to my boyfriend after informing him that he'll have to spend yet another weekend without me around.

I wish we had all the time in the world, because all of our outings seem to end too soon. I wish we could have more conversations, so I could tell her that no, her legs aren't crooked and that her face doesn't really look like an avalanche (she's beautiful, in case you're wondering. Classic-like). I try to tell her things sometimes, but I cry easily and it gets stuck in my throat.

Even when we're 80 and sitting on our porches talking to each other about the feces in our depends, I'll still have a hard time explaining to her what she's meant to me, and how I would be so, so lost without her. If I died today, I'd tell those on the other side that I've met everyone I'm meant to meet, and that Ashley was the cherry on top of the sundae.

We'll see each other often, even after she jumps in her car wednesday, ready to travel to SoCal with her 15,000 boxes of books. And if she ever needs a warm blanket in the dead of night, or needs some TP cause she's out, I'll be in my car, racin' on down to LA with the Charmin.

love you, Ashley.

diaeretics cha cha cha

This is the story of a ruined cell phone. The title is a little misleading, but in the end, I promise it will make sense.

In my office, there are several middle-aged women who drink coffee non-freakin'-stop all day long. And I'm not talking about froo froo starbucks coffee with a bunch of whipped cream and frizzle frazzle on top. I'm talking black, sludgy, car-grease Foldgers (the best part of wakin' up ... doo dee doo dee in your cuuup). The kind that smells a little like your grandma's musty ole house, and a little like a stanky sewer.

But what smells even MORE like a sewer is ... yep, the bathroom where these women go to relieve themselves after drinking the coffee. We call the women 'the diaeretics' because they're in the bathroom constantly, and they ain't going Number One.

(For those of you non-coffee drinkers ... and I know that swarms of people read this blog so I feel comfy talking in plurals ... coffee makes you have to poo and it doesn't matter if it's during the day at work, away from the comfort of your home-base, i.e. the toilet in your house.) I don't know about you, but I try to avoid poo'ing at work at all costs. I admit, there's been a time or two where a sour stomach caught me unawares and I had to make an exception to the rule ... OK, sorry, TMI. I'll continue.

But these women, I swear to god, take reading material into the WORK restroom. There's no shame. And if you happen to walk in in the middle of one of these poo-fests, they don't freeze (the way us normal folk do) ... they just keep on grunting and groaning until their job is done. No shame.

When I first started working in this office, I couldn't believe how brazen these women were. I'm still not used to it, but in a weird way, I'm glad it happens because it gives me something to laugh about every day (which is sorely needed in my office).

Within my first month, we started having severe sewage problems - stopped up toilets, etc. One time, I walked into the restroom early in the day to find one of the stall doors LOCKED FROM THE INSIDE. I could tell, even from my vantage point outside the stall, that there was feekeez (my personal slang for feces) all over the floor, maybe even the walls. What this means is whoever did this GOT DOWN ON the ground and slithered underneath the door. A small hole. Not an easy feat especially with No. 2 all over the floor.

ICK.

As if it couldn't get any weirder, the plumber said he found a cardboard toilet-paper holder JAMMED into the toilet hole and that's why it was stopped up. Someone stuck her HAND into the toilet water to put that there. Why? Who knows. (shiver).

While this tale was spreading through the office the morning of, I could hear my (male) boss behind me mumbling. I can't remember what he said but it probably went like this: "we have some nasty-ass biotches in this office, man."

OK, this is taking too long. But, you know, I had to get that background in so you'd understand how gross this next part truly is.

About two weeks ago, my cell phone fell into the toilet at work.

:)

It was in my front pocket (loose slacks) and as I was pulling those pants on up (after No. 1), I heard this 'plop.' I turned around and sure enough, there it was, staring right back up at me. um....uh...

About two days before, one of my co-workers told us that she accidentally washed her cell phone in the washer with laundry and it still worked. This was what was floating through my head as I fished the stupid thing out with a ... cardboard toilet paper holder. All I could think about was the diaeretics and how much shat must have fallen into this particular toilet in just the past year. This was all post-flush, but STILL!

As soon as I got the thing out, I plopped it into the sink and ran water over it for at least a minute.

Now, I love to tell stories. Especially ones where I look stupid, so of course everyone knew within five minutes (not the diaeretics but my close work friends). I took the phone apart, and strung it out over my desk to dry. I called my boyfriend at work to tell him, and he accused me of doing it on purpose just so I could get the new RAZR.

Sadly, the thing still worked after it dried (can you believe it? I would have thought the acid or whatever from the middle-aged-woman feekeez would have killed the battery but no...)

I tried using it for a couple of days, but all I could think of was poo residue rubbing off on my face, getting stuck in my ear.

So, I got a new RAZR. A silver one, with super kee ringtones.

Needless to say, I've had it for a week now, and I've never once put it in my front pants pocket.

I've shitted out all the shat I can shit ...

Ah, office quotes. At work, we keep a running list of funny little quotes. I thought I'd share. Protecting identities, of course ... All are girls except for K. He's our boss.

APRIL 21, 2006

A, after finishing her thesis. She thinks it’s bad, of course.
“I think I’ve shitted out all the shat I can shit.” — A

APRIL 18, 2006

K expounds a bit on the deluge of ‘departure’ emails we’ve been getting at work (i.e. people leaving for greener pastures):
“I’m tired of these.” Sigh.
Then, he adds that he’ll write his own ‘departure’ email when and if he leaves the company.
“I did a wonderful job and everyone loved me. I could go on about myself, but . . . why?”

APRIL 13, 2006

K comments on us girls and our catty nature and P responds:
“Where’s the joy in life if I can’t talk about other people?” — P

then . . . paying tribute to Coral from The Real World:
“I don’t wrestle. I beat b*tches up.” — P

APRIL 11, 2006

After getting off the phone with someone (who doesn't work for our company):
“Man, I should have her job. She was dumb as hell. That broad’s dumb.”—
D

“I’ve never had bad cake before . . . but that was bad cake.” — P

D looked up “pedophile” and found that it wasn’t listed in the dictionary.
“Webster’s a chump.” — D

APRIL 7, 2006

Discussing how T's dentist bruised her cheek during an office visit by trying to stick his whole hand in her mouth. The dentist is also missing a finger, so it should have been easier ...
“I could do it. I could fit my whole hand in my mouth if I didn’t have a pinky.” — D

MARCH 31, 2006

D and S discussing the unfairness of ice cream sundaes at corporate headquarters during a big boss's Q&A staff meeting. We didn’t get any in our office, of course). What’s more, the HQ folks got “mad toppings” for their ice cream.
“Who doesn’t like sprinkles? They’re like little sugary pieces of heaven.” — D
“More like sugary pieces of turd.” — S

MARCH 30, 2006

J and P talking about a murder, where new embarrassing information is now coming out about the victim.
“It’s embarrassing, yeah. But then when you’re killed, it doesn’t really matter anymore.” — J

MARCH 29, 2006

D talking about eating animal crackers as a kid:
I would bite the heads and tails off systematically, and then I would eat the bodies — D

J telling the story about the poodle that ate chocolate (bad for dogs), then barfed in the van on the way to have her little doggie stomach pumped, then tried to eat the chocolate barf in the van later on the way home. Apparently the dog thought there was some chocolate barf in J's purse:
“I didn’t want her ugly little puss in my purse... when I was trying to turn the corner, she was hangin’ on my arm.”— J

During a week of talking to people about beavers for a work-related project, C phones the nuisance animal trapper:
“This is your daily beaver call”

S has a stomach ache.
“You wanna go to my house? We’ve got three bathrooms. Well, actually, two and a half.” — T
“They all have toilets, right?” — S
“Yeah. Do you need to go? I mean, to my house?”— T

MARCH 16, 2006

After a long discussion about reality TV, one of many these days ...
"Ah, I miss Anna Nicole . . ." P

JULY 8, 2005

After news that R&B singer Luther Vandross died, R said D acted like the singer was a member of her family when she referred to him simply as “Luther.” D's reaction:
“Well, Luther’s been around for a lot of intimate moments in my life.”

JUNE 22, 2005

R talking about the cute redhead, W, who works at Panama Bay.
“W puts a little vanilla in my drink.”
“That sounds pretty saucy. I’d like W to put some vanilla in my drink
too.” -D

APRIL 8, 2005

“Did you hear S defending her yesterday?”-D.S.
“Who?”-K
“Camilla Bowles,” - D.S.
“That trollop.” - K
“Ahh...you can’t turn a ho into a housewife!” - D.S.

MARCH 2, 2005

“When I get my taxes back, I think I’m definitely going to get a mini-iPod...”-D.S.
“Yeah, and I could get one and they can get link up. I would get the pink one and you would get the blue one and they’d go at it...”-D
“Yeah and they’d produce those iPod shuffles and we could hand them out like candy.”-D.S.
“They’re all going at it like rabbits...”-D.
“Yeah, this is like the stupidest conversation we’ve ever had.”-D.S.

JANUARY 17, 2005

“My goal is to get through the day, isn’t that enough?”-S on what she wants to write down in her self evaluation.

“That’s what I’m going to put down, my goal is to be able to make enough money so that I no longer have to be an apartment manager.”

GOD!

I almost couldn't even remember the password to sign onto this thing.
I think there's a black widow on the wall...oh no (corn?!)

Zzzzz...

No one reads this damn thing, do they? If they do, they could at least tell us why it sucks. I think it needs a revamp.

Any ideas?

Nah. I don't have any either.