Spending the Day in the Shirt You Wore
I wore a shirt with what I am guessing was flutter sleeves (is that a term?) today, and wow, it did not go well. I kept getting a glimpse of my … sleeves … out of the corner of my eye, and thinking that a) I must have looked like Melanie Griffith in “Working Girl” because holy hell, they gave me some SHOULDER; or b) Star Wars. All I could think of was Star Wars and that weird outfit that Obi-Wan Kenobi wore, or even better, did anyone besides me see National Lampoon’s European Vacation? And further, does anyone remember the outfit Rusty bought in Italy? I’m guessing not, but there were shoulder pads, and yea, it was hideous.
Anyway, really, it wasn’t a very good choice, and when I got home, Adam confirmed by looking at me for 2.2 seconds and wildly exclaiming, “Wow, um, are you a court jester?”
This was followed up with such gems as, “Seriously, dude, did I see you this morning? WHY DIDN’T I STOP THIS? I COULD HAVE SAVED YOU!”
And my favorite: “Have you, um, SEEN your armpits, oh my God?”
Because yeah. My underarms were completely and totally covered in little black balls that rubbed off, and suffice it to say they were ape-like. I’m still picking them out and flicking them across the room, which is by far one of the more attractive hobbies I’ve ever had, if you ask me–no, no, ask Adam.
In other news, my office moved two miles up the road and in the unpacking, a box full of my (now unused, thank you Moon Cup!) tampons ended up in someone else’s office, and further, a colleague and I were discussing female bathroom etiquette in the bathroom–including the merits and demerits of toilet seat covers–while we were both actually using the bathroom, which doesn’t much bother me, except when we came out, two of our male colleagues were looking rather pasty and, when pressed, politely informed us that um, actually, every single word (And…and…NOISE?) that comes out of the ladies room is actually amplified throughout the whole front of the office.
This means that moving forward I’ll be driving to the Applebee’s up the road to pee and do whatever else it is that I need to do, despite their insistence that okay, maybe not all the NOISES, just the voices. (This last bit of information was only offered after I looked panicked beyond all holy belief, so I am suspicious at best–not that I think they want to listen to me pee, but because I was positively PANICKED, but logically, I think they’re right. Just voices. JUST VOICES. *rocks back and forth*) Seriously, though, who designed such acoustics? Why are all bathrooms designed with such echo-ey walls and tiles? Bathrooms should be sound-proof, and it amazes me how few of them are. There should be fans! Carpeted walls! White noise machines! Random flushing noises that happen for the hell of it so that no one actually knows what you’re doing in there! JESUS.
Well, upon further reflection, maybe not carpeted walls. Because in every office I’ve ever worked, for reasons entirely unknown, the office is victimized at least once by someone who refuses to conduct their unsavory business while seated, resulting in some sort of wild explosion that defies any sort of logic, and thank God for tile in cases like that. Also, in college, our bathroom was carpeted, and it was just so upsetting, because those fibers acted like little TRAPS for whatever pee molecules hurtled through the air every day. And–AND–you know what mystifies me? Those toilet carpets that fit around the outside of the toilet on the bottom that you can buy in Target. Well, and carpeted toilet seats in general. Oh oh–and those padded toilet seats, because they always seem to trap things they shouldn’t, too.
I never intended to end up here. Sorry. But all of this is entirely irrelevant, because the beast, the beast is COMPLETELY GONE, as in, she’s at home where she belongs. And when they said they’d pick her up in an hour, they just had to get some dinner, we said, “OH NO, we will COME TO YOU. WE INSIST.” And then we deposited her in her little crate at home and rubbed our hands together with glee, because the house is OURS again! OURS! OOOOOUUUUUURRRRS.
Happy Tuesday!
*Poi Dog Pondering. My friend Andy gave this to me on a mix CD about 10 years ago. Andy still takes a hit off of a bong every night before he goes to bed, and for some reason this cracks me up, because I just can’t IMAGINE, and yet I know countless people who do it! For real! And I know that the fact that this surprises me makes me incredibly naive, but can you imagine having a bong in your house? And going through the miserable process of buying weed? Because I can’t, seriously, I just can’t. (Also, Andy is not his real name. Just in case, I don’t know…something.)
36 comments June 25th, 2007