The Phantom Menace

I’ve been working here for just over a month now. By my count, this is my 30th business day at Save De Puppehs Inc. Let’s say each day I visit the rest room approximately four times. I realize that is a conservative estimate considering that I daily drink between 72 and 90 oz of water. Each visit lasts an average of four minutes including seating, pep talking, action, flushing, hand washing, hair primping and checking my teeth for bits of food. So, by the end of today, I will have spent a grand total so far of 480 minutes, eight working hours or one business day in the ladies room, a world of unwritten rules and never-ending scandal.

Every restroom has its share of villainous characters. In the past, you’ve heard about Bertha, Amy Winehouses’ doppelganger and Happy Friday. Now I’d like to introduce you to my new arch nemesis, The Phantom Menace, whose crime is possibly the worst one possible in a girls’ room: she has left many a stall looking like a murder scene. Even I won’t describe the gory details of the things I’ve seen lately. I don’t want to give you nightmares. Suffice it to say, she doesn’t clean up after herself.

I’ve always wondered what goes through the minds of these exhibitionists. Why leave it all there for the world to see? If you’re so proud of it, take a goddamn picture and hang it up on your refrigerator at home. We (the collective WE of the rest of the building) are not so interested.

The collective WE made this known by complaining to every office and building manager who would listen until they 1) sent an awkward email around about cleanliness 2) taped the email up around the bathroom and 3) when the notices were ripped down and EVERY SINGLE one of our four stalls was systematically violated in retaliation, posted the message in protective Plexiglas sign holders on the inside of every stall door at eye level.

It wasn’t until I was scanning the memo for the n-millionth time this morning that I locked on a certain phrase: “Management has been receiving numerous complaints for several weeks now.” Several weeks. Not “countless” and not “a few.” Several. I’ve been working here several weeks. OH GOD! DOES EVERYONE THINK IT’S ME!?!

Now, I know it’s not me perpetrating these acts of egregious toilet violence, but in my egocentric, hypochondriac mind, I now assume that others have made the same connection in time period with a different conclusion. This is currently my worst fear in life next to zombies, sharks and serial killers all of whom might be hiding under my bed at any given moment.

To make matters worse, I only feel guilty about something when I HAVEN’T done anything wrong. I can look a man in the eye and tell the most shameful lies on the planet without a flicker of the truth passing across my face. But if I’m telling the truth, I will look like the guiltiest suspect in the lineup. I felt personally at fault for the oil spill in the Gulf. The same thing happens when I take a sick day at work. If I’m really under the weather, I spend all day feeling like I’m not ill enough to stay home and thinking I’m a bad person for not going to the office. If I’m playing hooky, I don’t give it a second thought. Yes, this is all ludicrous. Does not change the fact that I look and feel responsible when I’m not to blame.

So, how do I unsully my good name and keep the others from potentially pointing the finger at me? I could just stand on my desk and loudly proclaim it’s not me or I could send a mass email to the same effect. Either way, people might want to pursue the topic in conversation and I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from looking guilty so that option’s out. I could offer to have a security guard follow me to the girls’ room and check my stall after I’ve completed my business. But I get such bad stage fright that I would sooner wait till the end of the day to use the lavatory. Maybe I could just stop drinking water during the day!

The possibilities are limitless. I’ve brainstormed around 50 and stopped myself before the spiral of irrational thought got out of control. But I won’t be the victim here. For once though, I intend on staying in a job for more than 15 minutes. Time is on my side for a change. I’ll be right here, Ms. Menace. I’ll be watching out the crack in my stall and running out after you if I don’t hear a flush when you leave. Your secret is no longer safe. I will find you. You’ve irked the wrong neurotic observer of strict bathroom etiquette.

A Mexican Standoff of Epic Proportions

Maybe you’ve noticed I avoid discussing work these days. I know I’m flattering myself but it’s because I’m afraid that should my real name ever get out, I’ll get fired for online snarkiness and since I have no marketable skills, I will remained unemployed for many moon while my savings wither away. But the following story? This I must share with you.

To preface this, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had about six hours of sleep in the past two days. Partially because I’ve been busy and partially because that busyness is exhausting me and when I’m exhausted, I don’t sleep well. It’s a vicious cycle that usually ends in my narcotic of choice, Advil PM. I haven’t gotten there yet since it’s only been two nights of insomnia. I’m still firmly planted in the phase that oscillates between crankiness and glazed-over, vacant staring.

So, when I entered the ladies room earlier today and saw that my favorite stall was occupied, I got a little ornery. I was forced to take the handicapped stall at the end to provide a buffer. Hate that stall. My feet swing because my legs are short. Grumble grumble.

Normally I would just wiz and leave but because I’m a LITTLE ON EDGE RIGHT NOW I SO CAN I PLEASE JUST HAVE SOME FUCKING PRIVACY WHILE I URINATE, I waited. Seconds crept by. The other occupant shuffled and fidgeted a bit. She pulled some paper from the roll and deafeningly wadded it into a ball. I tapped my foot. She made a second toilet paper wad. I sighed. By then I had passed the Awkwardness Barrier which requires that you perform within 20 seconds of seating yourself in a public bathroom when only one other stranger is present. Whether those 20 seconds pass due to stage fright or choice, after that time period it is absolutely prohibited to do your business until the other occupant has vacated. Why is this a rule? I don’t know. Maybe this is how my OCD brain keeps me from tapping things as I walk by them like my father does. Maybe I just can’t stand the sound of pure silence unexpectedly interrupted by the piercing cry of pee on water. Regardless, after this period of time, you enter into a Mexican Stand Off with your opponent. Only one can remain and I was prepared to wait another half an hour or so to prove my point.

I was pulled from my dazed reverie by a cough. With a heavy heart, I recognized it. It was a particular coworker of mine who consistently makes my eye tick. She’s foreign. Even her cough has a thick accent. She’s also the office talker: get caught at the sink with her and you will need to discuss for 15 minutes how you are both in the restroom at the same time and isn’t that SUCH a coincidence. Any slim consideration of getting on with my business vanished. She was going to fucking leave and I was going to get my fucking privacy and oh my god, I think I just burst a blood vessel in my eye.

Please allow me to expand on my vehemence. Office B and I have nicknamed this woman “Happy F” because after her first week here she wished us all a very happy Friday. Each one of us. Individually. And then next week it was “Happy Monday!” and “Happy Tuesday!” etc. etc. until my nails were digging into my palms to keep me from flying at her in a fit of desperate rage. You want more? She has taken it upon herself to be our personal welcome wagon and hug new employees on their first day. HUG. As in full body contact. She asks a series of questions that would be better directed at Google to anyone who demonstrates the slightest shred of competence in a topic. I despise watering the plant next to her desk because inevitably, she prairie dogs out of her cubicle and starts asking me about sun exposure, speckles on foliage, and botanical terminology and I have to stand there and not say, “I’m just watering the fucking plant” which takes immense restraint on my part. She makes me order random office supplies. In one instance, she decided she didn’t like the footstool I got her (footstool – who needs a footstool?!) , she hid it in the storage closet and buried it under other things as if I eventually wouldn’t think, “hmm, I don’t remember leaving all of these previously neatly stacked items in one heap on the floor.” She once told people gathered around the coffee machine that she heard on NPR that laughing has health benefits so if you live alone, they recommend practicing on inanimate objects. Like tea cups. Then she demonstrated. Now I can’t erase the depressing mental image of her standing alone in a tattered bathrobe giggling at her morning cup of tea in an otherwise deserted studio apartment.

So, that’s Happy F. Imagine my relief when she gave up and flushed. Another minute or two and I would be clear to evacuate the three cups of coffee that were keeping my sleep deprived brain semi-useful. She washed her hands. I stared at my boots and imagined that I was somewhere else. Then I heard the sound that will echo through future nightmares. The unmistakable zing of a make-up bag zipper sliding open.

For the next eternity, I sat in silence as she brushed her teeth, rinsed, brushed a few spots she had missed, and rinsed again. I sighed loudly. She flossed. I counted ceiling tiles. She gargled with mouth wash, and rinsed. In a dramatic gesture, I rested my forehead on my right arm which I had stretched out along the metal support bar on the wall. She patted her hands with a paper towel, brushed her hair, wiped down the counter, adjusted her clothing and took a long hard look at herself in the mirror. By the end, I had resigned myself to die alone in the handicapped stall and was preparing to scrawl my last will and testament across the wall. I leave my DVDs to Lulu, the condo to Beau, my collection of strangers’ grocery lists to Bologna. But to Happy F, I leave NOTHING.

My head jerked up when the door swung open and another woman entered. I had dozed off somewhere near the end of Happy F’s grooming session and didn’t notice when she left. I finished my business and returned to my desk, having proven my point by spending my entire lunch break in the restroom.

Weakness of the Flesh

Upton Sinclair made me a vegetarian when I was 15. Or, more specifically, that terrible scene in The Jungle did. The socialist content went completely over my head but the thought of people-meat being mixed in with my sausage products was too much for me to handle. I went down to dinner that night, looked at the freshly carved chicken on the counter and announced, “I think I’m not going to eat meat anymore” to which my father called from the next room over, “There’s peanut butter in the cabinet.”

That carried on for a few years until one particularly grueling day in Disney World when I ordered a taco salad sans beef and was presented with a taco salad WITH beef. I knew it would take longer to get a fresh one than it would to wait for a gun license in New Hampshire (around 20 minutes) (which was unacceptable in my famished state) so I sat down with the intention of pushing the offensive substance to the side and consuming the slightly tainted lettuce beneath. Several minutes later, I came up for air with my face covered in delicious beef and then proceeded to sample a meat product at each country in Epcot. Now I own that shirt made famous by Heather Armstrong that says “Meat is Murder. Tasty, Tasty Murder.”

Still, I have a soft spot for animals. I cut six-pack rings before recycling to save the dolphins. I incessantly try to rescue lost dogs. I cry during those horrific animal abuse commercials with the Sarah McLachlan music in the background. So, when Beau told me that Father’s Day dinner would involve fresh lobsters, I may have panicked a little.

When it came time to cook them, I remained in the kitchen. For solidarity. Like how William Wallace’s friends came to his execution. The little troopers emerged from their refrigerated bag, kicking and futilely flailing their bound fists of fury. They continued struggling until they were lulled into a false sense of security with back pets though I’m quite sure I heard one of them whisper, “No. It will numb my wits, and I must have them all. For if I'm senseless or if I wail, then Longshanks will have broken me.” Just before being lowered into the Pot of Death, one of them looked me directly in the eye and I was forced to run into the next room. They died gracefully without the alleged screams I had been led to expect.

At dinner I choked down the steak that Beau’s mother had thoughtfully made for me in lieu of lobster, all the while thinking, “I will courteously eat this animal carcass and then I will remain steadfastly vegetarian for the foreseeable future.” I spent the rest of the evening in bed, nauseated by what I had seen.

Come morning, I woke late and had a bowl of soggy cereal, stewing in my self righteousness at the breakfast table. Because I was determined to carry on the Good Fight for which my comrades had so valiantly perished. I would not let those martyrs be forgotten by the barbarians who slew them for their savory innards. Oh no. I WOULD NOT LET THEM GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT. WHO’S WITH ME?!

Then Beau’s family showed me the two crisp, succulent strips of bacon that they had saved specifically for me. As it turns out, the foreseeable future is less than 18 hours.

Castle Update

Not so much my castle anymore. Here’s a list of fun discoveries we made on Saturday during the building inspection:

1. The house has a termite problem which was previously undisclosed by the listing agent.


2. The house had 2 crawl spaces under it that the owner attempted to hide. They were not properly treated for moisture, so you can pretty much imagine what they looked like.


3. Since the last time we visited, they sealed the ceiling panel leading to the attic (which we were unable to get into the last time because no one had a ladder).


4. After busting through the ceiling panel to the attic, we found it had also not been treated for moisture and was full of fuzzy white mold which I am horrifically allergic to.


5. (My personal favorite) The roof was being supported by a log. A LOG. The building inspector said people stopped doing that in the mid-1800s so the house was definitely not built in 1926 like the listing agent told us.

So, yeah, we didn’t buy a house this weekend. Even though I was pretty in love with the place before, I’m very over it now. The aforementioned list plus a number of other problems plus the BITCH of a listing agent we had to deal with was enough to turn me off completely. It’s like finding out the hot guy you’ve been dating for a month hasn’t showered in the past year. Maybe you wonder “How the hell did you not notice that he wasn’t showering in the first place?” Axe. That’s how. This house was the real estate equivalent of a whore’s bath.

Though I’m not heartbroken that we rescinded our offer, I’m getting frustrated by 2 months of fruitless searching. Add that to the gloomy, nasty New England weather we’re having today and you’ve got a recipe for a solid funk.

Lessons from the Metro Boston Roadways

After merging into the left lane during this morning’s commute as many other drivers do every day of their lives and will continue doing for the rest of time, the owner of a light-green high-end minivan floored his vehicle in order to tail me as if to say, “I know there was an appropriately sized gap in front of me that was perfect for your automobile, but still, your presence in this lane will not be tolerated despite the fact that you are clearly keeping up with traffic.” To clarify, I didn’t cut him off. This individual sped up AFTER I was already in front of him and proceeded to tail me at what appeared to be less than a foot of space at 60 mph.

In response, I righteously displayed my middle finger for his viewing pleasure. He retorted with an elaborate hand gesture of mock-fellatio. He continued to tail for several more minutes, even after I tapped on the breaks nearly causing him to nearly hit my mid-90s boat with his Mercedes. Eventually, he tried to pass me on the right and failed miserably when the semi in the next lane cock blocked his ass.

Traffic moved on without the fellater but it left me thinking about all that I have learned by driving in and around Beantown:

Boston Road Repair Fund Minus $22-Billion Big Dig Equals 22-Billion Potholes

Boston never EVER fixes their roads. On the blue moon that they DO decide to fix a pothole, they will do so on a Monday evening at 5:30 pm so as to inconvenience the highest number of people. They will post between two and seven police officers to stand ominously on the side of the road and watch the progress so as to maximize wastefulness.

The “Here I Come” Principle

In my homeland of the Dirty Jerz, the root of all bad driving is impatience. People will tail you because you’re holding up traffic and they need to go somewhere. The appropriate speed for the left lane on the Jersey Turnpike is infinity. You are expected to go as fast as possible in that lane. If you allow anyone to catch up to you when there is no one is front of you, it is their civic duty to let you know that you have failed society. That’s why the Jersey Sweep was invented – to get around Virginians doing 80 mph. Come to think of it, I wonder if Mr. Let-Me-Show-You-How-I-Put-Penis-In-My-Mouth was from the Jerz?

In Massachusetts though, the root of all bad driving is obliviousness. This phenomenon has come to be known in my household as the “Here I Come” principle (as in “ready or not, here I come”, as in “I don’t know exactly where you are, but I’m probably coming in your general direction right now”). This phrase was coined after Beau, a native Bostonian, took a mostly blind left hand turn from the right hand lane in a highly populated downtown area and my subsequent caterwauling. As a general rule, Bay Staters have no idea what’s going on when they are behind the wheel. They are completely unaware of their surroundings, usually on the phone, and just plain don’t notice that there are other cars on the road.

The Hypotenuse of “Why Don’t You Look Where I’m Going?”

With all that obliviousness comes a certain amount of implied trust. They trust you not to rear-end them when they cut you off without looking, and you may pass that trust on to the next driver when you park your car at a green light to get out and inspect the effect of a carwash on your rims. In Jersey, it is your responsibility not to get yourself into an accident. In Massachusetts, it is everyone else’s responsibility to make sure you don’t get into an accident.

Rotaries Equal Retardation

I used to go through three rotaries on my way to work. Each one backed up every single day, at every time of day and the inside resembles a mosh pit for cars.

As a preliminary effort to head off reactionary hate mail comments, I challenge you to take a toodle around Boston to check it out for yourself before committing yourself to an eternity of my ridicule by whining that I’ve stereotyped horribly and you are personally offended. Should you chose to refute the facts stated above, I require specific examples as well as your license plate number so I know to avoid you on the roads.

I Said “More on That Later” and Now is Apparently Late Enough

The time has come to explain what I meant when I elusively mentioned in my last post not getting a job until October. I’d like to preface this explanation by saying that I had to completely rewrite this post because it turned into an incoherent three page diatribe ending in a poorly constructed metaphor involving colonialism in early America, so, please be aware that this is the calmer, friendlier, 50% less bitter version.

In short, I have determined that work sucks. I don’t want to overwhelm you with my wisdom so why don’t you take a minute to let that sink in.

Specifically, I’ve come to abhor office work. I’m resentful of every minute I fritter away in front of a computer under fluorescent lights in a room with no windows. Less than three years into the work force and I’m already sick of office politics. I realized earlier this month that if one more customer/superior/random neff they pulled off the street gives me an attitude, insults my intelligence, or is just generally nasty because they’re constipated, I might actually just walk out on my job. Like literally. Take my purse and leave this place and never come back because this doesn’t feel like the way to really live one’s life.

Instead, I’ve luckily had a quiet month of training my replacement and saying my farewells. Originally, I quit in anticipation of starting grad school in the fall. After weeks of agonizing (both in my head and out loud to everyone I know… thanks guys), I deferred my acceptance for two main reasons:

1) I have no idea what I want to do with my life and I’m finally comfortable with that. I’m not prepared to waste $30,000+ figuring it out. I highly doubt sitting in a classroom will lead to existential resolution anyway. So, if I go back for more education, I’m going to be damn sure I’m going to use it. Without that assurance, I don’t think it’s not a good investment. And no, I don’t believe graduate programs are generally beneficial in landing a fulfilling career. For those stalwart proponents, I suggest reading Barbara Ehnrenreich and Penelope Trunk and then polling the cashiers at Barnes and Noble and baristas at Starbucks to find out how many have PhDs in English.

2) Any graduate program I’m both qualified for and interested in will launch me directly back into an office environment which, as we’ve already discussed, I find loathsome and soul-sucking. The thought of paying someone so that I can come right back to the same general thing under a fancier guise is downright horrifying to me.

I fully respect those who do office work. Working outside of one can be tough – I know, I’ve been there. I understand that we need someone to staff the organizations that make the world go round. I’m aware that my humble efforts photocopying play a role, albeit a minor one, in keeping these giants afloat. I get that you’ve got to start at the bottom where the work is boring and unrewarding and work your way into a more stimulating position. My understanding of the way the world works does not change my reluctance to participate in it. And yes, I am five minutes from following Thoreau’s lead and building a house in the woods. Preferably on someone else’s property (hey Bologna, how’s the new house search going? Still looking at that one with a few acres of forest that you won’t be able to easily monitor?)

As such, I’ve given myself a break in September, both to goof off and also pursue projects of my own interest. It’s entirely possible I won’t be able to support myself in my freelance endeavors (which I assure you are farfetched and completely unstable means of earning a living) but I owe it to myself to try before resigning myself to a means of existence that I personally find distasteful.

There’s One in Every Neighborhood

I was not pleased at 7:30 this morning when my doorbell rang. First of all, I have a doorbell? Second, I was halfway through an iced coffee watching the morning news in my pajamas. Third, Beau was in the shower still so I couldn’t send him downstairs to answer it.

Since the butler was busy, I trounced down two flights of stairs picking at the wedgie my booty shorts were giving me (I only wear them in the privacy of my own home and that is my prerogative), hoping to God that this wasn’t a religious official trying to convert me when I was still braless and thereby, at my most defensive. Through the glass in the front door, I saw a very shabbily dressed older gentleman. I cracked the door and said, “Can I help you?” in a tone that best conveyed my intended message “Get the fuck off my porch.”

As he opened his bearded face to explain exactly why he was still standing on my landlord’s New York Times, I was overwhelmed with the smell of festering garbage and unwashed human. I ascertained he was homeless and come to beg tuppence of me. I was about to shut the door in his face when he said “Do you own a sports car?”

Don’t nobody threaten my baby’s convertible.

In an unprecedented move, I skipped from the usual Jersey attitude directly to the tone and demeanor of Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny. It was something angry, feral, bestial, JURASSIC even and probably had a lot to do with my Cheerios getting soggy as I stood there talking to a man that appeared to have slept in a dumpster.

I cracked the door farther and barked “Yeah.” He then asked (quite politely considering my general bearing) if I could move said sports car so that they could remove a dumpster from my neighbor-across-the-street’s driveway. The car was in the way of the truck. Apparently he didn’t sleep in a dumpster, he just worked with one.

I rolled my eyes in a way I haven’t done since I was 15-years-old and gave him one last “Yeah” before slamming the door. But since I can’t drive stick, I had to run upstairs and scream to Beau (who was just getting out of the shower) that he needed to move his car because some construction guy told me so. Hell hath no fury like a Beau bothered before 8 am. I immediately started eating my Cheerios in front of the window to see if Beau ran someone over.

When he returned, I described to him the sheer grossness of the construction worker who rang our door bell. “That wasn’t part of the construction crew,” Beau responded, “That was our neighbor.” The same neighbor who left a nasty gram on the car this past winter causing me to call down the fury of coyote poop on his backyard. The same neighbor who actually confronted Beau in person once about our car being parked in front of his house instead of our house (even though at the time there were clearly no spot available on our side of the street). Yes, that neighbor has now asked that we not park in front of our own house either. And also he smells bad.

Hippy See, Yuppy Do

During one of my many trying-to-define-myself phases, I prescribed to the nouveau hippy lifestyle, by which I mean to say that I was not a radical of the Vietnam era that supported an actual cause, but that I was a wannabe of the late 90s/early 00s that wore flowy hemp skirts, protested at the occasional political rally when I didn’t feel like going to class and smoked a shit-ton of pot. Having realized that those skirts are not flattering and that crossing a picket line for an ice cream cone is frowned on, I evolved - along with a solid portion of that crowd. I like to think that we ex-hippies are a big part of the current green movement. Yes, we work our yuppy, corporate jobs to pay the bills but by God, we also drive Priuses and put our groceries in canvas bags. Or, in my particular case, we get horny about recycling.

Granted, I’m not scaling back on my lengthy showers or going too far out of my way to help save the planet, but that’s exactly what I like about recycling. It takes zero brain power and minimal effort to toss your plastic, aluminum, glass, and paper into different containers. With every sorted Diet Coke can, I am personally keeping 13 grams of waste out of a landfill – and if you’ve ever smelled northern New Jersey, you know that any help should be appreciated. I’ve even trained Beau to rinse his beer bottles and stash them in a separate trash bag!

Having recycling services available in your area and not making use of them seems beyond my conception of the most slovenly, lazy behavior. It seems downright malicious given the results of current research on the environment. Go ahead and make excuses: you’re too busy, your small contribution doesn’t mean anything, you don’t like the look of extra bins in your kitchen. Just don’t come crying to me when the polar ice caps melt and your grand children are carried away in the flood. I’ll be safely afloat in a tiny car that gets awesome gas mileage. I don’t make this stuff up people; it’s science.

One of my particular pet peeves is watching commuters drop their morning paper in the trash as soon as they step off the train. It doesn’t seem to be asking too much to hold onto it until they reach the office where there is inevitably a blue recycling bin under every desk. Imagine my delight when Boston began putting specific newspaper recycling bins on the platforms of most major subway stops for your morning Metro. Despite the fact that a slim percentage uses them, it warms my heart.

On my way out of the subway this morning, I saw a young respectable-looking woman spit into one such receptacle. I slowed to rubber neck and tilt my head to one side in my curious fashion. The dichotomy was fascinating. She was dressed in business casual attire yet had unmistakably expelled saliva in public during the morning rush hour. Is this what we’ve stooped to? Haven't we done enough to the planet already?

I couldn’t help but continue to gawk on my way out. That’s how I ascertained that she was not in fact chawin’ tabacky or anything of the sort. She was in the middle of vomiting. Truly, I sympathized with her predicament, but instead of being grossed out like the other commuters, my secondary emotion was just irritation over her regurgitation ruining a perfectly good bin of recyclables.

Of course, since it’s Friday and karma has a way of finding me at inopportune moments, I’ll probably end up puking a liter of rum directly into a recycling truck tonight.

Dangerous K Goes On A Field Trip: The Exciting Conclusion

When we last left our heroes…

Grasshoppah was a responsible girl and went to all her appointments with nifty specialists who ran more tests on her (I assume things like holding a crucifix up to her face and checking to see if she had a reflection). Amongst the doctors she visited was one who diagnosed her with a minor condition that explains all of her bizarre symptoms (repeated sinus infections, severe migraines that cause nausea, muscle spasms in the head and other parts of the body, head spinning, projectile vomiting, climbing down stairs backwards): TMJ.

And (good times!) it can be easily fixed with a mouth guard worn while she sleeps… for the modest price of $500. Jigga what?! $500?! Yes. I can’t really fathom spending so much money on something I put in my mouth. Not including my rum budget. Even better? Her insurance won’t cover it.

Luckily, Master Debater in his wisdom suggested she try the cheap CVS version before splurging on something that costs practically an entire month’s rent. That one costs around $30 which is an amount of cash I can easily imagine covering in saliva without much regret. Now, Grasshoppah could go purchase this much more reasonable device out of pocket, or, for the sake of being supportive (and making a scene in public) I suggest an alternative: The TMJ Awareness Walk 2008. I will personally pack a picnic lunch and donate t-shirts for anyone willing to pitch in a few bucks and take a walk down the Charles River with me screaming “T-M-J! GO-A-WAY!” and other such encouraging slogans.

I am completely serious. Tentative date: Sunday, May 4 around noon. Anyone willing to tackle this terrible affliction with me, please leave a note in the comments section.

Free picnic and t-shirts for any who join.

I'm Bad At Sharing

There’s no time to discuss the outcome of yesteryesterevening’s experiment. I have breaking news of the receptionist kind.

Several weeks ago, the receptionist from the office across the hall (we will call them the Inferior Nerd Company) came in asking to borrow our little red dolly. Let me preface this story by stating that it is my favorite dolly. It’s just the right size for the big boxes of magazines and paper that I need to haul around. Without it, I’m forced to either schlep 50 lb boxes around the office by hand or use one of the other dollies that are just totally useless. The brown one doesn’t have a handle – it’s just a board on wheels. The blue one is so big that it aught to have an engine so I could drive it around which would be freaking awesome and I have just added to my list of To Dos. Anyway, the Inferior Nerd Companyy’s receptionist didn’t really ask to borrow it so much as waltzed past me and took it which she does all the time and makes me frown.

Last week one of her coworkers came in looking to borrow yet another dolly. I informed him that I couldn’t lend out any more of our equipment until the piece that was previously borrowed was returned. That’s fair, right? He hung his head and left. Later that day, I could see him through the glass doors in front of my desk pushing stuff around in the elevator vestibule with, what else, a little red dolly.

A few hours later, the IN Co. receptionist comes back in with My Precious, apologizing for its late return which I graciously accepted with a "Oh no - don't even worry about it. I'm just glad it hasn't been lost or something!"

Today, another of her coworkers, Mr. Man, walks in with the janitorial guy that creeps me out (first I thought he was one of those cute, non-English speaking types that waves and smiles in order to communicate but now he has lengthy cell phone conversations outside my office doors while staring at me. The bond is broken.)

Mr. Man: Our receptionist returned the wrong dolly to you. It belongs to building managements [gestures to creepy janitorial guy]. We need it back.

Dangerous K: No, she returned ours which went unreturned for almost a month.

So, we walked into the mailroom and I put my hand on the red dolly to signify "this one" at the same time that Mr. Man gestures to the useless, (currently) undriveable blue dolly that’s collecting dust in the corner because no one wants to borrow it. In doing so, he also clearly demonstratd that he doesn’t know what’s going on. Creepy Janitor says "no" to the blue one and "yes" to the red one which upon closer inspection I realize is much more beat up than the one I had lent out. Perhaps this wasn’t My Precious after all.

Regardless, after a month of back breaking box moving, I had A Precious back if not My Precious and frankly, I don’t feel that I deserve to be Preciousless any longer. I related this sentiment as I herded them out of my mailroom, saying, “It’s entirely possible that she returned the one belonging to building management. We might have the same model. But that means that your office still owes us a dolly". I stood righteously in the doorway to block their forcible removal of my red dolly

Then I stood in the doorway to the mailroom in my righteous receptionist glory to prevent the forcible removal of A Precious. And that is where I remained until they got the point that they weren't taking the GODDAMN RED DOLLY UNTIL I GOT MINE BACK.

Hrmph.

This, yes, technically means that I am currently engaged in a hostage situation.

The Abacus from Hell, Part II

You will fear me or I will steal your boyfriend away and make him color in alternating cells of an infinite spread sheet FOR ALL ETERNITY

The Abacus from Hell

I’ve had some weird jobs in my day.

I spent a summer during college working for a friend of the family who was a handy man. This means I changed a lot of door knobs, tightened a lot of leaky faucets, and built part of a deck. On a particularly blistering day in August, I took a break from playing with a sledge hammer to grab a bottle of water from the cooler. As my boss yelled “Not that bottle” in slow motion, I realized I had just chugged a good amount of gin and tonic. Then they took away my sledge hammer.

Another summer, I worked at a local grocery store chopping vegetables for the salad bar. On the plus side, I had an unlimited supply of croutons and the powerful bargaining tool of fresh strawberries which I traded for chicken fingers. There is a fascinating internal economy that exists between super market departments (though the seafood department kind of gets screwed on that one). On the downside, it means I once saw a coworker spill a vat of hardboiled eggs under the industrial sink where they collected all manner of debris. We were instructed to give them a quick rinse and put them on the salad bar anyway. So, ya know, avoid the eggs.

After college, I briefly fled the country to work as an illegal immigrant in England as a B-list celebrity nanny (for a director of B-movies, to be exact). Apparently, that job path is lucrative enough to afford a fancy-pants townhouse in an upscale area of London. I was essentially paid to take their 2-year-old to a variety of tourist traps as well as his regularly scheduled play dates, swimming lessons, and educational activities. But it wasn’t all Legos and cheese wiz. There were also dirty diapers, temper tantrums in public, and running up and down 5 flights of stairs for alternate wardrobe choices when his mother didn’t approve of his outfit.

But London is a story for another time, because none of the bad parts of these jobs could live up to the evil, evil accounting firm that employs Beau. The Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named is responsible for the following crimes against humanity:

1) Making Beau get home from work at 10:45 last night (and probably tonight as well) when he has a fever.

2) Forcing Beau to work under managers who have been renamed “Pirate Whore” and “Teabag” as a result of their charming personalities and who do not care that Beau has a fever and could easily be working from home instead of going out in the cold.

…and the coup de grâce…

3) Relocating Beau for a 6-week assignment in Florida. Yes, this means I may get to visit for free and yes, if that occurs I will be going directly to Sea World to feed the Hungry Hungry Stingrays but NO this does not mean Dangerous K approves. Dangerous K is a vengeful, angry blogger who wants to keep her Beau in the house where she can keep an eye on him and fuss over his lack of primary care physician and make him go fill up her cup of iced tea.

As such, I declare war on the Accounting Firm That Must Not Be Named. My wrath will not be appeased until justice is delivered in a terrifying and satisfactory way which may involve offering to get one of his managers a drink at the next holiday party and then putting a booger on the glass.