Tripp Trapp Paddy Whack, Buy Michael Vick a Bone....

People, it's just a fact that I don't have time to write thoughtful humorous things anymore. It's for all the usual shitty reasons so I'll spare you the excuses. My life is insanity and not in the "ironic, humorous, good blog fodder" kind of way but rather the "bad, exhausted, hating life way". One hundred and ten percent of the reason for my bitterness is work related so it was an ideal time for my mother-in-law to show up. Seriously. I'm not being funny. She does some crazy shit, but I seriously do like her. She took care of my kid and my house while I was freaking out about powerpoint decks. Her timing couldn't have been more impeccable.

She did decide that our feeding situation was unacceptable. The result was the procurement of a brand new $350 Swedish high chair and all the requisite accessories. So after working for the last week at breakneck pace, I kicked back and assembled a Tripp Trapp yesterday evening.

She also came armed with a gift for our dear daughter. It's a 24" Kathe Kruse doll named Missi...that has human hair....and wears a drindl. It cost more than the Swedish high chair. I sometimes see Missi at night and think she's going to come into my room and kill me. I don't think I like her. I also wonder whose hair is sewn in her head. I find that mildly creepy.

Oh, here's something else that's really creepy. So I've previously expressed my distaste over physical contact in the workplace. Please feel free to review the link if you need a refresher. A few mornings ago I wake up in a panic because I just had a dream. It was one of those dreams that's so real and vivid that you can feel it. I dreamt that I got drunk and hooked up with one of my co-workers.

One small point of clarification: I went to high school and college in the 90's and our definition of hooking up was not sex, so all you people out there thinking I'm having dreams about diddling my co-workers can just calm down. This was strictly PG.

So I push this all to the back of my mind and go to work. As soon as I walk in the office I see him and I feel really weird and silly. He's trying to talk to me and I'm literally running away to hide in my office. I am disturbed that I feel so weird. (It was an honest to god physical reaction of pure nervousness. How totally insane is it that your brain can mess with you like this?)

I'm trying to act normal but it's likely coming across as slightly retarded. In my head I'm wondering how he can act so normal. DOESN'T HE FEEL AWKWARD FOR GOD'S SAKE?? Clearly this is insane since our entire "incident" happened in the confines of the space between my ears. However, every time I see him I feel the need to run away.

I truly hope this subsides by next week. Sitting around staff meetings, grinning like an idiot and averting my eyes can't be good for my career.

Before I call it a night here, I just want to redirect everyone's attention to the fact that the Eagles just picked up Michael Vick. Douchebaggery like his is rare and special. I had really hoped that whole dog fighting ring business would have put him out of commission for good. I wanted him to rot in prison, if not for the dogs, then for being a complete idiot - he pissed me off enough to write about it. That's a lot considering my general apathy toward sports. Here we are, two years later and lo and behold, my own NFL team decides to pay him millions. Bastards. The only possible up side to this is that I can't wait to watch the PETA freaks attack the drunks in the 700 level at the Linc. Game on Pam Anderson. Welcome to Philly.

My Sloppy American Husband, My Crazy Father and My Grandmother, the Dirty Old Lady

I used to say that I had a sexy European boyfriend and now I have a sloppy American husband.  This was primarily because he discovered he really likes to wear his shirts untucked and is unnaturally attached to his GAP hoodie.  This year the American husband has taken on a whole new hobby.  He decided he likes baseball.  So I am currently sitting on the couch held captive in our 1100 square feet by the World Series.  I'm holding out hope that the fascination has more to do with the Phillies than baseball.  

On a random side note, I would like to also complain about people without manners.  Today I was standing with 3 coworkers around 5PM. There was a woman there ahead of us who had hit the down button.  In our building the elevators don't stay open very long and if you happen to be standing on the wrong side of the elevator bank then you really have to hustle to get to the elevator before the doors shut.  So the elevator comes, the lady jumps in and as we're walking toward her the doors start to shut.  So I reached out on my way past the call button, hit the down button again to reopen the doors and said, "Oh, for real?".  At which point I walked onto the elevator in my 8 month pregnant glory and shot her a dirty look.  She stared at the buttons (in shame...or at least I like to think she did).

I can look past it when people pretend they don't see you and let the door close within inches of you getting there.  I can even forgive them when they look at the floor as the doors close instead of looking you in the eye.  But, to walk into the elevator that everyone has been waiting for and let it shut on people is a sign that you have been raised by wild animals.  Animals.  And not the cute furry kind that people like. 

This made me think of the time my father went postal on some woman at Costco.  I can only relay the story second hand as I wasn't privileged enough to be present.  He and my mother were in line to return a sweater. In front of them a woman was returning a half used sleeve of disposable plates, some opened plastic flatware, a 5lb tub of potato salad with a few scoops out of it and a carrot cake with 2 slices missing.  Costco apparently doesn't ask questions they just take the return to make everyone happy.  The returned food went directly in the trash.  My father was horrified that this woman was clearly returning the half used leftovers of a party.  So he called her a skank. Out loud. To her face. (I find this mildly amusing since skank is one of my favorite words)  He also announced to the entire customer service line that that woman was the reason why prices were so high everywhere and she should be ashamed of herself.

I only have one question.  Am I going to be that crazy screaming person someday?

I also vividly recall going to a restaurant with him last year in the middle of the winter and after about 35 people had walked in and stood with the door open (freezing everyone in the restaurant) he had endured enough and screamed at them, "What part of Jersey are you from, shut the damn door...".  It was a bit like a blanket of silence descending on the entire restaurant.  My friend from NY thought it was funny. I was mortified. My mother didn't seem phased.  I really couldn't argue, they were a bunch of dumb asses standing there in 10 degree weather with the door open.  But again, the better question is - will I someday be that crazy?

I highlight our dinner table conversation Sunday night as proof that insanity and embarrassment has a long history in my family.

My cousin had come to look at my grandmother's legs.  She has a history of some sort of skin cancer and we asked him to come check out a lump on her leg since he's a dermatologist.  He stayed for dinner.  My grandmother had other plans.  She wanted to sleep.  She only stayed awake because she heard we were going to have dessert.  The only thing she likes more than sleeping is eating cake.

Grandmother (after dessert): I'm going to sleep now

My Father (teasing her because he's like that): He's going to wake you up every 4 hours to check your leg.

Grandmother: What the hell for?

My Father: You heard him, we have to keep an eye on it.

Grandmother: Oh, I thought I was going to get a piece.

Seriously? Does she even know what that means?  She can't remember her own name yet she somehow has the wherewithal to be a dirty old woman.

Maybe I'm the milkman's kid...

Sometimes the McDonalds Ain't Such a Bad Idea...

I'm traveling with co-workers in Seattle. None of us are from Seattle and so when lunch rolled around we asked the receptionist where we might find some restaurants. She was most unhelpful in terms of recommendations and so we were on our own. To further illustrate how retarded we all are, we were in separate cars since we all had to go different directions after lunch. So our mini convoy headed out, weaving in and out of shopping malls, randomly calling each other on our cell phones.

"What about that?"
"Meh, let's hit the next strip mall."
"I don't care if it's McDonalds, I'm starving."
"Oh for the love of God just park the car."

And so it went on for 4 or 5 strip malls until someone finally parked and we were presented with two options - a sushi place and a Chinese restaurant. They wanted sushi, I am not supposed to eat sushi in my current state (or more specifically I won't eat sushi in a strip mall). So on we went to the Zen Garden.

The entire menu was pictures of Dim Sum and it seemed to favor chicken feet and other equally appealing things. On the upside there was a perpetually waving cat at the reception desk (like this). They advertise on the website that there is a "Breaktaking Garden". Indeed.

Unfortunately the food was bland and made me feel a bit ill. But it was worth it to watch the pained expression of my one co-worker (a self professed "American Eater") attempt to stuff this crap down his throat. We laughed at him and made jokes about how he was going to make a bee line for McDonalds on his way to his next meeting. He said we were wrong, he planned to check out the vending machine in the office. Nothing a bag of Cheetos can't fix.

So if you find yourself north of Seattle, avoid the Zen Garden, unless of course you want a pork fried dumpling that tastes suspiciously like a Philly cheesesteak and some fried chicken feet...

Hugging at Work is Weird

I had an incredibly awkward moment at work today.  It involved "the work hug".  I was so disturbed that I obsessed about it for hours after the fact.  In the hopes of educating others, and spare others the trauma, I have included some Q&A below to elaborate on the ground rules.

Q: What is your attitude toward hugging in general?

A: By nature I am not a hugger - I do not hug random people - I value my personal space.

Q: So, when do you think hugging at work is ok?

A:  Hugging at work is reserved for very specific situations that fall within the following guidelines: The hugger and I worked together at one point in time, I don't hate them and enough time has elapsed since we last saw each other that it's not creepy and weird and all....huggy. 

Q: Are there any other circumstances that would allow for hugging at work?

A: Yes - The hugger and I work/worked together, I don't hate them and something hug worthy happened in their life (baby on the way, engagement, significant lottery win, etc).

Q: So what constitutes an awkward work hug?

A: I offer the following example from today - One minute I was having a conversation with a guy that I know but don't really work with often.  We went to part ways after an agreeable conversation and the awkward moment happened. We somehow managed to get too close in physical proximity which would make a hand shake uncomfortable and inconvenient. He extended a hand, I accepted and then he faked me out with the half hug with the other arm. Thus an awkward embrace after which I half walked, half ran out of his office.  I felt slightly better when I found out another co-worker had an awkward hug with this person that ended even worse - they actually managed to hurt one another by knocking their heads together.  

Q: So if someone tries to hug you and you don't want to hug them, how do you handle it?

A: There isn't a good way to handle it so suck it up, hug them and then steer clear in the future.  However, I can provide an illustrative example of how not to handle it based on a co-worker's unfortunate experience.  She was in a huggy, huggy environment (she is not a huggy hugger) and so she was forced to hug people and when she leaned in to greet a particular co-worker with a hug he jumped away like she was some kind of leper.  He then told her that he doesn't hug at work because that behavior it's not advised by HR.  She was mortified. I was mortified hearing the story.  This is why you should never be the hug initiator unless the hug recipient is a sure thing and a hug is appropriate under the "work hug" guidelines.

If you're not sure if a hug is appropriate, it probably means you're a creepy weird hugger and you should cease and desist while in the office.  Yes, people do find you to be a violator of personal space and that is why they don't invite you to lunch or happy hour.  

Taxidermy & Bail Bonds - Jewels of the Sophisticated South

Clearly I’ve been sucking lately. Work has me traveling clear across the country and back several time before I ultimately leave for vacation in a few weeks and I’m beat. I also have nothing productive to say unless you want to hear awful stories about dirty people from various airports around the country. I think you would rather I spare you the details.

This week it was Atlanta, GA. However I found myself in Marietta which is not quite the same thing. On my way to dinner the first night I drove past 4 pawn shops (one which had some deer taxidermy strapped to the roof), 3 bail bonds place, one compost facility, a detention center, a landfill, a place that had $99 suits for all occasions and at least a dozen Waffle Houses. Nothing screams affluent suburb quite like all those things in combination.

This is a far cry from what I remember of Atlanta. I spent 9 months here in my early twenties. It was hands down the best place I ever worked - great restaurants and bars, good times plus I was young and perpetually drunk. This time…sober with deer taxidermy. Very weird.

And finally, since my brain is fried, and I have little to say, I choose to tell you a few things I recently shared with my co-worker – I’m pretty sure he thinks I was raised in some weird hippie compound
1. I at fried chicken for the first time in my twenties because my mother never fried anything, ever
2. She also didn’t let us eat processed sugar – I had 3 cereal choices as a kid – Cheerios, All Bran and Grape Nuts
3. I thought wheat germ on ice cream was good and little honey sesame treats were like kiddie crack
4. I didn’t know what Mac and Cheese was until I arrived at college – I had never seen/eaten it before
5. We only ate natural peanut butter and whole wheat bread.

This is especially weird because I’m traveling with a guy we’ll call Bob (to protect the somewhat innocent) who regularly eats PB&J and hot dogs. Not that I haven’t had the occasional children’s menu snack, but he claims these are his dietary staples. I find this far more terrifying than my dirty hippy list above.

And so, in the next two weeks I have to go to Portland & Boston. At that point I’m going to check out and go on vacation. Do not despair, I’ve recruited a guest blogger to keep you entertained. Perhaps she’ll be more diligent than I’ve been lately. I think you’ll like her, she makes me laugh. She’s a fabulous individual who lives in the middle of the country. She likes the occasional martini and cigarette (which is why we got on so well). Beyond that I’ll let her tell you whatever she wants.

Training with the Branch Dividians

I haven't attended much work related training in the last few years. For this I feel a bit guilty. It was this guilt that caused me to sign up for some kind of communications class that came highly recommended by a co-worker. It's twelve weeks, four hours every Friday and most importantly - not taught by one of our company trainers. Of course as bad luck would have it, after I signed up I was assigned to a wicked project that will suck the life out of me. To late to get out so I figured I would suck it up. A few weeks ago I was off to my first class. I asked a co-worker if he knew anything about it to which he responded, "sure, it's like hanging out with the Branch Dividians." These kind of details are helpful in advance. He also mentioned that people go in like kitty cats and come out like lions. But that they were really just kitty cats in new suits. Fantastic.

I thought this was a public speaking and communications training. And like most trainings I expected some sort of lame ice breaker activity that would force me to come up with an adjective that starts with the same letter as my name (Fantastic Fran? Terrific Tom?) or perhaps have to share some interesting tidbit about myself (I love kitties and old people!). No, they wanted me to come up with a way to act out my name. This slightly more challenging than one might think. As I watched a grown man run around the room flapping his arms like a bird I realized I had made a tragic mistake.

I truly hate being asked to do things like this. I have serious issues with public embarrassment. I was not reassured when people from last cycle's class got up and started talking about how they derived so much benefit from the class but the key is to put yourself out there.

Under no circumstances have I ever put myself out there.

Ok, ok, I pledged a sorority in college and of course was asked to do goofy things, but they always took us off campus to do the really bad stuff. Doing goofy things in front of people you don't know is almost ok (especially when you've been drinking) but at work...c'mon.

Here's the real kicker. I don't have a fear of public speaking, I do it on occasion and have never suffered crippling panic attacks. Am I riveting? Probably not but it gets the job done. However, something about this class gives me an overwhelming sense of anxiety and dread. I just know she's going to ask me to do something that I hate. Indeed.

So here we are, headed into week 5 and it's turned into college in many ways. My life has been taken over by the project from hell so I spend my time figuring what is the least amount of work that I can do and not get kicked out. How many classes can I miss? What if I leave a little early? How much did the company actually pay for this crap? Holy....

This week I have to talk about something I feel passionate about. I have no passion for anything. Well, I have plenty of passion but they tell me it has to be something positive so I can't bitch about stuff like I do here.

So help a girl out here, give me ideas - what do I feel passionate about? Help...please.

Lip Balm & Naked Midget Body Builders...Just Another Day at the Office

It was a random day at work. Here are two unrelated observations that I found oddly disturbing.

Observation 1: I found a lip balm in my desk drawer today. I picked it up at a bed & breakfast while attending someone’s wedding. The lip balm has now lasted longer than the marriage. I found this unsettling and told a co-worker about it.

My co-worker, we’ll call him Hu Dat, advised he has a similar problem with wedding matchbooks. He doesn’t have much use for them and he often finds them tucked away, unused, long after the marriage has gone up in flames (no pun intended…ok, maybe a little pun but it was fun wasn't it?).

I suggested he should take up a new hobby like smoking dope or starting fires. Arson and drug abuse will insure he’ll never have left over matches in his house.

Observation 2: We have these new fancy flat panel TVs outside each floor's elevator bank. For some reason the picture on the TV on my floor is constantly frozen. It always seems to freeze up on the most inappropriate stuff. Today it was stuck on a picture of a half naked midget flexing his muscles. So, all day long I walked past a naked midget - I'm not sure how I feel about this but it did make me giggle.

I found this picture on Google. My little person wasn't a cowboy wrestler but imagine looking at this on the wall of your office...all day. *Giggle*

Ode to Aunt Flo

I have a friend who is somewhat unconventional. This is exemplified by her tampon poem. Yes, she wrote a poem about a tampon. It was a really sad poem (and not sad pathetic, sad like “sniff, sniff, I feel bad for that little tampon”). There was a line about how the little wad of cotton must be sad since it will never be anything fun like an oxford shirt. Weird? Maybe, but I suppose she has a point. If you were a wad of cotton this might be the least desirable product you could aspire to be.

I started thinking about tampons today thanks to my work husband. He was looking for whiteout. He didn’t have any and wanted me to go through the desk drawers of our co-worker to find some.

Work Husband: “Will you go look for whiteout for me, I would do it myself but I wasn’t sure if there were girly things in there”

I was confused. Girly things…like collections of googly eye stickers and pencils with heart shaped erasers?

Me: “Huh?”
Work Husband: “I know she has a huge drawer of supplies but I don’t want to go through her drawers. I thought maybe you could do it for me”.

Now I realize that he feels I am the better choice to forage through her drawers because I am female and “girly things” are man code for MENSTRUAL PRODUCTS. (Sorry, I felt the need to capitalize it for impact.)

Me: “Go look yourself and if you find the tampon drawer it’s ok, they don’t bite.”

10 minutes later

Work Husband: “She didn’t have any whiteout but the tampons are in the middle drawer”
Me: “Great and if you need some more, mine are in the bottom left”

What is it with men and their goofy behavior about feminine products? I blame 6th grade. That was the year they took all the boys into one room and the girls into another to have “the talk”. From that point forward it became a weird girl secret. We watched Julie’s Story, a movie about our grand entrance into womanhood. Sadly IMDB offers little information on this cinematic gem. It was apparently released in 1984, described as follows:

“Julie gets her first period in her dance class and tells her best friend and their teacher. The teacher informs Julie of what to do during her period. This is an informative piece for pubescent girls who have or will begin to menstruate.”

Frankly that’s more than I actually remember about the movie. Since we weren’t the steroid/growth hormone infused pre-pubescents of today, 99% of us hadn’t even gotten our periods at this point. And if someone did have it, they certainly weren’t broadcasting it. I mean c’mon, who is going to own up to something as corny as “experiencing womanhood”. No one is that stupid.

Oh wait, I was wrong.

Before I tell you what was actually said, you need context - an understanding of the individual if you will. I share this strictly for illustrative purposes. (and maybe because it's a little funny)

Movie Day – Sometime in 1986
She was escorted out of the class movie to the nurses office (you know the kind of movie I mean - old projection machine, big ass spools, cool click, click, click noise, back when the teacher needed a PhD in AV to make the damn thing work). She had been absently twirling her hair around her finger, intently watching a badly narrated film about ancient Egypt when she started crying. As it turns out her finger had become hopelessly knotted in her hair and now she couldn’t get it out. So there she sat crying with her limp hand dangling from her ratty hair. They ended up having to cut out.

Context my friend. And now we continue…

Back to Julie’s Story. We had just sat through a terrifying 30 minutes where they told us some day soon we’re going to start unexpectedly bleeding for no good reason which only happens to girls and we could talk to our mothers about it because they too bleed unexpectedly for no good reason.

There was now a very uncomfortable silence as we sat staring at the ceiling while biting our fingernails praying that they would let us leave in time to hide our sample pack of feminine products from the boys. Out of the silence comes a whiny voice…and I preface this by saying that I can’t remember if there was an actual question posed to us or if this was just unsolicited commentary.

“Ummm, I have a little bit of something that comes out of the hole sometimes but I’m not sure if that’s it. It’s kind of white. I didn’t tell my mother.”

Sweet Jesus! What is wrong with her? This resulted in nervous tittering in the room for which we were promptly reprimanded and sent on our way. (I should mention that years later she was still the girl that had a little bit of something coming out of THAT hole.)

Life went on after Julie, "it" eventually came, it still comes and my work husband has figured out that it's just his luck that I share the same cycle with his real wife. Unfortunate...for him.

Theories, Stereotypes and Observations put to the test....ok, not really but play along

Yesterday my partner in crime and I packed up the contents of our double wide and vacated our offices for greener pastures. The moving company forced us to leave early so we went to the bar. The cast of characters from last week's holiday party were partially reprised at our local watering hole.

After several beverages we decided that going to a few gay bars would be a good idea. We eventually landed at the Tavern on Camac. It took me 10 minutes to realize that there are several stereotypes about gay men that seem to hold water. Gay men knows show tunes, Judy Garland songs and Christmas carols. Here I am standing in this piano bar (and I acknowledge that perhaps that has something to do with who was actually in the bar) and these guys are singing along to songs I have never heard. How does that happen? Is it like the twins separated at birth phenomena? I may have been the only one in the bar who could not sing along. (ok, so I'll point out that my friend Rich also couldn't sing along. It pokes holes in my theory so I conveniently left that part of the story out.)

Theory 2 put to the test: If you put a gay man and a high school girl in the same room and see who can create more drama and bitchiness, my money is on the gay man. There was high drama in that bar. Everyone knows everyone elses business. Everyone is also talking about everyone elses business...in front of everyone. That one is a whore, that one is cheating on his partner, I hate that one, etc. I learned my one friend used to date some guy and now he dates another guy and everyone apparently knows them both. I watched some random guy start talking trash on my friend's partner. Then his partner walks out and the guy starts double cheek kissing him and gushing all over him. I haven't seen bald face trash talking like this since 8th grade.

Here's one I didn't know about but I am officially making it Theory 3 - these guys have Spidey ears. They hear everything. It's no secret that I have an ongoing monologue in my head. Sometimes my inside voice comes outside. Most people don't hear me since I'm usually only loud enough to make it to the ears of the person next to me and no further. I've always attributed it to the pitch of my voice. Quite often it has that phone sex operator quality and not screeching wild monkey (yes, that's what most women sound like to me). Well, let me tell you something. When I made fun of the shirt on the guy 15 feet from me, he turned around and actually said "oh no, you didn't". My sense was that he was either non violent or my friend's partner carried more social weight than he did. So I was spared the nasty cat fight over the shiny blue iridescent shirt.

There is one other explanation for this particular episode - I was drunk and didn't know how loud I was. Our house guests last weekend will swear that the girl I was making fun of in the diner heard me. You know what, I hope she did. There's a point in all of our lives when we need to learn that no one wants to see that half masticated pile of french fries in your mouth. Shut it. Chew it. Thank you. I will own that one with pride.

Observation 4 - Not all gay men are hot. Disappointing. When I was single I was convinced that all the hot ones were gay and they were off in a club somewhere appreciating each other's hotness in the absence of females. I am happy to report to the single ladies out there that they've got it just as bad as we do. Yes, there was some dude clearly pumped up on roids dancing with himself in the mirror. Rumor was that he was some kind of porn star. My only concern was his close proximity to my suede bag in the corner because he looked a little lubed up. (I can't imagine suede and lube would be a good combination.) Generally speaking there were a few nice looking guys but many were just average guys of all ages that I would not date, even if I were single and they were straight.

It was indeed a fun night despite the fact that there was a set of awesome 80's songs played exactly at my departure - I might have considered going back but I had been drinking for more than 9 hours - my bed was calling my name. Rich says he's going to take me to Sisters for the Wednesday night drink special - 10 drinks for $10. 10 drinks is exactly what I need on a Wednesday night - especially if I plan to be surrounded by women in flannel. But I hear they have good music and dancing. Let's hope their hearing is poor so I don't have to worry about getting my ass kicked. Something tells me the chick in flannel won't be as forgiving as the dude in the iridescence.

The Work Holiday Party - The Mother of all CLMs

Ahhhh, the work holiday party. So many possible pitfalls, a veritable cornucopia of potential CLMs. What is a CLM you ask? A Career Limiting Move. It was a favorite acronym at my old firm. There’s far more opportunity at a consulting firm for debauchery – an over abundance of young people, quite a few who are fairly attractive, large expense accounts, lots of alcohol and traveling. It’s a recipe for disaster. I thought moving into industry would provide some protection from the world of CLMs.

And it did, for the most part. However, every year the holidays roll around putting us all into the precarious world of over consumption. Vendor parties, work functions, team dinners, they all magically appear in December.

They Queen Mother of all opportunities for committing grave CLMs is the work holiday party. Here are a few common sense tips I’ve picked up over the years for surviving your holiday party.

1. Drink, but only until your conversation starts to sound incoherent. We all know that this is impossible. You’re cruising along, chatting everyone up, having a glass of wine, feeling very good about your ability to be social and professional when “BAM!” somehow you’re now on your 5th glass of wine and you realize you have diarrhea of the mouth and the person talking to you looks like they’re in pain.
2. Say hello to anyone important early….very early. You know you’re going to violate Rule #1 so see the people you’re most likely to commit CLMs in front of early.
3. Find a spot that no one else is drinking and make it your own. Now that you’ve done your required socialization you should find a place to continue drinking. Please note that the dance floor is off limits. Really, you can’t dance sober and you really can’t dance drunk so just don’t do it.
4. The spot should be hidden or at least not visible to the people in Rule #2. This should be fairly obvious but you know how that goes. You thought that spot right by the bar was good because it meant easy access to drinks. It’s also everyone elses access to drinks. Not good. Other danger zones? The bathroom (duh…we all have to pee), near the food (ummm, hello. Isn’t that why everyone shows up anyway – free food?) or the dance floor (you shouldn’t be there if you were listening to #3.
5. Don’t puke at the party. I guess this goes without saying, but if you gotta do it, do it up right. At a certain age, socially appropriate vomiting should be perfected. You spent your twenties hurling with great abandon. Trash can in the middle of the party…why not? The street…outside is good right? In your friend’s car…oh well, you weren’t the first and not likely the last. Post 20’s this experience can be traumatic. But should the need arise, be smart. You’ve had lots of practice so make it perfect.

So of course when my holiday party rolled around I had no choice but to disregard all good sense and get hammered. And I danced. And we hung out right by the bathroom. And we two fisted drinks all night long. And we hit two bars afterward. And I think I may have groped one of my co-workers (I don’t think he or his boyfriend minded so we’re safe). I think there is photographic evidence somewhere of me with someone’s tie in my teeth with my co-worker’s wife doing the same.

Now you’re thinking, “What on earth is wrong with you?”. Shut up, I was not alone. My partner in crime took to dancing on the tables which almost got her thrown out of the bar…twice. My husband was the only one with any good sense. He had to get up for his Step 3 prep class at 5 in the morning so he went home early. We rolled in around 3AM-ish.

I spent the next day making nice with a bottle of Advil, took a nap in the afternoon and then went to bed early. The price you pay for drinking over the age of 30. Perhaps my unrealized dream of running for public office may never happen but at least it was a fun party. Happy Holidays!

I write because I care, I give because I have to...

I would like to dedicate this rant to my work husband. Although he’s sold out by actually donating to the United Way, no one has been more vigilant at harassing the crap out of our team leader. Tirelessly he emails and taunts her. Nothing she does is good enough.

“Are those the best prizes you can come up with?”

“How many times a day are you going to email us?"

"Quit junking up my inbox with your crap”

“Hey, your posters violate the Philadelphia fire code, please remove them immediately”

And my personal favorite, "I write because I care, I give because I have to"

Best of all, he blind copies me. The barrage of emails might be the only reason I’m almost sad to see the United Way drive end. Almost……

It's that time of the year and we've started our annual United Way "voluntary" donation campaign. The world of corporate giving is sort of like a cult. This has been true of every office in which I've ever worked. They start with the best of intentions and it quickly degrades into something like this:

Day 1: "Hey, this is a really great cause and only a small donation can make a big difference!"

Day 3: "With every donation you are entered into a raffle and if you give more than $x you're automatically entered into the super special raffle. IPod's for everyone!"

Day 5: "Thank you to those who have given, we're looking to reach our corporate goal for participation - join the team"

Day 7: Distribute FAQs debunking the United Way myths around overhead costs. (i.e. I know there was that whole scandal thing a bunch of years ago but c'mon, cut us some slack. We really want that plaque in the lobby.)

Day 9: "Did you know that you can designate your donation to a charity in your local community? Every donation makes a difference no matter how small." (Read: Are you that cheap that you can't give your local Little League a few bucks and help us out?)

Day 11: "Every year we've been proud of our contribution, we need your help to reach our goal." (Unacceptable participation! We know who you are.....)

Day 15: Rumors abound of lists naming the evil non-contributors

Day 17: In an effort to rouse the competitive spirit the reluctant team coordinator is enlisted to send personal messages - "Bob's team is trying to reach our personal goal of 85% participation - we can't do it without you!"

Day 20: "This is your last chance to donate before we take your first born in place of your contribution. Click on the link or you'll never see your family again. We mean it."

3 days later...

"A few folks have asked if there's anyway to donate since they missed the deadline so we've extended the giving deadline." (Read: They miss their children and are starting to think that the brake failure in the station wagon wasn't an accident.)

I'll admit it, I gave in to the pressure a few years ago. It was a moment of weakness brought on by the corporate equivalent of "CIA enhanced interrogation techniques". Leave me alone! I just wanted the bad man to stop. Talk about a violation of the very core of charitable giving. They say hind site is 20/20; I think we have quite a few good historical examples of why jumping on the bandwagon is not always such a hot idea. Feel free to use these as inspiration when fighting off the corporate donation pushers.

The Salem Witch Trials

Poor judgement & mob mentality results in a giant New England BBQ

Good Cause: saving the Puritans from the Devil.

McCarthyism
You look a little shifty, must be a commie. Round 'em up.
Good Cause?: Protecting America from communist sympathisers & espionage by Soviet Agents

Jonestown

Proof that drinking the Kool Aid is not always a good idea

Good Cause?: Protection from nuclear fall out due to impending attack on the United States

The Moonies

Too bad they didn't have match.com - would have been better than the mass weddings to strangers

Good Cause?: The single most important idea is the parental relationship between God and man.

Heaven's Gate

Note to Self: When two people called Bo & Peep tell you that Jesus is in a spaceship on the Hale-Bop Comet, don't put the bag over your head.

Good Cause?: Survive by leaving earth immediately before the planet is recycled.

Ku Klux Klan

A whole lot of perfectly good bed sheets ruined for a really bad cause.

Good Cause?: Self preservation in the face of social change due to rapid urbanization.

Don't be a Delinquent Parent....

I really like reading people’s holiday party FAQs. It’s a little opportunity for them to be witty and funny while conveying important information. I am convinced that this is almost exclusively a polite way to say “we know you think your kids are so special, but they’re not. and I don’t like the way little Jimmy gives me the hairy eyeball when I stumble by hammered on cheap wine”. It’s important that people know that children don’t belong at an evening party with alcohol. Shocking revelation, I know. This is apparently one of those things that people today don’t think about. Or perhaps they were raised by raging alcoholics that dragged them to parties. (Don’t laugh, my old neighbors were lost in a bottle of rum most days and probably didn’t know their kids were still following them around).

In any event I recently received an invitation to a co-worker’s party. This co-worker and I met at the party of another former co-worker. We didn’t know each other then and we still don’t work together, but since we spent several hours in the suburbs together being less than social, we bonded. His wife seemed cool and he was wearing jeans that didn’t suck. I liked them. They’re sort of like city people that have been transplanted into the suburbs. They’re way too funny and cool to live in Schwenksville. Just the name is enough to tell you that it’s not the sort of place that appreciates the importance of good jeans. (No offense intended to Schwenksville; I haven’t the faintest idea where it is or what’s there.)

I’ve included his FAQs below because they made me laugh out loud. This may actually be reason enough to figure out where Schwenksville is…


Frequently Asked Questions!!!

Can I expect a big raise if I’ve done a great job at work this year? Uh – these FAQs are all supposed to be party-related. That written, yeah, sure, why not.

What should I do with all of that money? Hell-looo…party questions?? But, um, max out your 401k contribution if you haven't already.

You know you booked your party smack-dab in the middle of Hanukkah, right?
I know now. I hope you don't think that I'm culturally insensitive.

Can I bring anything to your party? I get asked that question frequently when I have a party. If you’d like, you can bring a beverage or snacks or some blow….pops. Charms Blow Pops.

When I get to your party, can I have something to eat? Sure!

What are you having? That’s kind of impolite. But we’ll repeat a lot of last year’s menu....the hot and cold dips...chili dogs..and, new this year, pulled pork with homemade 'slathering sauce'!

Pulled pork on a Saturday night in the middle of Hanukkah. Let me guess, you're.....Catholic?? Kinda sorta.

What about the Pometinis [pomegranate martinis]from last year? '06 guest feedback revealed fear over spilling red drinks on the light rug. We’re still deciding if we’ll switch the '07 signature party cocktail to something clear.

Like what?
Ethanol

Can I bring a guest? Yes.

Can I bring my kids? Adults only, please.

What do you have against kids? Their low tolerance for alcohol.

So hold it, you’ve served alcohol to kids? Not intentionally.

What is that supposed to mean? It means exactly what I said.

So? A while back I had a party where I let people bring kids. At this same party I invented a delicious new drink made with tequila & Hawaiian Punch, for which I coined the catchy name ‘agave juicebox’. Needless to say, people loved it, and all night long I mixed batch upon batch of these. And with each batch I would pour ‘em out and shout “Who’s ready for another round of juiceboxes!?’ Then I’d turn my back to make more, and each time I turned around the previous batch had disappeared. I just figured that it was adults grabbing them -- while the Wiggles rocked the house on the stereo.

Did you actually serve the drinks in wax paper boxes? No – to avoid confusion I poured them in to Disney-themed paper Dixie cups.

What the hell? I know, I know….by the time I caught on to what was happening my floor was covered with sleeping children and empty Dixie cups. It looked like a cross between nap-time at day care and Jonestown.

And where were the parents while all this was going on? That’s what I wanted to know!! Turns out, they thought the music sucked so they all went outside.

And then? As a condition of the settlement, I’ve told you everything that I’m permitted to say.

When Bad Suits Go Worse...

I would like to ask a simple question, "Do some people not own mirrors?". Sounds silly but it's a question I ponder because it's the only reason I can come up with that would explain some of the atrocity I see walking to work, walking around work and in the actual office. This question is second only to, "Are you blind?" and "Have you no common sense?".

At one point in my life I had a large staff. During my tenure HR established a business casual dress code. Enforcing this thing was like a living nightmare. It wasn't so much explaining to people the difference between a shirt and a t-shirt that was challenging, it was the conversations about wearing a bra, off the shoulder shirts not being work appropriate, your pants shouldn't be so tight I can see your underwear (or lack thereof) and my personal favorite - if your thong is hanging out of your pants that's not good....yes, even if it only happens when you sit down.

I came from the consulting world where life was easy - wear a suit - all day, every day. If your client is business casual, wear a suit anyway. You can never go wrong in a suit. As a result, I had a closet full of suits and so I found this new environment baffling. I didn't know how to dress myself so I turned into my grandmother and wore sweater sets every day. Sure, I'll admit to the guilty pleasure of "Jeans Friday". There's nothing better than pulling on a comfy pair of jeans and rolling into the office. I've since moved back to a corporate environment and I was sad about Fridays but I thought at least I wouldn't have to look at thongs and sloppy cleavage.

No such luck. It seems my old partner was mistaken - you can go wrong in a suit, very wrong. Especially when said suit has a skirt that barely covers your ass and the little shred of lingerie under the jacket is the only thing preventing you from a Janet Jackson like wardrobe malfunction. I wonder if these people look around and think about that old Sesame Street sketch about One of These Kids is Doing their Own Thing.

I decided to think through the possible reasons for looking like a tramp at work, other than 1. not having a mirror, 2. being blind or 3. having no common sense:

1. You didn't bring a change of clothes with you to the bar last night and your one night stand didn't have an alarm clock to get you home early enough to change.
2. You had a massive house fire over the weekend and all of your suits went up in flames. The only place open the next day was Forever 21 and so you were forced into that thing that many little polyesters had to die to produce.
3. You're sleeping with your boss and looking like a tart is part of your yearly performance goals.
4. You're part of a new reality television show and your immunity challenge is to get some unsuspecting chump to violate the office sexual harassment policy.
5. You've just been diagnosed with an incurable disease and with 24 hours to live you're looking to go out with a bang!
6. Your "office" IS actually the street corner.

So now that I think about it there really are some legitimate reasons to look like that. I'm glad I took the time to think about it. Perhaps it will make me more tolerant of such visual assault in the future.

Master of Suburban Warfare, Protector of God Given Rights!

Recently a co-worker forwarded me a letter that another co-worker had placed in the mailboxes of his neighbors. Apparently they had received complaints about their dog and his constant barking. Please see letter below:


Neighbors are an interesting thing, especially in suburbia. This thing reads like an FAQ off a corporate website. A twelve step program for reorientation of your dog. I especially like the creative use of the baby monitor with service level agreements! “target within 5 minutes” This is exactly why I live in the city – I don’t know my neighbors, I don’t want to know my neighbors and if they piss me off I’ll call the cops. It seems a lot has changed in suburbia land since I was a kid. I vividly remember the disputes in the ‘hood, there were plenty.

“So and so leaves their trashcans at the curb too long”
“So and so’s yard looks awful, look at the weeds in those flowerbeds!”
“This one doesn’t trim their hedges, it’s starting to look like the Adams Family”
“That one came over to my house with a plastic fetus and asked me if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my savior”

There was carnage in the wake of neighborhood disputes. People didn’t speak for 30 years over ugly shutters or blocking someone’s view of the street by parking a car in front of their home. None of this wackado politically correct flier in the mailbox crap. We had an air rifle for a reason damn it!

Ah the good old days.

My childhood neighbors were “saved” and as a result, everyone else should be as well. The wife had a curious fear of lung cancer. She was highly agitated that my father had an equally powerful desire to incinerate things. Perhaps he was reducing the household waste sent to the landfill or simply a functioning pyromaniac. Either way, he liked to burn stuff and she was convinced she was going to get lung cancer from his burning.

Makes no sense, but that’s suburbia for you.

As I've said before, I don't remember anything. Life before 12 is a montage of little snippets that don’t add up to much of anything. This pisses my mother off tremendously as she feels her efforts to expose my sister and me to every museum on the East Coast before the age of 10 was completely wasted. I do however remember everything that involved an explosion or required emergency services. Hence my memory of the street fire incident.

Early one summer evening when I was a child we were having cake at my parent’s house for my grandmother’s birthday. That day my father had forced my sister and me to do what we hated most – pick up sticks. We had big ‘ole trees, therefore we had big ‘ole sticks on the lawn. Picking up sticks involved walking around the lawn (significant bitching and moaning was almost required), finding the sticks and then stuffing them in the storm drain. (More on that later) Hours of torture in my childhood simply to avoid damage to his riding mower. He also liked to burn paper, boxes or whatever else he might have lying around that was flammable. On this particular day he had replaced an old wooden garage door with a new super fancy electric one. This gave him lots of wood to burn.

It was fairly typical of my father to burn in the street’s storm drain. He would stand out there and watch smoke pour out the grates on both sides of the street while the inferno raged below. Neighborhood kids would come out to play with The Big Man and his fire. Eventually things would wind down and he could walk away and check back periodically. The entire neighborhood was accustomed to the burning rituals. Everyone except our next door neighbor. On the particular evening in question she was stewing in her house while my father was creating a blazing inferno in the street. After an hour or so he had retired to the house and was about to put a fork full of cake in his mouth when the first siren started.

Mass hysteria ensued. A fire truck, medic vehicle, police officer and a park ranger came barreling down our little cul-de-sac of a street. It seems someone had reported a fire and they were here to put it out. The commotion turned our front lawn into a neighborhood party. My old man talked himself out of a fine by promising to clean out the storm drain the following day. As it turns out burning was allowed in our township but it had to be in a closed container. The next day he returned home with a huge hulking tin can looking monstrosity which he rolled up the back hill to the top of the property line. My sister and I weren’t sure what to make of this thing but we were quite certain it would involve manual labor on our part.

He started burning again, but only when the wind was blowing in the direction of the crazy neighbor’s house. It was far too practical for him and less exciting for the neighborhood kids, but the slow and painful torture of the crazy woman was a labor of love.

And that, boys and girls, is what I call a neighborhood dispute.

Let this be a lesson to all you kids in suburbia land - some of us were raised by the master of suburban warfare and we don’t write no stinking letters!

Good Karma/Bad Karma & Is there such a thing as ePhermones?

Good Karma/Bad Karma

The other day I rented a Philly Car Share minivan (please refrain from Soccer Mom jokes, it was the only thing available) and I found a digital camera in the console. So after I checked it out and snooped the pictures I called Philly Care Share and told them I found it. They asked me if I wanted to bring it by the office. Mama didn’t raise no fool, I said “why don’t you take my mobile number and have them call me”. I knew exactly what would happen if I gave that to the office - it would disappear into the pocket of some non-profit flunky. And so I waited. My husband on the other hand looked up it’s retail value and started making plans for his new digital camera. Two weeks go by, no call. He’s talking about ordering chargers, cables and downloading software. I keep waiting…"no honey, it's not your camera. Please don’t delete their pictures”…

Last night I took a cab, paid the driver and went home to do what I do best – nothing. I hear my blackberry buzzing away in the corner, I ignore it. Buzz, buzz, buzz…. What on earth is going on over there? Missed call number three. Check the voicemail. “Hi this is Citibank, we have a report that your wallet was found and we’re cancelling your cards, blah, blah, blah”. What? I just paid the cab driver. Call waiting starts beeping. My hand is groping in the blackhole that is my purse. Hmmm, no wallet. Answer the call waiting,

Guy: “Hi this is Bill, missing something?”
Me: “Why yes, apparently I am. Do you have it?”
Guy: “No, but you apparently had my business card so they called me to find you. We must have met and I gave you my business card. I have the lady’s number who has your wallet.”

Boy am I glad I met that guy at happy hour.

So I call the nice lady who offers to drive my wallet over to me. I insist on not putting her out, she insists since she's driving around. She’s nice but like I said, Mama didn’t raise no dummy. I immediately go online and transfer all my cash to the account that is not accessible by ATM or check card. I check my credit cards, no weird charges for stereo equipment or sneakers at the Footlocker. I’m feeling good.

We meet, I immediately pull out the cash and hand it to her. I think it was about $50. She and her friend looked at each other - you know they were taking bets on whether or not I was going to give it to her. She does the half hearted, “oh you don’t have to do that”. I insist, she is visibly pleased. I ask for her address to send her a thank you, she says I’ve given her more than enough already. Who am I to argue.

This morning my phone rings.

Camera Lady: “Hi, I understand you found my digital camera”
Me: “Why yes I did”
Camera Lady: “Thanks so much for hanging onto it, I doubt I would have gotten it back otherwise”
Me: “Yep, that’s why I held onto it”
Camera Lady: “Thank you so much, there are really important pictures on there”
(Huh? It’s a bunch of people in human gyroscopes - note to self: weirdo)

I don’t expect anything for my trouble since few people have manners these days. I will consider the good karma bestowed upon me repayment enough. I got my wallet back, I don’t have to go the DMV, all is right in the world.

Is there such a thing as ePheromones?

pher·o·mone (fěr'ə-mōn') n. A chemical secreted by an animal, especially an insect, that influences the behavior or development of others of the same species, often functioning as an attractant of the opposite sex.

We have eMail, eStores, eDiets, eFiling but is there such a thing as ePheromones? Is it possible to send off electronic vibes that say “Hey, I’m feeling frisky today”? Perhaps it’s the full moon. (yes, I checked 95% full) Either way there was something up today.

I’ve always had this uncanny ability to say things that make total sense at the time but as soon as it's out of my mouth I realize that it was totally a double entendre.

10:02 AM: I was late for a three person conference call; stuck on the phone with a talker. So I sent a courtesy email:

To: Coworker #1
From: Me
Subject: I’m coming
Stuck on phone, start without me.

I arrive a few moments later. I start giving an update about some project nonsense. Microsoft’s handy little email preview pops up in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

To: Me
From Coworker #1
Subject: Re: I’m coming
Please don’t hold up our calls for personal gratification in the future

I laugh, out loud. I can’t help it. Realizing that the other person on the call has no idea why I’m laughing in the middle of my update I try to explain.

“I’m sorry, I’m not very good about being quiet” ewwww, I just did it again. I am totally digging my own hole. “I just got a funny email”. OMG Help…I sound like a total idiot.

To: Coworker #1
From: Me
Subject: re: I’m coming
And what I meant by "I'm not good at being quiet" was that I have a habit of laughing out loud on calls when people send me funny emails. NOT what you were likely thinking. Cut it out.

Immediately….

To: Me
From: Coworker #1
Subject: Re: I’m coming
Definitely thinking, not just likely . . .

Single incident right? Wrong. Fast forward three hours. I join a call.

“Hi, this is Me. Blah, blah, blah”. Put the phone on mute for what will surely be another hour of painful discussion. I see my office IM blinking. New guy from IT.

New Guy: I’m on the call, so is so-and-so, but I like you best, you sound Sultry.
Me: Seriously can’t help it. First job out of college I set up my voicemail and a few days later got a message from my admin that I might want to change my voicemail to sound less like a 900 number.
New Guy: I was thinking about asking you to leave me a voicemail so I could save it for a rainy day. I like to go by Big Boy.

For those of you who have never met my father, he retired more than 5 years ago. I think it was partially because he could and partially because they instituted hostile work environment policies. Growing up with him was much like living the what-not-to-say-at-work educational videos .

Dad: "Hey is that a camel hair sweater you have on?"
Me: "No Dad, it's cashmere"
Dad: "Oh, then what are those two humps? HA HA HA!"

Suffice to say a fairly high tolerance for pain was necessary. Given my years of breeding I have impeccable taste for toilet humor. As a result my non-work brain says "These guys crack me up!". My work brain however says "Good God, not over email. Didn't you read our technology policy!" (please reference earlier post about enjoying being gainfully employed)

So, to all you frisky, moon howling men out there, no matter what kind of ePheromones you're picking up, save it for Happy Hour.

Snot & the Quest for a Cure

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of visiting my fabulous office space, I have to say it's pretty swanky. When I moved there in mid 2005 they told me it was temporary. "Don't worry about the lack of space, privacy, walls...it's TEMPORARY". Not wanting to be the nay-sayer I said "oh sure, no problem".

Here we are, two years later and I'm still sharing a large cube. Thankfully we like each other a lot so it's like having a partner in crime, at least until we're both yelling over each other on different conference calls because we can't hear. We've affectionately named our area "the double wide". I've also added a yoga ball that I occasionally sit on. It's popular with our guests since no one else has a yoga ball/guest chair.

I would ask for an upgrade but there's several problems with that.
1. I would lose my cool cubemate and frankly that's the most entertaining part of my day.
2. An upgrade is more like a cube on steroids. A desk surrounded by partial walls and a shower door. It's more like the illusion of privacy because it's really not sound proof in the least.

You might be saying, "Oh, it can't be that bad, you're just a complainer". Case in point: someone strolled by the other day and asked me where the guy in the shower stall across from me was. I said, "Gee, not really sure" and she asked, "Do you support him?". Like a dope I responded "Support him in what?". I need a new space.

Anyway, the point of this story is that I can hear everything and all day yesterday all I heard was coughing, nose blowing and snot sucking. Seeing as I'm going on vacation soon this is totally expected. I get sick every time I go on vacation. So when the runny nose started I didn't think anything of it. Then my left rear molar started to hurt AND my eye was sort of infected. Now I'm forced to wear glasses and I have obscene quantities of dry skin around my nose. I fancy myself a Quasimodo of sorts.

Knowing that I need to get well before I leave, I start by calling the dentist. I show up there bright and early this morning and after tapping and poking he declares my teeth fine. "You have a sinus problem, you should take some drugs and call me next week if it doesn't get better and we'll send you to a root canal specialist". WTF...my sinuses. These guys are hacks.

So I leave and I figure I have time to kill before I go back to the office. Why not swing by my Ophthalmologist and have him look at the goopy eye. He pokes and prods (he actually knocked on my face) and he says, "Your eye is fine, but you have a sinus problem." WTF....how does a sinus problem make your eye feel like there's a giant piece of sand in it??

So I call my husband, "oh yea, sorry I didn't catch that. That's pretty textbook. You know your sinuses run right along your upper molars and near your eyes". WTF....betrayed by the husband.

So I run across town to doctor number 3. He says "what are your symptoms?". I say, "One Dentist, one Ophthalmologist and my husband". He said, "Yea, you have a sinus infection, we all have the same textbooks, here's a script."

Sex, STDs & Misuse of Office Resources

I usually refrain from doing this during the workday because I like being employed and I would really like to retain said employment. I will make an exception today because several strange things have happened that led me to believe people have lost their frickin' minds.

Strange Incident 1 aka the Handicapped Bathroom.
There are handicapped bathrooms on each floor of our office building. There are also larger multi stall bathrooms as well. Most of us opt to use the handicapped bathrooms because they don't remind us of bathrooms from our youth – ie. high school. Seriously, they smell the same way my high school bathroom did. I don't know if it's cleanser, the old nasty floor or what, but it's like a flashback to good 'ole PAHS (with the possible exception that I'm not hiding in the stall smoking during English class). In any event, these handicapper bathrooms see a lot of action on a daily basis. (Read: lots of people use them, they're not super secret hiding places) Given this fact it seems like an odd choice for a little "afternoon delight". That is in fact exactly what some chippie and her boss decided to use it for. Not once, not twice but three times. (And those are just the times they GOT CAUGHT). There they are having a good time and some poor person comes over to pee. They try the door, it's locked and there are some distinct noises coming from behind the door. Being the no-fun-nelly they are, they call security. Security comes up with a key and viola!

This is shocking and strange on many levels – first, since when is it ever ok to shag your brains out in the handicapper bathroom in the middle of the day with your boss? Next, isn't getting your swerve on during work hours considered a fireable offense – seriously, how is this benefiting the shareholders? Third, if you gotta do it, can't you keep it quiet so people just think you're in there for a long time because you have a stomach flu? And lastly, how does that old saying go – first time, shame on you; second time, shame on me – who on earth is taking the shame for the third time? (My money is on HR)

The lesson learned here. Work is for work and after work is for your tawdry affairs with co-workers. Combining the two will eventually lead to loss of work and likely loss of your affair (after all, who wants to have an affair with someone unemployed…seriously.)


Strange Incident 2 aka the Printer in the Hallway.

Like many offices we have network printers. That means they're networked. For those of us non-technical folks that means that everyone has access to them, including, but not limited to the IT guys who have logs of the documents you print (hence earlier stated paranoia about big brother). This of course doesn't stop people from printing their personal crap on the printer anyway. Pictures of your kids, directions to your friend's house, articles about entertainment, homes for sale…you get the picture.

You can imagine my surprise when I walked up to the printer and found a print out, right next to my meeting deck, on Human papillomavirusus (HPV). Now many of you might be thinking, "what's the big deal, I see those commercials on TV all the time – it's the virus that causes cancer!" I love TV, catchy advertising, wheee – you are so right, it does! What they fail to mention in those happy little commercials is that HPV is really just the medical term for that snazzy little sexually transmitted disease called warts. (Are we starting to see why printing this particular stuff out at work might not be a good idea?) So now I'm standing at the printer having a dilemma – do I wait to see who comes to retrieve it?

Then I thought about it.…. What if they're unstable? They see me here, they know I saw it, they assume I'm now running around wildly telling everyone and in their distress over the idea that everyone in the office now thinks they're a dirty swamp of STDs they come after me and kill me in a blind rage. It's ok though because ultimately they plead temporary insanity and I'm sure HR supports them because those HR people are sharp! I end up just another statistic on deranged office murder. Do you think I would get my own special on Court TV? Anyway, I left.

The lesson learned here. You really don't want to know who printed that because it could kill you and they probably use the handicapper bathroom too…..