Did I catch a Niner in there?

diaeretics part deux

2006-06-05T22:42:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-06-03T13:27:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2006-05-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-05-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-03-28T21:42:00.000-08:00

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.

Silver Springs

2005-01-20T19:27:00.000-08:00

This morning I reached a milestone. One, oddly enough, that I had been thinking about for the last few weeks, as if I sensed it coming. It's a milestone that's up there with your first tooth, first word, first step. Only this first marks the beginning of the end. Yup, I discovered my first gray hair.

I was standing before the bathroom mirror this morning, all sleepy-eyed and hair disheveled, when I noticed what looked like a white thread laying unnaturally in my dark, ash-colored hair. "How did that get there?" I puzzled, as I reached up and fished for it. Finding it, I gave it a firm tug, which, instead of removing the misfit, proved that it actually belonged -- to me. Ouch.

I left the bathroom and headed to work dejectedly. My co-workers advised me to rid the crinkly, snow-covered traitor with a quick pluck or a box of dye. But it's still in there, sprouting from the very top of my head in Alfalfa fashion. I confess, I'm a bit fascinated by it. Every time I walk by a mirror, it seems to loom above its more youthful company and say: "There will be more."

"And what wisdom should I glean from that?" I wondered, as I stood in front of the mirror again about five minutes ago. People might answer in different ways. Joseph Campbell might phrase it, "Follow your bliss," or Keats, "Rage against the dying of the light." (Funny how I quote dead people, no?) Simply, in my terms, I think it means that I should charge after all that I want now, so that later, when all my frosty friends -- or what's left of them by then -- have gathered around my head, I can just reflect on being thankful, instead of wishing I had done something else.

There's a more dismal, macabre interpretation of this milestone, of course. But I'm going to refute it. It's not like this new addition to my head is a divine messenger, or personal Messiah. It's not telling me something I don't already know. But it reminds me of something I occasionally forget, which is to make sure I'm living the way I want. Right now, it feels that way. But if it ever changes, I've got my gray hair to make sure I do something about it.

kindly f is a fraud

2005-01-18T17:42:00.000-08:00

I mean that in the nicest way.
And I want to be nice, because, well, kindly f is a friend. UNBEKNOWNST TO US, this friend of mine has been posting comments on this blog under the pretense that he is an actual reader. An actual fan. While I was relieved to find out that I KNOW the person (i.e. I didn't actually have a stalker who happened to know I was reading Conroy's The Prince of Tides on an airplane recently even though I never uttered word one about it here), I was still a little sad to find out that Master Zen and I really are just sending our thoughts out into oblivion (no offense Kindly F, but you read because you like us, not necessarily because you think we're brilliant writers). We went from having one commenter, to having no commenter. wah.

I am sitting alone in a very quiet office, lit by ridiculously fluorescent lights, and I imagine the place my words are going - right here and now - to be the cyberspace version of ... well, a quiet office lit by fluorescent lights. It's not that we thought we'd start with a bang, but we happen to think we're clever and that at least someone would talk to us.

I don't know about Master Zen, but I really was the kid on the playground with no friends as a youth.
Being a loner, even on this here thing, makes me sad.

I guess I should thank kindly ... aka Dan! ... for letting us think for a little while that we had a fan club.

To Kindly F

2005-01-17T21:47:00.000-08:00

YES I was reading Conroy but I never said anything about that on this blog so ... wow, weird.
you sure I don't know you?
I'm thinking you're a friend and just not telling me ...
yeah?

the cat stealers

2005-01-13T18:36:00.000-08:00

well God damn.
So, I've been pestering my boyfriend for some time now about getting a cat. We both have allergies, but we love animals. Anyway, there are certain types of kitties - Norweigan Forest cats - that don't cause allergies for us, but they're hard to find!!!!

After months of searching (and having our names on waiting lists), my dear friend Master Zen found a cute little guy named "Alvin," on a shelter web site. The ad went up yesterday, and she zinged me an email right away to let me know about him. All day today I called the shelter folks from work to make sure Alvin was still there (he's 3 months old and as cute as a button).

The assholes at the shelter told me that no, I couldn't put him on hold, that it's a first-come, first-served thing, despite the fact that I KICK ASS and would provide a better home for him than anyone else. So after much coordination and getting off work early, I putt-putted my ass over to the shelter and the little guy was still there, but there was a bullshit note - handwritten, mind you - on his little room saying "sorry, I've been adopted." Mother F*cker. I wanted to cry. :( ! I couldn't talk for the first five minutes or so because I had this really huge lump in my throat. You know how that happens? You get your hopes up so high and then some f*cker in a Volvo (well I don't know if Alvin's new owner drives a Volvo but I assume so) dashes your dreams. Master was with me and you should have seen her ... It was beautiful.

She started stomping around the shelter, yelling about how we'd just called "two minutes ago" and some yahoo had told us Alvin was still available. LIARS. We both wanted to find the people who took him and beg them to give him up (we found out later they actually adopted TWO cats, including MY Alvin). What do they need two cats for!?!?!? We squinted at all the patrons inside that place, glaring accusingly. Any one of them could have been the culprit, and we wanted them to know of our displeasure.

I wanted to take a giant crap on the lobby floor on my way out, I was so mad. yes, that's immature, yes, yes, I know. but I never said I act like an adult, now, did I?

I hate that shelter. (I know this is immature, OK? just let me be mad!)

Here's my horoscope for the day (and coincidentally, it's also Master Zen's. We're both Gemini).

Changes may not be what you expect, but with your versatility you should be able to take on any challenge. A new direction will keep your mind alert and hold your interest.

My interpretation: The cat is gone, and you didn't expect that. But with your versatility, you'll be able to either a) get used to the idea of someone else having Alvin, or b) will be resourceful enough to hunt down the mofos who took him and bludgeon them to death (taking Alvin, of course). Or if not, a new direction (a new cat) will keep your mind alert and hold your interest.

Alvin, if you're out there listening, I'll always love you. I hope your new owners as as nice to you as I would have been. If your new owners are mean, my door is always open.

airplane etiquette

2005-01-06T11:20:00.000-08:00

I wish there was a way to communicate airplane manners to every flying member of the human race.

I flew at Christmas, and by the end of the trip, I HATED the girl sitting next to me with the heat of a thousand novas.

Now, I know Christmas is a crazy time of year, and I had told myself before arriving at the airport at 4:30 on a Thursday morning that my day of flying would be insane. I told myself to go with the flow ... it's all you can do, right? But I say it's one thing to deal with impatient crowds inside the airport, and quite another to deal with someone ON the plane who just shows a complete lack of respect.

After a surprisingly easy stint in ticket and security lines early that Thursday morning, I ended up in my aisle seat, comfortable and thankful that things had gone so well to that point.

Then, I saw her. (Insert the "2001" monolith theme music here.) I watched her walking down the aisle, and right away I could see that something wasn't right about her. She was normal-looking enough - blonde, of average height and weight, wearing Adidas running pants. It was the expression on her face, and the way she moved along bumping into people's heads with such a complete disgregard for them that got me. She moved haphazardly, elbows akimbo, duffle bag hitting her knees loudly and over and over again ... And I did what we all do when we see a disaster walking our way. I said a "please let her walk past, please let her NOT be sitting next to me" prayer.

I used to do that when I was a waitress at my hometown country club during high school ... I'd see someone walking off the golf course toward my little grill area 10 minutes to closing time, and my boss and I would try to figure out if the person "looked hungry." If we'd already cleaned the grill and put the garnishes away, it would be just our luck that the person would come in and order a cheeseburger with all the fixins, plus fries, plus onion rings, plus a shake, plus anything else inconvenient to make. Cecil (my former boss) and I would whisper little prayers, asking God to let the person walk on by, hoping that maybe the'd head into the pro shop instead.

Anyhoo, on this day, I had no such luck. As the female version of the Marshmallow Man shoved past me, she managed to step on BOTH of my feet ... with no apology, of course ... and then she plopped down heavily in her middle seat and sighed. Evidently, she was pissed off at me for having enough luck to snag an aisle, for having been born, for having black hair -- whatever.

Rule No. 1:

Being stuck in the middle seat does NOT give you the right to make the passengers on either side miserable. Airplane etiquette says that you can have the arm rest. That's it. That, I can give you ... see!? I'm not all that evil. I recognize that it sucks monkey asses to be sandwiched between two people who may or may not have BO (I didn't ... I'm just sayin' ...)

But you don't get to stick your bony-ass elbows in my curtilage, in my space, my bubble, during the entire flight. You do NOT get to rest your feet on top of MY bag, which is mostly shoved underneath the seat in front of ME (not you.) And you do not get to rest your freaking head on the side of my seat, to where I can feel your stinky, hot breath on my hands as I read my book.

I'm not a large person. In fact, I just measured myself from shoulder to shoulder, and I'm 17 inches across. That's all the space I require, and I feel like I'm a generous person when it comes to making others comfortable. For example, I'll be the one to sit in the backseat of the car on that little middle hump so no one else has to ... I generally do what I can, with little complaint. But at the end of this flight, I wanted to PUNCH
this broad in the FACE.

Rule No. 2:

When the pilot lands the plane and says "you're free to move about the cabin," you do NOT get to CLIMB OVER THE PERSON in the aisle seat so you can stand in the aisle and be the first to get out. Can you believe this? I almost died when she did this, and I wouldn't have believed anyone could even have the gall to do it if I hadn't seen it myself.

Even in the stupid corridor thing walking out, she annoyed me. I finally stopped dead in my tracks and let 10 or so people file past me just so I could get away from her. I only wish there had been a way to let her know how much I'd hated her without causing a scene.

Anyway, here's a note to this woman who was apparently raised in a jungle by a pack of rabid wolves:

You suck. I hate you. And if I ever see you again, I will run away as fast as I can. If I ever see you on a plane, God forbid, I'll ask the flight attendant to move me.

I'll even fold myself into an overhead bin if it'll get me away from you and your stinky elbows.

I hope you had a lousy Christmas, wherever your final destination may have been. I hope you got stuck in the middle seat on your way back to California, and I hope there were two 700-lb. gorillas with BO on either side.

To kindly fingers ...

2004-12-06T21:18:00.000-08:00

No offense taken - it is obscure, this here blog, and only about a week old. A more cynical version of your comments would have been welcome (though I do like the kindly ones, too) and you probably would have been right.

In the real world, my co-blogger and I contribute as needed, aspire to be "team players," and work our rears off to do what is expected with little or no complaint. This may sound cowardly, especially in light of the earlier post about us being sane and everyone else being off their rockers - (shouldn't we tell them so? isn't it disingenuous not to? I see that contradiction, and surely others would, too.)

The truth is we're probably a whole lot more accommodating than we'd like to admit.

But isn't the whole point of a blog being queen (or king) of your little domain, ruler of your world where you get to decide you're right and everyone else (especially the driver of the two-toned Acura) is wrong? :) Here, we get to be more brazen, smarter, more successful, and perhaps funnier than we are in our real lives, right?

On the Internet (as in our cars), we are at our most candid, our most honest. It's sad, I agree. It's too bad that athough I can easily waggle that middle finger toward offending vehicles on the freeway, I still have to do it under the dashboard so they can't see it. I guess it's something, though. And for now, it'll have to do.

So in that vein, I'll continue being a legend in my own mind. Someday I'll reveal my wares to the rest of the world, but only when I'm truly OK with the fact that the world itself is off its rocker, and that it'll probably hate what it sees (the wares, that is).

p.s. I, too, love the old smiley face and refuse to use the more complicated ones. Sort of in the same way I prefer to use any full word rather than its abbreviation.

not sure if you'll come back, but if you do, thanks for reading - and thanks even more for commenting.

might as well explain ...

2004-12-06T08:59:00.000-08:00

To explain the title of our blog: It's from Tommyboy, the movie. David Spade's character asks Chris Farley's character for a phone number, and Chris Farley starts mumbling - evidently, he didn't have the information he purported to have, i.e. he was faking it - and after Farley finishes, Spade says, "Did I catch a 'Niner' in there?"

MasterZen and I were talking about how the world seems to operate as Farley; people fake their way through life and work, and are patted on the back for doing nothing. Or better yet, they're lauded for being arseholes while they're doing nothing (Not that Chris Farley was an asshole - far from it. Here's where the movie starts to differ from real life, though there is a small point). Anywhoo, MasterZen and I are the the only ones (we think) who seem to notice. We're the Spades, the ones left scratching our heads, saying "Niner?" And everyone looks at us blankly, smiling as if to say, "Yeah, isn't that a great idea?"

It's amazing the world still manages to function, with all these frauds running around. Major corporations are run by people who don't know what they're doing. Hell, even our country is being run by a Grade A Moron. On top of the stupidity, everyone's insane. We're living in a Twilight Zone episode, only unlike a television program, it never seems to end.

Contrary to how it may seem, though, we're not negative people. We're perfectly happy, perfectly willing to find the humor in any given situation (and believe me, we do). We can forgive and most often, we do - unless you're the moron in the two-toned Acura who pulled out in front of me this morning.

Anyway, until we find a better name, this is our blog.

here I am

2004-12-02T10:12:00.000-08:00

Too bad we didn't have this little baby up yesterday ... we really needed it. More to come.

Test post

2004-12-02T10:06:00.000-08:00

Before we get going, let's try a little test post to make sure this works.