Stay Away From Children

A few months have gone by and I'm settling into my new position at Large Corporation quite nicely. My new job isn't as data oriented as my last job, but you know what? It's far more fun to do and suits my skill set much better.

When I say my job is fun to do, that actually might be taking things a bit far, but certain aspects of my job are slightly amusing sometimes. Mainly because one of the many things my new job requires me to do is oversee translations for... hmm... you know I don't even know how many languages... too many to count, so let's just say all of them. I don't speak or read most of these these languages, or to be more precise, none of them. I don't speak or read any of these languages and yet it is my job to ensure that the translations make sense, follow regional legal requirements and standards and fit in the space provided. Whee!! See what I mean? Fun.

Mostly I make sure all this stuff is right by communicating with the people in the other countries and hoping like hell that they know what they are doing. Along the way I have learned some fascinating new stuff with which to pollute my brain tissue, for instance:

• The Swedish word for humidity is fuktighet. Say it with me, fuck tight.
  
• It can take up to 2 years to register new consumable products in either Indonesia or Malaysia, I can't remember which one, but that's a long fucking time. Jesus.


• Fuck them.


• Spanish and Portuguese are practically identical. I can hardly tell them apart. I like to call it Spanaguese.


• Sometimes I cheat a little and use Google Translate to spot check and once typed in what was supposed to be Romanian for "keep out of children's reach" and it translated to, "stay away from children". Good idea.

In other news, I have nicknamed one of my new co-workers Hipster McKnowItAll, for what I think may be obvious reasons, so I won't bother to explain it to you in graphic detail as if you were a nitwit, because I'm learning recently, first hand, how very annoying that can be. I will tell you this: she's an obnoxious 23 year old, who never runs out of ways to insert how she has lived in France* into unrelated conversations. She doesn't seem to realize that anyone else on earth or in America, aside from her has ever been to France and almost every day there is some point at which, I want to stab her in the face. Shut up kid.

While I'm speaking of my little hipster, know-it-all friend, I would also like to make the observation that isn't it odd how people who one might consider to be a hipster often themselves express annoyance of hipsters? No one ever owns their hipster-ness.

Let's see what else...oh yes, next month my whole department is moving to a different building in the complex. Our big boss manager lady just informed us the other day that the new cube configurations are going to have only 3 foot walls. This news seemed to bum everyone out, but frankly I don't give a shit as long as my new cublicle isn't right next to the kitchen like where I sit now. It stinks. Sometimes it smells nice, like the when the nice person makes cinnamon toast every day at 9:05 (you know who you are and I lurve you), but mostly it's burnt popcorn and god only knows what. People heat up some weird shit. I swear the other day someone microwaved a giant fart. I had to leave the area for awhile. Perhaps it was brussels sprouts, who can say? Either way I'd like my cube as far away from the fucking kitchen as humanly possible please.

Anyhoo... that's it for now. It's Friday, MDH just put some burgers on the grill (which smell fantastic BTW and not at all like brussels sprouts**) and I'm going to enjoy a nice cold beer before it starts snowing. I realize that it's only October 1st, but hey, it's Michigan, it could happen.

Bon week-end!

*for 6 months as part of a student exchange program - get over it!

**I happen to love brussels sprouts, but they reek, as do all other people's left overs. That's just the law of nature - only your own left overs smell good - they reek to everyone else.

If You're Happy & You Know It WTF?

How's your summer been? Mine has been smashing. I can't think of any one thing that stands out that should cause me to make such a positive statement to describe my life in general, especially over such a long expanse of time since my last post, butcha know what? I'm happy. And I know it. Kiss my ass.

MDH and I have had a summer filled with friends, travel and just the right amount of family (except for Knucklehead) and house guests.

Probably the biggest news is that I have a new job. I know, I know, but calm yourself, it sounds more important than it is... It's a new job, but it's still at Large Corporation and I'm still a contractor. I sit at my same desk, have my same parking space, and earn the same wage.

The good points are:

• It's a job I applied for a couple of years ago and wasn't even considered for an interview.


• It's a more prestigious position - when I tell people what I do now they say things like "Ohhh...good for you!" As in I had no idea you were such a smarty.


• Somebody up there likes me, saw potential in me, and specifically asked to have me on the team.


• It gives me an edge to eventually getting full time work with Large Corporation as it's a job with much more exposure and potential to showcase my talents to people who have sway.


• I love my new team and more importantly I LOVE the new work (as I knew I would when I originally applied for the job).

The bad points are..., well, "bad" is rather harsh so let's rephrase that.

The bleh points are:

• Although technically it's a huge promotion, I'm getting paid exactly the same. Boo!
  
• There is still no reason to assume that it might turn into a permanent gig. Boo!

Here are some other bullet points to catch you up with recent doings and goings on in Ladyland:

Went to Boston to visit my mother in law for her 80th birthday. Highlights included:

1. Stayed at a hotel within walking distance to the North End and during the course of the week we ate enough tasty Italian treats to last us the rest of the year. I tried some new things that were surprising and delightful (beef carpaccio - I tend to avoid raw meat, but this was so finely sliced it melted on the tongue like cotton candy) and some things that were surprising and revolting (Campari and Soda - I thought it looked refreshing and chic, but it tasted like what I imagine drinking a urine sample over ice in an elegant glass with a twist of lime might be like).

2. Visited Peacefield in Quincy Mass., homestead of 4 generations of the John & Abigail Adams family, including John Quincy Adams, which brings my list of presidential homes visited up to a whopping 10 (how ya like me now CDP?). Peacefield is a short T ride away from the city. No car needed for this adventure. It is awesome. You should go.

3. Spent a gorgeous afternoon wandering leisurely around Harvard Square, popping in and out of shops, laughing and generally enjoying quality, wholesome family time with MDH and my mother in law.
(Insert record scratch sound bite here.)
At least that was the original plan. Oh, we spent the day wandering around Harvard Square all right, but it was hardly leisurely, wholesome or enjoyable because for some reason my brother in law Knucklehead wanted to tag along and turn it into a shit sack.

These days Knucklehead, fresh from his last tour in the can, is whacked out of his mind on prescription pain medications (which provide only a slight improvement to his behaviour since the days when his drug of choice was crack). So we spent a gorgeous afternoon wandering around Harvard Square with Knucklehead, who stopped every five minutes to smoke, hollered at traffic, loudly made rude comments about me, my mother-in-law, MDH and random strangers that he considered to be "fuckin' freaks and freeloaders" (he was able to recognize his own kind apparently), and generally embarrassed the crap out of us for about 4 hours. It was exhausting.

4. Oh, and now Knucklehead walks with a cane that he occasionally shakes in the air at people and cars and goes, "Baaagh!"

5. He's only 47.

6. Spent some great nights hanging out with my brother-in-law Las Vegas, also in town for the 80th birthday festivities, and his 3 grown boys and their various girlfriends. We're so proud of the next generation of little rakes, not a crack head in the bunch. Although my one niece, Knuckleheads daughter, poor kid, kind of reminds me of (I hesitate to say it) Snookie (only taller and pretty). MDH and I are keeping an eye peeled for her.

Went Up North With Friends:

1. Our friends R&R and their two kids visited us here from Washington DC and we were thrilled. They actually spent their summer vacation in Michigan. People do that. They spent two nights here at our house and then headed up north to Glen Arbor, where MDH and I joined them a few days later for the weekend.

2. I went tubing, which in Ohio means that you get dragged along, bouncing uncontrollably behind a speeding pontoon, piloted by my lunatic hillbilly cousin-in-law Bubby, in a murky brown lake which typically goes something like this:
But in Michigan tubing is something entirely different and I loved it hard. We floated gently, and safely if I might add, down a clear, clean river. I opted for a tube with a bottom so that I could sit indian style. I also snagged a paddle so that I could more easily steer myself away from any potential dirty muck or imagined crocodiles and river sharks. I will do this again.

Went to see Doug Benson last Friday night:

1. He's known for his pot humor, so it might be odd for me to love him so much, since I don't smoke it, but I love his podcast and am very excited for his new show coming to Comedy Central this fall, The Benson Interruption. I think he's one of those people who is just naturally funny and I love him, there it is.

2. Had the beginnings of what I thought was a bad cold, so hesitated to say hello after the show, as I didn't want to make him sick. I know a thing or two about what it's like to travel for a living and be sick when you're on the road, but MDH encouraged me to go up. I am not a gusher, but I assume that when you are an entertainer by trade that you appreciate hearing nice things about your work so I mentally prepared a little mini-speech. Something quick and simple, like, I love your podcast, I think you're so funny and can't wait for the new show and then I move along.

3. I got up there and he tried to shake my hand and I declined, so he gave me a little arm around half hug. Ok. Time for my nice words... here we go...

4. All I was able to say was "love your podcast" and the next thing I knew I was somehow cockblocked by MDH. Yes. You read that correctly. Well, maybe not. I mean I wasn't trying to hook up, just say hi, be nice and move on. And last time I checked I don't have a cock, but still, whatever you want to call it, my own darling husband, my love and partner on my path of life, who had encouraged me to go up and say hi in the first place... People it was freakish. The moment words of my prepared mini-speech started coming out of my mouth, MDH nearly pushed me out of the way to buy a CD, get it signed and started making pothead smalltalk with Monsiuer Benson as if I wasn't even there. If you didn't know we were married you might have thought we were strangers. It was bi-zarre.

5. The ride home from the comedy club was a bit chilly. I'm sure you can imagine.

6. Turns out I had a rotten case of the flu. I am just now recovering. I hope I didn't give Doug Benson the flu. I've been checking periodically on Twitter to make sure he is OK. Very out of character for me to give enough of a shit about anyone to check their tweets (I shudder to even type that out), but I feel a strong sense of personal responsability about this. So far I think he's OK.

Anyhoo... I hope you've been having a great summer too! Tell me about it in the comments please.

BTW: Here are a couple of other podcasts I've been enjoying while I perform my new job this summer (available for free on iTunes):

The Nerdist
Matts Radio

Hammer Time

MDH and I returned from Florida less than 24 hours ago, and it's been so long since I last posted on my blog that I'd be quite shocked if anyone out there missed me.

Some (one or two) of you may be wondering, as I was, just what the fuck were you doing in Florida in the middle of June crazyface?

Central Florida is hotter than Hades in mid-June and judging (and I am indeed, very judgemental) from the snippets of overheard conversations between my fellow airline passengers, only mouth breathing degenerates and their screaming heathen progeny fly to Central Florida in mid-June.

Or people who already live in oven hot climates.

And us.

Seriously, the mental capacity of some my fellow travelers seemed pretty limited. Case in point: The young man and his "gran-maw", sitting behind us, who I'm pretty sure were both making their debuts outside the holler, had never seen a magazine and spent most of the runway taxi time and flight to 10,000 feet, (at which point the flight attendant said we could use portable electronic devices and I praised god's glory in heaven and giddily jammed my earbuds into my listening holes and was able to block these morons out), pointing in amazement at the "pitchurs" in a glossy men's magazine that I can only assume someone had left behind in the gate area, and reciting aloud the prices of each and every item of clothing in the fashion spreads and wondering who would spend $225 for a pair of jeans and the like.

When reading fashion magazines I often wonder the same thing. In the privacy of my own head. But then I quickly get over it. This guy hammered it all out in a twangy monotone. Item by detestable item.

Lookit this Gran-maw - it sez here this guys jacket costed 23 hunnert dollers. Can you believe that shit? Damn! That's a whole years wortha child support!

I've got nothing against rednecks. I've got no room to talk as I myself come from a long line of the finest Kentucky redneck stock, but when your conversational skills are that loud, that limited and I am forced to listen to your stupid ass bullshit it endangers my health. My eyes were rolling up and all around in my head, it's lucky I didn't sprain them.

Well I guess that's what you get for booking at the last minute on Squalor Airlines.

Anyhoo... back to my original question that I imagined you gave enough of a shit to care about or ask me - we went to Florida in the middle of June because we had to reschedule our original, more reasonably timed December visit to my parental units due to my mother's broken pelvis. Understandably, she wanted no visitors during her extremely painful and lengthy recovery. No problem-o. Then I had the brilliant idea to come down in June for her birthday.

It seems extreme, but I'm finding it increasingly necessary to pad visits with my parents with buffer periods both before and after our time with them. This year our 4.5 day visit with my folks was preceded with 3 days at the beach and concluded with 2 days at Disneyworld.

Let me give you some facts about how things go down at my parents house these days:

1. They keep the air conditioning set at 80 degrees.

2. 80 Fucking Degrees.

3. That is hotter than shit.

4. It is not possible to sleep when the air conditioning is set to 80.

5. My mother makes the weakest coffee known to man.

6. My mother is even more passive aggressive than I am.

7. One morning I volunteered to make the coffee and snuck in a couple of extra scoops.

8. She said it was a tad strong for her taste, but cheerfully decided that she could temper hers by adding a little water.

9. When she added the water to her cup she said that it made it too cool and she has this thing where she refuses to heat up coffee in the microwave - so she decided, rather loudly, that she just wouldn't drink coffee that day. "It's just one day. When I was in the hospital recovering from MY BROKEN PELVIS I went for almost a whole week without coffee. Can you imagine that?"

10. It was so over the top she could've won a Tony.

11. It took every ounce of strength left in my sweaty, exhausted, coffee depleted body to restrain myself from suggesting that she leave her cup in the guest room for a minute or two to heat it up.

12. On a brighter note the house rum is 92 proof, flows freely after 11am (new summer hours apparently as previously noon was considered appropriate) and is conveniently located next to the fridge (with built in ice maker) between the cocktail napkins and a bowl of limes.

A Thing of Beauty Is A Joy for Three or Four Years... Maybe Five Tops

Time sure does fly when you're too busy to lay around with unwashed hair in pajama pants all day, watching TV and eating everything but the wallpaper for several weeks. Or as I like to call it - having a full time job. I hope you don't mind, but I've been living life for a change.

Oh, I'm still the same old me. Still throwing internal tantrums at the supermarket checkout and spending too much money on shoes and personal hygiene products, but I'm somewhat new and improved. Since returning back to work my skin has cleared up (probably from all that daily washing I'm doing now), I have lost 9 lbs and I could swear that my step contains a trace of a swagger, although that could be because of all the cute new shoes I bought to "smarten up my work wardrobe".

Anyhoo... I missed you. As in you my blog and you my blogger friends in blogger world. According to my Google Reader I have 375 unread blog posts. I'll try my best to get caught up on all the important things that have been going on in your lives, but holy jesus you people are wordy so probably not, but I'll try.

Meanwhile I hope all of you are enjoying Spring as much as MDH and I have been.

Now here's some pictures of some new shit I bought to replace some old shit that I was either bored with and/or was falling apart and now that I'm back to work can afford to replace without running it by MDH first. I always have trouble justifying these kinds of purchases with MDH who believes that you should never buy anything new until the old thing breaks or is no longer usable and that's just crazy talk. Also I feel I should mention that somehow this rule doesn't seem to apply to electronics such as DVD players and stereo equipment.

It doesn't really matter because I don't ever listen to him or care what he thinks and simply buy whatever the hell I want anyway. If we lived by his standard our house would look like the set of Sanford and Son.

Ah, nothing says Spring quite like a new shower curtain. Am I right or am I right?

Our old kitchen floor runner had pretty much disappeared under a 22"x84" rectangle of matted cat fur, pine needles and cookie crumbs...

Last week we got new cable, which required a new cable box. The new cable box doesn't have a clock on it and you never realize how much you come to rely on that fucking cable box clock until it's gone. So I bought this pretty yellow clock to hang on the wall above the TV but MDH said the ticking was too loud and now it's been relegated to the basement.

It seems slightly ridiculous to replace the flatware organizer tray, but the old one was too small and slid all around the place. Besides it was another one of those holdover things from MDH's previous marriage. This flatware organizer try is mine - all mine. It fits perfectly in the drawer and now there's a proper spot for my cow head and ass corn holders and my monkey jazz band canape knives.

The battery has been dying on my old iPod and I couldn't stand the thought of waiting until it fully died so I bought myself a new iPod Touch. The 32GB one. Oh yes I did. I love it and pet it and call it George. You can look at it, but don't touch it.

Is This Thing On?

Is anyone still out there? Jesus. It's been a long time since my last post and you know what? I still don't have anything relevant to say. Not that I'm going to let that stand in my way. I never have, why should I stop now?

Anyhoo... I'm back in my old post at Large Corporation making the world safe for data management and things are things. My cubicle this time around, although equipped with a delightful ass caressing, lumbar supporting, real deal, gen-u-wine Aeron chair, is tiny. Miniscule. The cube is teeny-tiny. Insulting. More insulting - they have taken internet access away from all of the contractors in the department. More humiliating than insulting I suppose, but what can you do? Certainly not check gmail, live-stream NPR, read blogs or get a weather forecast. It's a drag, a huge donkey cock suck if ever there was one although I do enjoy endlessly bitching about it to anyone who will listen, so there's that.

It's great to be working again, and trust me I don't forget it. I keep reminding myself of it every day.

Since Bag O'Mice and Hey Mr. DJ both retired guess who got assigned both of their workloads? It's me! Hooray! Actually, so far it hasn't been all that bad and I'm not nearly as swamped as you might think. Come to think of it, now that I'm fully aware of the scope of the projects they were working on I'm not sure at all what those two old coots were up to all day before they left.

At least in the case of Bag O'Mice it seems he must have spent around three quarters of his day puttering back and forth between his desk and the copier as I have discovered that the heaving, giant dossiers, nearly bursting at the seams that I inherited from him are mostly full of printed email correspondence. Yes. Apparently Bag O'Mice printed all of his emails. Jackass.

What else? People I actually got offered a job one week after I started working for Large Corporation again. Not a great job. In fact kind of a shitty job working for the state and I turned it down. It was the right thing to do. It boiled down to pay (although surprisingly it wasn't that much less), but also the work was not exactly what I would call stimulating. Filing. Data entry. Been there. Done that.

I would have felt totally differently about it if I hadn't taken the call from the state's HR lady while luxuriating in the awesomeness of my fabulous new designer office chair and sipping a gratis vente Starbucks in front of my two 20 inch flat screen monitors, which were at the moment displaying the very latest in database software technology.

During the interview, which by the way took place the week before at an office located in a run down strip mall in a questionable part of town, when I had asked them(because I come prepared for that shit so when they say "do you have any questions for us? I immediately whip out a printed list and go to town) what was their most challenging obstacle to accomplishing the long term goals of the department (eh? eh? a good one I think) they replied that it was that a lot of people balk at using a computer, not using the new software we just got, but the fact that they have to use a computer, like at all. This is not the place for me.

The whole interview experience was like that Sesame Street song, One of These Things Is Not Like the Others. I mean if you could have seen the other people who were interviewing - I got to see the competition because they corralled us all together in this big giant room while we waited our turns to meet with the HR people. It was like a casting call for creepy losers and pressed, dry cleaned, prissy me. A couple of the creepy losers were already doing the same job in a different city and were merely interviewing to be transferred, a formality I guess, and spent their time commiserating between themselves at top volume about what a shitty job it was.

So between listening to that, the disconcerting interview-ee holding pen concept and the fact that I had gone through the trouble of hot rollering my hair and wiggling into pantyhose and was sitting next to a rumpled man wearing scuffed white (white!) cowboy boots, enough pomade to wax a Buick who smelled like he hadn't washed his suit since the civil war, when I realized that we were all interviewing for the same position I almost bailed.

I don't normally like to think that I'm better than anyone else, maybe that I'm better off, but not better. But in this case, better, better off, either way I knew that I didn't belong there. I stayed for the interview, but the whole thing felt wrong, wrong, wrong and I knew that it would be a huge step down. Clearly some of those other folks needed that job worse than me and if that's a snobby thing to say - well I just don't care.

Did I mention that the job was shitty? Have I harped enough on that or do you need to hear about that some more? Oh and it wasn't even a permanent job. Yeah. Up to 2 years. Not even a guarantee of two years. Only possibly two years. To me I might as well stay at Large Corp where I have so many friends and a new comfy spaceship chair, challenging work that I enjoy and a small modicum of hope.

It's funny though the feedback I got from different people that I talked to about it. Some people were like oooh a job with the state, like that in itself was a boondoggle. Even when I explained that it was a temporary, low paying, shitty job, some still insisted that it was a good opportunity and a "foot in the door". Perhaps I might feel it was a good opportunity if Large Corporation hadn't asked me to come back, or I was 21 and freshly out of college or didn't have a bachelor's degree and over 15 years of professional experience. To me it felt like a huge step in the wrong direction.

Anyhoo... (you get a bonus anyhoo because it's been so long since my last post) going back to Large Corporation has been like going to a family reunion only the people there are happy to see me and nice to me. It's been like putting on a pair of old slippers only not really because it smells better than my old slippers, which frankly still kind of smell like Cool Ranch Doritos even after I run them thru the wash.

The News Round Up - Soup, Cake, Drugs, Financing

1. Late Saturday afternoon my friend Rachel called just as I was in the throes of preparing the last big pot of soup (Portuguese Kale Soup) of the year, as it is now if not actually Spring, it is at least Spring-like and getting warmer and who needs big bubbling pots of hearty soup when it's warm out? Anyhoo... I heard the phone ring and hollered out to MDH from the kitchen that if it's for me tell whoever it is that I'm elbow deep in kale and that I will call them later... but then he hollered back that it was Rachel so I hollered back - tell her to bring Dave (her boyfriend) and come over and have soup with us - and so she did.

Then I called Ladette to see if she wanted to come by too and damned if she didn't just happen to be hanging out with her husband at a pub only a few blocks away. They came too.

Hence an impromptu dinner party - my dream come true.

Seriously, I dream of this but the stars are so rarely aligned in such a way as to accommodate impromptu dinner parties. House is clean? Check. Even the bathrooms? Mostly, check. Am I clean? Check. Got snacks? Check. Beer's cold? Check. Plenty of food? Check. Holy shit - c'mon over!

As if the evening wasn't already great enough Rachel caused me to squeal and carry on like a contestant on the Price Is Right, when she walked through the door with a Chantilly Torte cake from Arnie's for dessert. It's only my favorite cake EVER! Thanks Rach.

2. I start my new old job next Monday. When they told me that I'd have to take a drug test sometime this week my initial reaction was a quiet moment of slight panic until I remembered that I have nothing to fear. I have a guilty conscious but haven't been stoned in well over 10 years - unless you count Pamprin and I don't. If anything having to take the drug test is inconvenient because it causes me to leave the house and drive across town.

It's been awhile since I've had to take a drug test so I was very pleased to learn that they just take a hair sample now, which is so much more civilized than sitting in a room full of strangers avoiding eye contact with each other because we all know that each one of us is there waiting our turn to go piss in a cup. Eye contact avoidance aside, I will admit to looking around and trying to figure out who among us in the waiting room had the most to be worried about and it was never me.

3. MDH and I got a new bed a few weeks ago and it has been a glorious, transformative, life changing thing. It's a gigantic, king-sized, leather and teak* monstrosity of a bed. It's hard as a goddamn rock (extra firm) and so enormously huge that I have no idea what the hell MDH is getting up to waaaay over there on his side of it and I don't give a shit because I'm too busy sleeping like an angel through the night and waking up with no aches and pains.

His bowling ball doesn't knock over my wine glass anymore.

We love the new bed so much, and our bedroom has transformed into such a beautiful haven that we have agreed that whoever wakes up last makes the bed - and we have made the bed every day since. Not only that, but the room has remained clean and pristine. I actually dust in there now and put away all my clothes and shit where it belongs. Previously we were neither one of us bedmakers and we** had crap strewn everywhere to the point where not only was the room not a haven, I didn't even like walking by it. It was like a messy dorm room. We*** feel like grown ups now.

Each night before we turn out the lights we gaze lovingly at each other from across the vast expanse of it, sweep a leg around until our big toes are touching and declare aloud our love for each other and the new bed. I think it might be the best money we've ever spent.

*I don't actually know what kind of wood it is, but it is dark and teak-like.

**Me

***We

Large Corporation

(This photo is meant to represent eagerness)

Six months have gone by since Large Corporation gave me the old heave-ho because of their ridiculous policy that only allows contractors to stay for 18 months at a time. Six months is the amount of time that has to pass between my leaving and being eligible to work there as a contractor again.

They called me today and wanted to know if I wanted to come back and do my old job, and if so when could I start? I said let me just brush my teeth and I'll be down in about 20 minutes.

This time though it's going to be different:

• I'm not going to kid myself that they will ever hire me permanently.
  
• No matter what anyone there leads me to believe I will not get my hopes up that they will ever hire me permanently.
  
• Even though I found out that my good friend Hey Mr. DJ and that stupid old fart Bag O'Mice are retiring next month I will not get my hopes up that they will ever hire me permanently.
  
• I will passionately continue to seek full time permanent employment elsewhere because I know in my heart that they will never hire me permanently.
  
• I mean it.
  
• Fuck them.
  
• Now, where's my parking pass?

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

My mom worked in accounting at the main office of a chain of appliance stores for over 30 years. She took a short break after my sister was born but was right back at it as soon as my sister was old enough to start going to school. Thirty years is a long time to work at the same place. I just can't imagine it.

Over the years the company changed and grew and my mother's job along with it. She had started working there part time when she was still in college and they only had one or two stores in Central Ohio. Back then her office consisted of herself and two other women and the owners of the company. By the time she retired the company had stores all over Ohio and the Midwest, she had a staff of over 20 people and she was a company wide legend. Everybody knew her and she knew everybody.

When you work somewhere for that long people really get to know you and in my mother's case it seemed that she shared every intimate detail of her life with these people. Whenever my sister and I tagged along at any company or accounting department sponsored party or event her coworkers seemed to know everything about us. Good and bad. Mostly bad it seemed. They all knew to congratulate me for making the honor roll or to chastise me because I had gotten caught making long distance prank phone calls. They knew about how I had stolen the "key" to the cable box and watched pornos. They knew that I had spiked the kool-aid at a slumber party with my dad's moonshine. They knew everything. I figure my mom must have walked in the door of that place each morning and immediately begun to blab about me to her coworkers and anyone who would listen all goddamn day.

Not that I didn't constantly give her the need to vent frustration.

Still I assumed that some things between my mother and I were sacred.

I was wrong.

Eventually I discovered the degree of my mothers blabbitude, much to my horror and disgust when three or four of her co-workers actually fluttered about me like buzzing middle aged mosquitoes at a 4th of July picnic (or some potluck or such) somewhere around the year of our lord 1978 and had the collective balls to talk to me in loud whispers all about how I'd recently started having my period. As if they thought we were all chummy characters in a Judy Blume novel having a lark and not a shy and stunned 11 year old girl being psychologically tortured by cackling grown-ass women who were, although very good friends to my mother, strangers to me.

I thought I would die.

I had a hard enough time talking about period related stuff with my mother (I had even begged her not to tell my dad) so it was the last thing that I wanted to discuss with my mother's co-workers. I soon discovered though that it was only the beginning of a long, one sided and yet very intimate relationship I was to continue to have with 15 to 20 women that I only ever saw or spoke to about 3 or 4 times a year. Women with whom I could barely match faces to names, but would know it seemed every single detail about my life.

After the Great Period Fiasco 1978 I confronted my mother regarding her breach of respect, trust and privacy and she merely laughed at me like I was an adorable little chit.

"When a bunch of women get together they talk", she shrugged.

"Yes, I get that, but did you have to talk about that?"

"Yes." She said. "I did. I can't help it. You're my kid and you hit a milestone and I told all my friends about it. I'm proud of you and if it makes you feel any better they all tell me all about their kids too."

It didn't make me feel any better, but over the years I got used to it I suppose and began to automatically assume that everyone at the appliance store knew my bra size, the diameter of my nipples, my preference of tampons over pads, and all about my every cramp and gas bubble. Frankly the Great Period Fiasco of 1978 was the beginning of the end of me sharing any personal information of any importance with my mom.

At this point you might think that I'm telling you all this psychotic episode inducing shit about my mom so that I may continue to use my blog as a form of cheap therapy. Well there is that. But it's also so that I can tell you about how our friend Pecan Sandie is sending her teenage son Miles to come and stay with us this week.

Long time single mom Pecan Sandie called us a few weeks ago crying and babbling about how Miles had gotten himself into a spot trouble of a sexual nature with a girl. Nobody is pregnant or diseased or anything like that. Actually it's all pretty innocent and normal stuff (by my standards) and my only beef with any of it is the fact that I FUCKING KNOW ABOUT IT AT ALL.

Suddenly all that stuff about my own mother discussing the intimate details of my life with her friends was brought screaming and unwelcome back to the forefront of my cranial lobe. I thought I had put it all behind me.

Sandie had told me over the phone all about what Miles had been up to with the girl in very graphic detail. I'll just say this - it was pretty juicy stuff - but waaaay too much information and while I wanted to be a good friend and good listener at the same time I wanted to throw the phone across the room, put my hands over my ears, shout LALALALALA and stamp around in circles until all of the damaging visual images Sandie had put in my brain went buh-bye. I was able to steer the conversation to a place with fewer details but wondered how in the hell she had come upon all of this very personal information about her son. Apparently he'd told her all about it. I shuddered.

Anyhoo... Miles is coming to stay with us because Sandie thinks that MDH is a good role model for how a young man should conduct himself with the ladies, which just makes me want to snicker, and she's hoping that Miles will be able to talk to MDH about things of a sexual nature in such a way that she as his mother is unable.

Meanwhile I'm looking forward to having Miles come and visit for many reasons. He's a great kid and it's always nice to have a house guest. Besides, MDH and I could use some more youthful influence around here. We have lots of plans to take Miles to do cool stuff while he's here, but I will leave all discussions of sex up to MDH and plan to pretend that I myself have been given no knowledge of Miles and his recent previous shenanigans.

Finally, what I realized after all this time is that talking about your life and your children with your friends is only natural. I myself, although I don't have any children, can think of oh so many embarassing personal details about the people that I love, including my husband, that I have spilled not only to my friends, but right here for public airing on this blog. So I'm guilty too, but what I have also realized is that it wasn't the fact that my mother shared stories about me with her friends that upset me so much as it was that her stupid fucking friends, who I barely knew, felt like they could openly discuss these intimate details about my own life with me.

So I'm never even going to hint to Miles that his mom said a word to me about his sex life. If anything I might talk to him about the many benefits of keeping secrets from your parents and if I have that discussion with him I won't tell his mom about it.

LALALALALALA.

Just So There's No Further Confusion

If I am married to you and you hear me holler to you from another room, "Honey, will you come help me?", you can go ahead and assume there is a silent "now"* at the end of that sentence. In bold with an underline. In fact for future reference if you don't hear the phrase "when you get a chance" in front of that sentence please imagine the worst.

In other words, put down the bong and pause the the History Channel special on Hitler's Secret Pants that you have already seen eleventy billion times (it's why we have a DVR, pause is a great feature). Get your ass off the sofa and come help me this very instant.

Assume that I am bleeding to death or that the cat is on fire and get your ass over here. Pronto.

I know you heard me. So don't try to pretend like you didn't.

Anyhoo... I can only hope that you are not disappointed when you arrive to find that I am not actually bleeding to death or that the cat's not on fire and will do me a solid by helping me with whatever thing it is I needed helping with and not ask me too many questions. I will say thank you, probably give you a little kiss if you don't give me any sass and I am way more likely to reward you in another more delightful manner, at some future time to be determined at my discretion, if you were to ask me if I perhaps needed your help with anything else before you take off back to the den. I promise, at some future time to be determined at my discretion, there will be extra credit for a good attitude and can-do spirit.

If you have failed to respond quickly enough to the hollered sentence "Honey will you come help me?" and it is followed 30 to 45 seconds later by a much louder HONEY?? in the all caps oral equivalent of shouting, then you may assume to exchange the word HONEY?? with HEY ASSHOLE!

For further clarification if I ask you do to something prefaced with the phrase "When you have the chance" you may translate that to "Sometime within the next 30 minutes" and "Sometime this week" means "Tomorrow".

*I cannot explain, but for whatever reason avoiding use of the word "now" makes me feel like less of a harpie. I'm not saying it's rational.

I Love the 70's

Lately I've been enjoying a blog called Plaid Stallions and have decided not to keep it to myself any longer. Perhaps some of you have already visited.

If you grew up in the 70's and lived your life around the seasonal arrival of the JC Penny catalog you will probably love this blog as much as I do. I'm more of a lurker over there but I read every post. Mostly it's all about the toys, games and action figures, but frequently it's all about the stylin' 70's clothes and the posts about the clothes are my favorites. The commentary about the clothing ads almost always make me laugh out loud.

Here's a link to the blog itself:

http://plaidstallions.blogspot.com/

Here's a link to the posts tagged "fashion mockery":

http://plaidstallions.blogspot.com/search/label/fashion%20mockery

Dear Fashion, Nobody Needs This

Dear MaxMara,
I'm writing to let you know, just in case you drank too many Papaya-tinis or swallowed too much Extasy at the photo shoot and weren't aware, that the model in your advertisement is wearing her leotard underpinning backwards. Also I feel it's important you understand that high waisted, tight fitting pants in a large cammo-floral-ish pattern look hideous on, oh I don't know, just about everyone. The other components of this outfit seem all right, except for maybe the leather bolo thing. Fuck it. Other than the sweater it all sucks donkey balls and if all you've got to offer us is a brown cardigan you should probably know that we can get one of those at Kohl's.
Sincerely,
Women Everywhere


Dear Topshop,
Finally! Now I know exactly where to go to buy the over sized faded t-shirts and cut off Daisy Duke jean shorts that pooch out in the crotch and make me look like I have a big giant cock. I mean where else on earth could I find that? I mean besides Goodwill... Anyhoo... now I know exactly what to wear when I give $5 blow jobs on the subway platform. Please, please tell me that they are also hand sewn and caked with the dried blood of Sri-Lankan pre-schoolers. I just love cheap hooker clothes that are made with child labor.
Crackwhorishly Yours,
Lady

Dear Calvin Klein,
Send help quickly! The model in your ad has fallen into some kind of nightmarish tree nest and her arms are too skinny for her to pull herself out on her own power. Please help her, she's trapped! Send her a cigarette and a turkey sandwich, stat. Hurry! She's starting to look really depressed.
Kindest Regards,
The Lady Who Actually Eats Lunch

The News Roundup: Much Ado About Pillows

Today I give you yet another set of numbered points filled with verbal wanderings and highlighted with photos of food and some new stuff I recently purchased, oh, and this cartoon:
1. I found the cartoon at Married To the Sea and it's almost eerily fitting for what I'm about to tell you, which is this: I finally heard back from the recruiter that has been helping me try to get a job with the company that was hedging on whether or not I was going to get a second interview (remember that? it was a couple of posts ago) and it made me angry. It made me very angry. It was not good.

Apparently the reason why they are not sure that I am the right candidate is because I mentioned during the interview that MDH and I love to travel. Apparently whatever I said about our love for travel gave them the impression that I would be off gallivanting all over planet earth so frequently that I wouldn't be able to put in enough hours working for them. Um...what? THEY ARE OUT OF THEIR GODDAMN MINDS.

Frankly I don't even really remember talking about traveling much at all, except to say that I like it, when asked the question that people in interviews so often ask, "what do you like to do in your spare time?" I pretty much always answer by saying that I like to read, cook and travel in lieu of the smarty pants answers that I'm tempted to give like, beat up nuns, masturbate and cry while watching QVC and making crafts from discarded dryer lint. I certainly do not remember acting like some kind of jet-setting prima donna, as though I would demand more vacation time than what would be offered with the position.

So in addition to being angry about the whole thing, I'm terribly confused. The recruiter was angry and confused and thought they were out of their goddamn minds as well. What-evs. As far as I'm concerned these people can suck my cock. I say good day. Next issue.

2. Wednesday night my lovely friend Ladette came by for another cooking lesson. This time I showed her how to make baked mac & cheese with bacon, pan seared pork chops rubbed with brown sugar and smoked paprika (and some other spices), and then we blanched and sauteed some fresh green beans. I made her do most of the work and she did a great job...

Speaking of masturbating and crying while watching QVC, after dinner I forced her to stay and watch TV with me. She sat through Millionaire Matchmaker and 2 episodes of The Mighty Boosh before I allowed her to leave. She even pretended to laugh a little which means she's not only a good student, she's a good sport.

3. Around September it dawned on me that the already shabby and stained toss pillows in the den were beginning to disintegrate and smell a little ripe. Those pillows get a great deal of abuse from us because we use them not only for decoration and back support, but since the den often performs double duty as a dining room, we also end up using the pillows as TV trays and placemats. Even if I didn't mention the drool, spilt beer and various other cat and human related fluids they have accidentally soaked up over the years you should be getting the picture - these pillows were exhausted.

After all this time I couldn't bring myself to spend the money on new toss pillows because I'm not working right now and the expense seemed rather decadent. Yet I couldn't stop obsessing about replacing them. It was a silent obsession because it's certainly not the sort of purchase that I can plan out and discuss in great detail with MDH. He has made it clear, typically via rolled eyes and grunting, that he is not interested whenever I attempt to bring up all things decorative. Especially when money is tight. If it were up to him we would not have new toss pillows (or anything nice) and in fact I might even venture to guess that I could have replaced the toss pillows with old horse blankets stuffed with dirty kleenex and cream cheese and he probably wouldn't notice the difference.

Anyhoo... I shopped and shopped but stopped short of actually buying anything because good toss pillows, or at least the ones I'm always drawn to, tend to be ridiculously expensive. I could never justify spending the money and I could not find a way to compromise my toss pillow ideals, namely: There must be 4 in total, they must be of a certain size (large enough to use as a TV tray or placemat), they must somehow be washable, and they must all be in a matching color or pattern that have (to me) a certain je ne sais quoi.

I knew that I'd know it when I saw it and late last month I saw "it" at CB2, or more specifically the CB2 catalog (because do you think there is a store like CB2 anywhere near the Tundra? No.). They arrived a few weeks ago and they are nice. I mean all cotton with a down pillow insert and removable washable cover nice. For $14.95 each.
My nook...

The loveseat...


I want to decorate the rest of the house in this color scheme. I don't think that MDH will notice. (Please pardon our hideous paneling).

4. This afternoon I really wanted to get out of the house so I racked my brain and rifled through the utility closet and pantry trying to think of something we needed to buy so I'd have an excuse to go shopping. All I could come up with was paper towels so I went to Target to get some. On the way home I decided to troll around in TJ Maxx for awhile where I found these big sterling hoop earrings:

You try holding your hair back, turning your head sideways and taking a picture of yourself without looking like a total weirdo. Not so easy is it? Anyway... blogworld, meet my mole.

5. How could I forget? My poor little kitten (read 16 pound behemoth grown cat) has been sick. He is sneezing, has a runny nose, inflamed tonsils and a general malaise that is very out of character. The vet gave us some anti-biotic and some goo to help him digest hairballs and he seems to be feeling better, but a rather comical side effect of this illness is that he also seems to have laryngitis, so when he's not busy sneezing and going gack, gack, gack all over the place he does this weird thing that MDH have started calling the silent meow. It's really pathetic.

Thanks for putting us at the table closest to the bar

Jogger's wedding reception on Saturday night was a big old hoot and featured a photo booth... with some props. Oh, and Raspberry Stoli... which I drank in abundance with soda and a cherry and kept 'em coming. Here is the highlight reel:

The lovely Ladette and me... In retrospect I can't believe she put those sunglasses in her mouth dude. Hindsight is always more disgusting.

MDH sporting a teeny-tiny purple pimp hat and busting out what I can only assume are Portuguese gang symbols.

I hope you all had as good of a weekend as we did, although I'm kinda still recovering.

Drinking Game

Last night after dinner MDH and I created a new drinking game while watching back episodes of House Hunters that have been piling up on our DVR. The game is called Man Cave. The rules, as with any drinking game, are simple:

• Watch any given episode of House Hunters* and chug a shot every time a guy uses the phrase "Man Cave".


• Chug two shots if a female says it because for some reason it sounds twice as stupid to hear the phrase come from the mouth of a woman.


• Players will draw for different finishes and features, ie., "granite counter tops", "stainless steel appliances", "crown molding", "tray ceiling", etc., and must drink each time their own special finish or feature is mentioned.

We didn't actually play the game because between the two of us we have too much common sense and probably not enough liquor in the house anyway.

(I'm looking forward to spring and summer when it's not unusual for MDH and I to spend the entire evening without turning on the TV.)

*Or for that matter any given half hour time slot on HGTV's prime time line up. Property Virgins, Bang for Your Buck, etc.,.

WARNING: Playing this game with the DIY show that is actually called "Man Caves" could lead to alcohol poisoning and possibly death. Play at your own risk.

Same Time Last Year

This afternoon as I was pulling on an extra sweater I realized that exactly one year ago today MDH and I were sitting on Poipu Beach in Kauai, sucking down fruity cocktails and looking out at the Pacific Ocean trying to spot humpback whales, or hump spotback whales, I don't know, we were pretty tanked. Since I'm having such a hard time writing lately, here are some pictures.

The view from my lounge chair.

MDH busted (from our balcony with the handy zoom lens) taking a break from grilling our dinner.

A monk seal stopped by for a nap as well. (Don't worry she's not dead, just sleeping.)

Above the taro fields - we'll go back someday...
Damn, it's cold here today.

My heart won't let my feet do things they should do...

Wouldn't it have been great to start off my first blog post after three weeks of zip-o with a grand and exuberant announcement that I have finally after quite a few months (I'm not ready to use the word "several" just yet) landed myself gainful, full-time, permanent employment?

Wouldn't that have been great?

It would have been great, but I'm sad to inform you that I'm still bumming around the house trying not to eat everything in sight while I watch too much reality TV.

Some days are better than others, like the days when a new episode of Project Runway is on, the days when there are actually job postings that I'm interested in and qualified for, or that time that Lady Gaga made a guest appearance on Launch My Line. Good times.

Today's a very good day because not only did I find the first disk of season 3 of The Mighty Boosh from Netflix and this week's New York magazine in the mailbox, I also found the big box of tangerines that my mom and dad shipped to me from the orchards down the road from their house in Florida sitting out there too.

Anyhoo... my job searching hasn't been all terrible. I hit a hot streak a few weeks ago and had two interviews with two very different companies in the same week. Both were for decent jobs that I'm actually qualified to do. I got a little nutty that week fantasizing about how I could wow them both and start a bidding war for my amazingness but the first company gave me a rejection email within a couple of days.

I gotta say that at the same time I was a wee bit sad that I didn't get the job I was also kind of happy that they let me know so quickly. I was almost compelled to write and thank them for getting that shit over with. I think waiting around is the worst part and they ripped off the band-aid so fast, ka-pow!, and made my life much more bearable.

The other company I interviewed with later that same week - not so much. Still waiting. And it's not like I didn't hear anything from them in the mean time. I got glowing feedback after the first interview, glowing, and I interviewed with 4 different people mind you. Then the following week they had me fill out all different kinds of forms and personality assessments and then after that they contacted my recruiter to ask if I was available to set up a second interview. That was almost 2 flippin' weeks ago and at this point I'm near my boiling point. I can only assume that the kind of people who play these cruel waiting games have never themselves been unemployed or they wouldn't fucking do it.

It's not like I mind if the process takes a long time. I get it. I absolutely understand that these kinds of important hiring decisions should not be made in haste, but for the sweet love of Ray J at least let a bitch know when she can expect to hear back.

In the meantime I have Project Runway, Let's Talk About Pep, and the new season of Millionaire Matchmaker to keep me busy and I just signed up to teach English as a second language at my local literacy center, although it'll take awhile before I get to do actually do anything because they have to do interviews and background checks and I have to go through some training courses that don't happen until late April. Stupid interviews. I thought it was odd that they have the volunteer tutors go through such hoops but when an over protective husband who attended orientation with this wife asked if the tu-tees were background checked the literacy center lady hemmed and hawed and finally said she didn't know. Interesting.

Also interesting, while describing the types of people who come to the literacy center for help, she also quickly, and I almost want to say under her breath, mumbled some things that sounded remarkably like "work release" and "parole".

The over protective husband also asked whether or not his wife's time spent volunteering would be tax deductable and whether or not she would be reimbursed for mileage. What a jackass, although I'm glad MDH didn't come with me because those are exactly the kinds of jackass questions he asked me when I told him I wanted to do this. My answer to those questions: I don't give a shit - I'm doing it anyway.

In other news, after 3 failed attempts I finally found a pair of boots that work for me (insert chorus of angels singing Ode to Joy here). The only sort of flaw is that they are not real leather, but leather was merely a nice to have, otherwise they meet all my fucked up leg criteria:


1. Must have a full side zip as I cannot bend my right ankle to accommodate a pull-on style of boot.


2. Must have pointed toe. I can't abide a round or square toe. With my giant frame? It makes my foot look like a hoof.


3. Must have an extra wide shaft. Yeah baby, you heard me right, I said extra wide shaft. (Seriously, all sexual innuendo aside, I've got big calves.)


4. Must be flat or have extremely low heel. Fused ankle. What can I do? My foot is stuck in that position. Any higher than an inch and I can't walk.

So I found a pair that work. Halle-friggin-lujah. Attention People Who Know Me - be prepared to be sick of seeing them.

Something weird just happened. My fingers went all nutty while I was typing and now the font of this post looks janky. I can't figure out how to fix it either. Dang.

So where was I? Boots. Yep. I got boots. What else? Oh hell yes - MDH and I are getting an enormous income tax return this year and are going to buy a new bed. King size.

Our first big purchase as a couple 10 years ago was our queen size bed that we currently use. I use the word "we" loosely as most nights I start off in in that bed, but typically I end up running away to the guest room after having been driven off by some combination of MDH's ungodly snoring and my chronic back pain (because the bed now folds up like a taco when are both in it). I think it goes without saying that it's time for a new bed.

That's it for now except that I'd like to say a hearty congrats and sad farewell to my young friend Jogger who is getting married this Saturday and then moving away to Texas. Good luck kid. Stay in touch or I will hunt you down.

Here's the song I've been singing around the house today, hence the title of my post ...

Ridin' the Flavor Train to Tastytown

My favorite winter sport is eating. Not in a competitive way, just generally. Now that the holidays are over I've put the brakes on the crazy rich foods (the cookies, oh god, the cookies) and have been making more sensible yums (the banana waffles I made for brunch yesterday don't exactly count as sensible - but hey, I used whole grain flour and there were bananas involved so shut up - I should have snapped a photo of them because they were gorgeous.). This weekend I've been particularly productive in the kitchen and thought I would share with you some photos of the tasty treats I've concocted:

The hummus (MDH and I dipped into it a smidge before I snapped the photo):

The cucumber chips:

What remains of my whole grain pasta with spicy Thai peanut sauce with onions and sweet red peppers (chopped raw scallions on top for garnish and a little kick). I wish there were more left over cause it's one of those dishes I like better cold:

A little something I like to call "Grape Salad", but is really just green and red (or black) seedless grapes removed from the vine and stem and rinsed like mad. If you get the right mix of grapes they should be sweet and tart. They look so pretty don't they? Another one of my alternative snacking ideas as they are good to reach for instead of popcorn or chips:

What the hell else am I going to write about on a lazy Sunday, eh? I'm having so much fun sharing the food pictures, I'm going to throw in some other photos I've taken recently:

Look! My amaryllis finally bloomed. It's freaking huge too, like more than 3 feet tall. Now that it's actually flowered it's no longer creepy. In the background of this photo you can see the shopping bags filled with Christmas tree ornaments because I was in the process of taking down our tree:

Traditionally I shop for Christmas decorations the week after Christmas when everything is 75% off. It's pretty dumb to pay full price for this crap. I leave the new ornaments wrapped up and forget all about them until the next year and then it's like having a bunch of little surprises when I'm decorating the tree. Next year I'm sure I'll be delighted when I unwrap this goofy toadstool ornament. (That's my friend Jogger's wedding invitation on the table in the background - February 2nd is the big day!):

Below is what might be one of the worst Christmas presents I've ever gotten. It's safety orange nylon. NY-LON. It's even more revolting in person. No gift receipt either. To make matters worse I felt bad because I knew my mother was unable to go out Christmas shopping this year (she broke her pelvis this past fall and is still recovering) and bought everything on QVC, so I told her it was cute. I am a big fat liar-head.

On a bright note, this is one of my oldest and most favorite and most miraculous Christmas ornaments. It's a hand blown (I assume) glass snowman and it's very delicate. It feels like a feather. The thing that is miraculous about it is - look at it's nose - that it's nose is still intact. All these years (about 8) and I haven't managed to smash it or break the tip of that snowman's nose. See you next year little snowman...

Happy Sunday.

Because I'm Better Than You, That's Why

Sometimes, sometimes I don't wash my hands in public restrooms. Now you know. Don't hate me though. Keep reading. I have my reasons and alternative solutions. I feel a little bit funny about it when I don't, but then I think it's probably OK because typically I don't have to touch my lady junk directly, so to speak, and I don't pee on my hands when I'm using a public toilet (or anywhere else for that matter, at least not on purpose - I felt I must clarify for those of you smarty pant-ses out there) and since it's not physically (it's really a mental block) possible* for me to poop in a public restroom the difficulties that might sometimes arise in cleaning up after that simply don't come up.

Now that I've gotten that important announcement out of the way I'd like to say that what I worry about more than sometimes leaving the ladies room without washing my hands is that sometimes other public women's room patrons (see bullet points of previous post below mentioning my friend Dan's extensive, habitual use of women's restrooms - we don't want to be politically incorrect and assume that all women's room patrons are necessarily women now do we?) seem to notice that I haven't washed my hands and when they do they give me the hairy eyeball, or at least I perceive that they do and this post is my way of giving an explanation. You see most times I do wash my hands in public restrooms provided that the circumstances are such that:

A. There is an option for warm water to be dispensed from the tap. When you live in colder climes having the water blast from the tap at minus ice balls degrees is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing when you'd like a nice cold glass of water to drink and a curse when you would like to wash your hands after using a public toilet and discover the water is not only coming out of the tap freezing cold enough to stop your fucking heart, but also that there is really no option to warm that shit up. Oh sure the tap has an "H" on it indicating that hot water might be available if only you wait long enough, but some middle management penny pinching asshole has turned the hot water off and you are only kidding yourself that it will ever warm up. Not to make a pun, but hell will freeze over first before that water heats up. The hot water is a ruse. I'm not washing my hands here.

B. There is a paper towel option for drying my hands. Those air dryers are for suckers. It takes a year and a day to make any progress and I've got places to go and people to do. The air dryer fritters away my life and I haven't got time for that shit. Half the time when I do consent to using the air dryer the air blowing out is just as freezing cold as the tap water and/or I end up frustrated and drying my hands on my pants or desperately going back into a stall and dabbing at my hands with toilet tissue to dry them. Either way it ends in tears.

C. Please don't even get me started on the cloth diaper towel dispenser type of hand dryer that just spins and spins in filthy, germy circles. I have never in all my travels encountered one of those contraptions that wasn't brownish-yellow and dripping wet with ladies room cooties. No thank you. Even if I had whizzed all over myself why would I wash up and then dry off with that gross spinny diaper towel.

D. The absence of miscellaneous other minor gross outs and inconveniences including but not necessarily limited to:

No soap. No towels. Broken hand dryer. Bathroom filthy in general. Sink clogged with tissues or paper towels. Puddles of water (I hope it's water) on the counter and no place to lean without touching it. Not enough sinks and/or towel dispensers thus causing me to have to wait in line to wash my hands or stand dripping waiting to dry them afterwards. Unable to make the appropriate Ninja moves or otherwise psychically connect with the automatic laser tap/laser soap/laser towel in such a way that causes the laser dispenser to hook me up with the necessary hand washing supplies to make it happen (I'm performing freaking Tai-Chi in a mirror front of ten strangers who are waiting to use the facilities after me and nothing is happening).

So in closing the main reason I don't wash my hands in public restrooms is because I'm a germophobe. Would you like another helping of crazy?

If it makes you feel any better or at least less inclined to hit me with the stink eye, rest assured I usually carry disinfectant wipes in my purse that I employ just in case of such emergencies as not being fully satisfied with the cleanliness of the facilities at hand. I'm not going to pee, leave the rest room without washing my hands and then run off and make you or anyone else a sandwich. It's cool, don't worry about it.

*For those of you that may have been reading my blog for a long time you might remember** that I have previously mentioned being able to poop anywhere. That used to be true but is not anymore. At one point when I was living my life on the road (anyone seen the movie Up In the Air yet?) I adapted my body so that I could poop or sleep anywhere*** and under any conditions.

**It's kinda creepy that you remembered that Dude.

***Anywhere indoors. I have always and probably will always**** be unable to sleep or poop out of doors.

****OK. Like maybe if end of days came and everything was destroyed and I was left here with no running water (how will I make my tea?) and only pine needles for a bed, because I can guaran-fucking-tee you that I will not be called up to Jesus when the rapture comes. When that happens, that's when I'll poop outside.