by tess
In every office there is one woman who knows everything about … well … everything. And because she knows it all, she ever-so-kindly shares her great wisdom with those of us who are inferior to her superior enlightenment. She makes it clear every day and in every way that she is the top to our bottom, always first-class to our coach, ever Lear to our Fool, invariably the dom to our sub.
The Q of K in my current workplace is named Peg (Lithuanian for She Who Knows All and Refuses to Keep Her Trap Shut). It would be obvious to take the easy way out by failing to embrace Pedantic Peg and her unrelenting counsel. But could you really shun unsolicited advice on topics as disparate as cooking and fashion, politics and child-rearing, religion and Britney Spears? Could you truly close your ears to the fresh-off-FOXNews updates she announces throughout the office every ten minutes? Would you be willing to spurn daily updates to reality TV shows that you don’t watch? How could you survive Monday mornings without a forty minute treatise describing every single moment of the wonderful weekend she spent attending fabulous events with her perfect sons? Would Armageddon not rain down upon us without re-enactments of every client interaction?
While others may disparage She of All Illumination, I appreciate The Pegmeister. She willfully inserts herself into every event, every conversation, every moment that might otherwise be quiet minus the incessant drone of her piercing insight. To muzzle the Loquacious One would leave conversations incomplete – there would be no one to provide the final word.
In the future, I plan to further encourage our own Regina of Rightness to disseminate her wisdom upon us dissolute office drones. Otherwise how could we identify and root out our defective opinions, specious information, and erroneous ideas? We are deeply indebted to Peg for her wise and perpetual counsel. Long live the Queen!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Potty Humor
by tessa
My office bathroom is in the middle of our office, right next to my desk. (Side note: I told Gretchen this when I first started working here almost three years ago and she told me that I should quit, that it’s too much pressure to work so close to the potty. Looking back, she might have been right.)
So the first problem is that it’s directly inside the office rather than being located discreetly down a hall or tucked prudently in a private alcove. To say there’s no privacy is a massive understatement. Everyone can see who’s entering the bathroom, what they’re carrying, and knows how long they’re in there. Eww. Everyone (not everyone, just me due to my prime location, but I prefer to think that I’m not the only one here enjoying this particular precious gift) can hear what’s going on. For the sake of discretion, we’ll mention only that I know who feels compelled to answer the call of the cell while simultaneously answering the call of nature. Again. Ewww.
And the pssssssssssssssst of the ubiquitous air freshener spraying identifies what happened in the standing coffin of a room. Sadly the length of the spray actually pinpoints not only what transpired but who made it happen. This is definitely TMI to the nth degree. Nobody should know this much about their colleagues.
Oh, and the door handle is coming off. There are days when it comes off altogether — the jangle of metal hitting the tile and subsequent muttered curse tend to be a dead giveaway. And then there are days when the handle merely refuses to lock. Still a problem given the proximity to the rest of the office!
Thus, the irony: I spent years ridiculing former office mates for being incapable of using public restrooms, now I refuse to use the facilities during business hours unless it’s a true emergency. I’m not sure that’s altogether healthy but what’s a Public Poopaphobe to do?
My office bathroom is in the middle of our office, right next to my desk. (Side note: I told Gretchen this when I first started working here almost three years ago and she told me that I should quit, that it’s too much pressure to work so close to the potty. Looking back, she might have been right.)
So the first problem is that it’s directly inside the office rather than being located discreetly down a hall or tucked prudently in a private alcove. To say there’s no privacy is a massive understatement. Everyone can see who’s entering the bathroom, what they’re carrying, and knows how long they’re in there. Eww. Everyone (not everyone, just me due to my prime location, but I prefer to think that I’m not the only one here enjoying this particular precious gift) can hear what’s going on. For the sake of discretion, we’ll mention only that I know who feels compelled to answer the call of the cell while simultaneously answering the call of nature. Again. Ewww.
And the pssssssssssssssst of the ubiquitous air freshener spraying identifies what happened in the standing coffin of a room. Sadly the length of the spray actually pinpoints not only what transpired but who made it happen. This is definitely TMI to the nth degree. Nobody should know this much about their colleagues.
Oh, and the door handle is coming off. There are days when it comes off altogether — the jangle of metal hitting the tile and subsequent muttered curse tend to be a dead giveaway. And then there are days when the handle merely refuses to lock. Still a problem given the proximity to the rest of the office!
Thus, the irony: I spent years ridiculing former office mates for being incapable of using public restrooms, now I refuse to use the facilities during business hours unless it’s a true emergency. I’m not sure that’s altogether healthy but what’s a Public Poopaphobe to do?
Cat Mom Rulz
by tessa
Yesterday the story was released that Kate Winslet’s daughter gave her grief about the gown she wore to the Academy Awards. Personally I think the gown was gorgeous and she has never looked more beautiful in her life than she looks right now (same goes for Meryl Streep, by the way, so apparently grey gowns can rock the red carpet when worn by beautiful, talented women).
But the singular relationship that mothers and daughters share is perfectly illustrated by Kate’s story. As a woman you’ve accomplished this phenomenal goal reaching the absolute pinnacle of your career, finally winning Best Actress, on the cover of Time magazine, lauded (finally!) as not only talented but beautiful, and your daughter’s response sounds like, “Yeah, that’s awesome and everything, but that dress bites it hard, dude.”
I guess that’s what parenting is about. Which explains why I have cats instead of children. They don’t care what you wear as long as you sneak chicken to them (every single time you open the fridge). You can be wearing vintage Versace or 287 pounds of birthday suit. Just as long as you don’t feed them that crap in the purple pouches that needs to be covered up as though the kitchen tile is a litter box, they love each and every ounce of you unconditionally and without comment.
Yesterday the story was released that Kate Winslet’s daughter gave her grief about the gown she wore to the Academy Awards. Personally I think the gown was gorgeous and she has never looked more beautiful in her life than she looks right now (same goes for Meryl Streep, by the way, so apparently grey gowns can rock the red carpet when worn by beautiful, talented women).
But the singular relationship that mothers and daughters share is perfectly illustrated by Kate’s story. As a woman you’ve accomplished this phenomenal goal reaching the absolute pinnacle of your career, finally winning Best Actress, on the cover of Time magazine, lauded (finally!) as not only talented but beautiful, and your daughter’s response sounds like, “Yeah, that’s awesome and everything, but that dress bites it hard, dude.”
I guess that’s what parenting is about. Which explains why I have cats instead of children. They don’t care what you wear as long as you sneak chicken to them (every single time you open the fridge). You can be wearing vintage Versace or 287 pounds of birthday suit. Just as long as you don’t feed them that crap in the purple pouches that needs to be covered up as though the kitchen tile is a litter box, they love each and every ounce of you unconditionally and without comment.
The Blog Glommer
by tessa
So Gretchen said that I could glom onto her blog which would officially make this a blog-glom, I guess. Sounds like those fake swear words cartoon characters sometimes use: Blog-glom-it!
If I were a super hero, maybe I’d be The Blog Glommer! I’m not sure what The Blog Glommer would wear (always top of mind!) or what kind of super hero powers I’d have. I’m sure that we’ll see a blog about it soon, so stay tuned.
Anyway, I like the words glom and blog together just as I am deeply enamoured of the words pamplemousse and parapluie together. Perhaps Super Hero Blog Glommer carries a pamplemousse-colored parapluie while fighting crime in Paris? Hey, it could happen!
Anyway, back to the story. Despite having copious free time to write, I haven’t done so. I might have grumbled to Gretchen that it’s because I don’t know how to start a blog, hence her invitation to blog-glom. But I don’t know that it’s strictly the underpinnings of blogging that restrict my already sorely lacking ambition. The real problem is that I believe you have to Get a Life, go out there and liiiive to actually write anything worth reading. Even the most sedentary of bloggers seems more interested in living a life (or at very least actively watching Paris Hilton live hers) than I do.
I’m a Professional Life Spectator. Wait, I don’t get paid for it, so I guess I’m an Amateur Life Spectator -- that would be funnier if the initials spelled something obscene. Maybe I’m a Spectator of Life who Undermines Giddiness. Or a Spectator of Life Unaware of Gratification. SLUG is obviously appropriate.
So Gretchen said that I could glom onto her blog which would officially make this a blog-glom, I guess. Sounds like those fake swear words cartoon characters sometimes use: Blog-glom-it!
If I were a super hero, maybe I’d be The Blog Glommer! I’m not sure what The Blog Glommer would wear (always top of mind!) or what kind of super hero powers I’d have. I’m sure that we’ll see a blog about it soon, so stay tuned.
Anyway, I like the words glom and blog together just as I am deeply enamoured of the words pamplemousse and parapluie together. Perhaps Super Hero Blog Glommer carries a pamplemousse-colored parapluie while fighting crime in Paris? Hey, it could happen!
Anyway, back to the story. Despite having copious free time to write, I haven’t done so. I might have grumbled to Gretchen that it’s because I don’t know how to start a blog, hence her invitation to blog-glom. But I don’t know that it’s strictly the underpinnings of blogging that restrict my already sorely lacking ambition. The real problem is that I believe you have to Get a Life, go out there and liiiive to actually write anything worth reading. Even the most sedentary of bloggers seems more interested in living a life (or at very least actively watching Paris Hilton live hers) than I do.
I’m a Professional Life Spectator. Wait, I don’t get paid for it, so I guess I’m an Amateur Life Spectator -- that would be funnier if the initials spelled something obscene. Maybe I’m a Spectator of Life who Undermines Giddiness. Or a Spectator of Life Unaware of Gratification. SLUG is obviously appropriate.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Never ignore strange noises
by gretchen
I was working upstairs, minding my own business. My cat and dog, however, were not polite enough to do the same. While I worked through project plans and schedules, I heard the cat running laps around the house. This is common. At any moment, he'll suddenly gallop through the kitchen, through the family room, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the living room and around again. I can hear this Olympic training from my small study on the second floor. After awhile, it's not distracting. The dog even gets tired of trying to stand in as a ref for the event and settles at my feet.
There are antics all day long. Again, you just take it in stride.
So as I answered emails and heard the very loud, "POP!" I ignored it. Figured the cat was knocking something off of the counter. Another "POP!" and I wondered what he was playing with but continued working, knowing there would be a mess downstairs. When I stood up to get a notebook, I heard a third "POP!" This one alarmed me because both the cat and the dog were lounging by the window.
What on earth was popping?
I started down the stairs. "POP!" The kitchen was smokey. It smelled foul. And then I saw tehe stove: the scene of a massacre. An egg masacre. Charred eggshells had egg guts squirting out. Egg yolk crumbs were splattered on the mircrowave, the remenends of an expoded Grade AA Large. Shells bits were everywhere. Egg whites had cemented themseles to the bottom of the now-bone-dry pot. One egg, having made what I can only assume was a flying escape from the pot, laid on its side, yolk and whites oozing onto the burner, bubbling from the heat.
And here is my lesson. No matter how many times you have tested a theory, like, say, that you can leave the stove on a low temp for hours while hard-boiling an egg without risking injury to your eggs, the pot, the stove, or any passing spider on the wall, you might consider the value of common sense over whatever anomolous results you may have previously found.
By the way, Jamie asked me to check for any other potential hazards before leaving the house and fix them before I went.
I locked the "potential hazards" in the bathroom with food and water and treats. When I returned, the house was fine.
Bathroom was in shambles.
I was working upstairs, minding my own business. My cat and dog, however, were not polite enough to do the same. While I worked through project plans and schedules, I heard the cat running laps around the house. This is common. At any moment, he'll suddenly gallop through the kitchen, through the family room, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the living room and around again. I can hear this Olympic training from my small study on the second floor. After awhile, it's not distracting. The dog even gets tired of trying to stand in as a ref for the event and settles at my feet.
There are antics all day long. Again, you just take it in stride.
So as I answered emails and heard the very loud, "POP!" I ignored it. Figured the cat was knocking something off of the counter. Another "POP!" and I wondered what he was playing with but continued working, knowing there would be a mess downstairs. When I stood up to get a notebook, I heard a third "POP!" This one alarmed me because both the cat and the dog were lounging by the window.
What on earth was popping?
I started down the stairs. "POP!" The kitchen was smokey. It smelled foul. And then I saw tehe stove: the scene of a massacre. An egg masacre. Charred eggshells had egg guts squirting out. Egg yolk crumbs were splattered on the mircrowave, the remenends of an expoded Grade AA Large. Shells bits were everywhere. Egg whites had cemented themseles to the bottom of the now-bone-dry pot. One egg, having made what I can only assume was a flying escape from the pot, laid on its side, yolk and whites oozing onto the burner, bubbling from the heat.
And here is my lesson. No matter how many times you have tested a theory, like, say, that you can leave the stove on a low temp for hours while hard-boiling an egg without risking injury to your eggs, the pot, the stove, or any passing spider on the wall, you might consider the value of common sense over whatever anomolous results you may have previously found.
By the way, Jamie asked me to check for any other potential hazards before leaving the house and fix them before I went.
I locked the "potential hazards" in the bathroom with food and water and treats. When I returned, the house was fine.
Bathroom was in shambles.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
On Being Mookie: 13 Steps to Recovery
by gretchen
The cat’s alive and I think it’s best we establish that now, so no animal lovers get weepy. That cat is alive, despite his very best efforts to waste all nine lives.
Late on Sunday afternoon, when I was secretly throwing the boy's crap in the garage into the garbage (ever notice how close those words are), he threw open the front door and presented me with a splay-toed Mookie, our white cat. “He’s walked through the poly. Can you take care of him?” I really didn't know how to take care of him and I suspect you wouldn't either. So I am here to help, providing you with the 13 steps you'll go through when faced with a poly-toed Mookie.
Step One: Grab phone, call mother.
Step Two: Drop cat in snow. Watch horrified cat run to door. Retrieve cat. Repeat until cat has mastered catching your waist leg halfway down.
Step Three: Tell mother who wants to tell you a story about her neighbor that you have pressing matters you need to attend to.
Step Four: Use mechanic’s hand cream on paws. Wash off cream. Wash off blood incurred from cat fleeing the faucet.
Step Five: Research on Internet. Find solution #2.
Step Six: Snatch cat. Rub peanut butter and oil on paws. Rinse paws and peanut-butter-paw prints on face, arm, sweater, and pants. Release cat. Watch peanut butter loving dog chase cat around house trying to “help” with the cleaning process.
Step Seven: Make dinner. Pour wine.
Step Eight: Having consumed dinner, relax on couch, enjoying silence. Wondering if cat is OK.
Step Nine: Upon hearing loud crash and horrific cat noise in kitchen, race in to find cat on floor, licking
what are now blistered toes from running across the stove.
Step Ten: Call mother. Again. Inform her of the situation, tell her you are not sure why your cat is retarded, and that no, you still don’t have time for the story because you have more pressing matters.
Step Eleven: Put burn cream on toes. Watch cat lick it off. Wonder if cat will die from ingestion.
Step Twelve: Answer front door. Let dog out. Let dog in. Sit down on couch. Enjoy the sound of the sleet. Look our dark windows. See scary ghost pop into the window. Realize scary ghost is actually white cat, trapped outside, in sleet.
Step Thirteen: Let cat in. Inspect paws. Set wounded cat with ripped open blisters in front of the fireplace on the dog’s bed. Wonder how much longer this cat can possibly live. Put more burn cream on bloody toes. Watch cat eat burn cream.
The cat’s alive and I think it’s best we establish that now, so no animal lovers get weepy. That cat is alive, despite his very best efforts to waste all nine lives.
Late on Sunday afternoon, when I was secretly throwing the boy's crap in the garage into the garbage (ever notice how close those words are), he threw open the front door and presented me with a splay-toed Mookie, our white cat. “He’s walked through the poly. Can you take care of him?” I really didn't know how to take care of him and I suspect you wouldn't either. So I am here to help, providing you with the 13 steps you'll go through when faced with a poly-toed Mookie.
Step One: Grab phone, call mother.
Step Two: Drop cat in snow. Watch horrified cat run to door. Retrieve cat. Repeat until cat has mastered catching your waist leg halfway down.
Step Three: Tell mother who wants to tell you a story about her neighbor that you have pressing matters you need to attend to.
Step Four: Use mechanic’s hand cream on paws. Wash off cream. Wash off blood incurred from cat fleeing the faucet.
Step Five: Research on Internet. Find solution #2.
Step Six: Snatch cat. Rub peanut butter and oil on paws. Rinse paws and peanut-butter-paw prints on face, arm, sweater, and pants. Release cat. Watch peanut butter loving dog chase cat around house trying to “help” with the cleaning process.
Step Seven: Make dinner. Pour wine.
Step Eight: Having consumed dinner, relax on couch, enjoying silence. Wondering if cat is OK.
Step Nine: Upon hearing loud crash and horrific cat noise in kitchen, race in to find cat on floor, licking
what are now blistered toes from running across the stove.Step Ten: Call mother. Again. Inform her of the situation, tell her you are not sure why your cat is retarded, and that no, you still don’t have time for the story because you have more pressing matters.
Step Eleven: Put burn cream on toes. Watch cat lick it off. Wonder if cat will die from ingestion.
Step Twelve: Answer front door. Let dog out. Let dog in. Sit down on couch. Enjoy the sound of the sleet. Look our dark windows. See scary ghost pop into the window. Realize scary ghost is actually white cat, trapped outside, in sleet.
Step Thirteen: Let cat in. Inspect paws. Set wounded cat with ripped open blisters in front of the fireplace on the dog’s bed. Wonder how much longer this cat can possibly live. Put more burn cream on bloody toes. Watch cat eat burn cream.
What's more important than toilet paper?
by gretchen
I'm standing in line at Wegman's and, for the record, I'm standing in the correct line. I have 16 items and I'm not, please note, NOT sneaking into the 15 items or less line. Sure, I'm behind Hank who has about 67 bags of produce he failed to price in the produce department, forcing the tired cashier to look up every single one. So I've got some time.
During this time I notice the area.....
I have to ask: if the toilet paper doesn't make it into the cart, what does? What's more important than the toilet paper? If you need toilet paper and you are at the store and toilet paper is in your cart, what could possibly make it come out of the cart? What's the logic? I want to believe it's something along the lines of: "Well, the kids must have milk, so we can get the TP later." But it was just one roll. One roll. That's what, 37 cents? I mean, can't the person in line behind this poor person just offer to buy if for them? I would. I definitely would. I want people to have toilet paper to properly clean themselves. I support this. I then begin to wonder if perhaps we, as a nation, need to talk about this quiet issue.
Then I got a hold of myself. I'm pretty sure Americans all support the use of toilet paper.
My conclusion is that the beer made it into the cart and the poor college student decided he would steal TP from one of the bathrooms on campus. Like you've never done it.
A few days ago, I got a survey in the mail. I like surveys. I like checking boxes. It makes me feel as though I have completed something and I'm big on completing tasks. I live for it. This survey was about the products you use in your home. Each product category had several name brands below and you were asked to check off which ones you used or check the "do not use" box.
As I dutifully filled out the survey, I came to the toilet paper section and was reminded that perhaps the need to use toilet paper actually is an American issue for which I should start a society and raise money because, yes, even the toilet paper section had a checkbox for "do not use."
People, if you need money for toilet paper, Americans for Toilet Paper Use will help you out. Right after I form the committee. And I need to do that because nothing, repeat: nothing should be trumping the availability of toilet paper in your home.
I'm standing in line at Wegman's and, for the record, I'm standing in the correct line. I have 16 items and I'm not, please note, NOT sneaking into the 15 items or less line. Sure, I'm behind Hank who has about 67 bags of produce he failed to price in the produce department, forcing the tired cashier to look up every single one. So I've got some time.
During this time I notice the area.....
I have to ask: if the toilet paper doesn't make it into the cart, what does? What's more important than the toilet paper? If you need toilet paper and you are at the store and toilet paper is in your cart, what could possibly make it come out of the cart? What's the logic? I want to believe it's something along the lines of: "Well, the kids must have milk, so we can get the TP later." But it was just one roll. One roll. That's what, 37 cents? I mean, can't the person in line behind this poor person just offer to buy if for them? I would. I definitely would. I want people to have toilet paper to properly clean themselves. I support this. I then begin to wonder if perhaps we, as a nation, need to talk about this quiet issue.
Then I got a hold of myself. I'm pretty sure Americans all support the use of toilet paper.
My conclusion is that the beer made it into the cart and the poor college student decided he would steal TP from one of the bathrooms on campus. Like you've never done it.
A few days ago, I got a survey in the mail. I like surveys. I like checking boxes. It makes me feel as though I have completed something and I'm big on completing tasks. I live for it. This survey was about the products you use in your home. Each product category had several name brands below and you were asked to check off which ones you used or check the "do not use" box.
As I dutifully filled out the survey, I came to the toilet paper section and was reminded that perhaps the need to use toilet paper actually is an American issue for which I should start a society and raise money because, yes, even the toilet paper section had a checkbox for "do not use."
People, if you need money for toilet paper, Americans for Toilet Paper Use will help you out. Right after I form the committee. And I need to do that because nothing, repeat: nothing should be trumping the availability of toilet paper in your home.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)