Extra chlorine in mine, please

Work has been crazy lately. It sounds like there are going to be quite a few lay-offs coming this fall and everyone seems to be standing in groups of 3 and 4, talking in hushed tones in the hallway.

I can't live like that, I'm more of a "work through the pain" kind of person. So I decided to take the week off and get some things done around the house. And it is AWESOME.

In two days I have managed to:
*buy printer refill cartridges and CDRs at Office Depot
*clean the kitchen and living room
*take bags of clothes and assorted other items to Goodwill
*I finally bought some of those silly quilted zip-up thingys to put my
grandma's china in
*got some pictures framed
*weed the sideyard and planted some nice ferns and heuchera
*mixed some compost in with the soil in the front and sideyard
*cut back two trees on our front porch
*called someone to haul away a cement utility sink in the basement
*posted some stuff on craigslist
*got poked by my acupuncturist
*cooked warm spinach and brussel sprout salad with bacon one night and black bean and soyrizo soup the second night

All without breaking a nail!

I mentioned to Dokken that I was kind of liking this whole homemaker thing and I thought I'd make an excellent trophy wife.

'You'd get bored', was his reply.

Yes, I would get bored. But doesn't he realize that that's when you get a pool boy? Sheesh.

Indoor Plumbing

I like to think it's a truism that there are certain equalizers in society. Things like bowling and karaoke. Seeing a gorgeous (but snooty) girl with a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe. Assholes with food stuck in their teeth. We all have our good and bad days, talents and lack thereof.

Along these lines, it's probably fair to say that someday, somewhere, we will all be at work and find that we have to take a poo. My friend thatgirlkelly and I have had numerous talks on this topic, mostly because she is extremely fearful of this activity. Fearful to the point that she will leave our building and go into the neighboring building where she knows there is a room with:

a) a fan to whisk away offending odors as well as any noises
b) only one crapper so she can lock the door and not have to sit next to anyone

A couple of months ago Bust magazine had an entire article devoted to the subject of dropping a deuce at work. The basic thrust of the article was that we all just need to get over ourselves, accept that sooner or later we all do it, and get a move on. Hah? Get it? Bowel movement?

Ahem.

I have a fairly healthy relationship with my movements as The Gobi can tell you. We frequently discussed the size, shape, and consistency of our poos, and he even once called me from work and described with immense glee how he filled an industrial sized bowl with one long poo. Even better? From what I remember it was a no-wiper, which I'm sure you all know is a highly coveted poo.

But still. But still. When I'm at work I usually try to find a secluded bathroom or at least wait until the coast is clear before I go.

I think it's also fair to say that we will all have a co-worker or two who we don't dislike by any means, and yet we can't really say we like them either. They're just not our cup of tea. They were possibly--ok, most likely--a sorority girl in college, don't have a great sense of humor, they talk endlessly about boring, mind-numbing things, and may even have a nasally voice. We'll call her Jen*.

Let's say we walk into the bathroom to do our business, and there is Jen, just washing her hands and apparently finishing up. Perfect timing, yes? We say hi and go in the stall, waiting for her to leave.

We take our time, put down the little paper donut, and generally rattle things around a bit so it's not totally obvious we're just sitting there, waiting for her to go. And she's still talking. Oh my God.

She is telling me about her weekend, her kids, her allergies, and how her contacts are bothering her, and she is standing right. outside. the. door.

So you know what? Bombs away, my friends. Bombs away.

She left in a hurry after that, and I am proud to say I am pretty damn sure that I wasn't the one who was embarassed. Thanks, Bust.

*not her real name. Or maybe it is.