30 June 2008
For starters, there was some glop on the toilet seat. I'm not especially squemish, so I grabbed a wad of TP and wiped it off. As I turned around to do my business, I happened to glance in the metal fixture attached to the wall - you know, the thing that holds the TP, sanitary item disposal, etc? Yeah, in the slot I imagined was supposed to hold seat covers, I saw a bloody tampon. Nasty just about covers it.
Now I ask you; how hard would it have been to either flush the damn thing, or to wrap it in some TP and place in the designated container for sanitary items? The sanitary disposal was clearly marked and was even lined with one of those small brown bags.
Women like to complain that men are nasty, dirty pigs. After working in a restaurant and having to clean both the mens' and womens' restrooms, I can say with a degree of authority that women are far nastier, at least when it comes to potty time, than men.
Women like to hover because many of them imagine that there is some flesh-dissolving bacterium lying in wait, ready to climb up her poo-hole and melt her insides. This hovering can occasionally cause a few drops of urine to land on the toilet seat. Wipe it off. Women complain about this type of thing quite frequently, but no one is ever the culprit. We're all victims in the potty game.
Because of behaviors like these, I am less inclined to agree automatically with women when they are complaining about men being grosser than women. Sure, the guy in question might be a pig, but what did the stall look like the last time she went to the bathroom?
26 June 2008
I'm slightly ashamed of my reasoning behind my not-caring about whether or not the guy reads my blog. If he reads it, then at least he knows what I'm thinking. What? It's not a needlessly complex way of finding things out. The reason I cringe is because it is hard to say you're an advocate of communication when you don't practice what you preach. Even if he reads it there is no guarantee that he'll respond. In fact (prepare for some more imaginary conversations), this is what I think his thought process is:
Oh my. This girl is, well, sad is the word that comes to mind. Ugh, I'm embarrassed for her. Really, I'm cringing inside. She's a bit of a hypocrite, too. All that talk about communication and she can't even be bothered to ask me this stuff directly. Part of me wants to reply and put her out of her misery. Maybe if she knows I'm not interested, she will find another person to latch on. Then again, it's kind of fun to watch her second-guess herself. Plus, she's thinks I'm awesome, and I think I'm awesome, so I could hang around and see what other nice, ego-boosting things she might say about me.
Since this all hinges on him reading my blog, you can see why I'm not too worried.
25 June 2008
22 June 2008
It was nice to have him home. We were the kind of friends who saw each other about once a month and it usually involved a movie. We didn't have deep and meaningful conversations and I know embarassingly little about his life. Yet, there was something there that kept us together. Maybe it was my willingness to let him make fun of me, I don't know. When asked to describe him, the phrase "charming bastard" comes to mind. It's a good thing I definitely don't want to date him.
We were supposed to have dinner last night and I sent him a text message asking if we were still on. A bit later, I received a message saying that he was dealing with some stuff and wouldn't be over for a while. Call me naive, but I took this to mean that he meant he wouldn't be over until 8 or so. Um, not so much, as I was to discover.
I was killing time on the internet and clicked over to MySpace. I checked to see if any of my friends had updated their profiles. Sure enough, there is a new blog post from my charming bastard. Ultra-condensed version: he's going into seclusion until he can find enjoyment in the little things again.
I'll admit to having slight abandoment issues. In the space of 2 years, I had two people I considered my close friends stop talking to me for no apparent reason. The second friend to do this had the courtesy to send me a letter. Thanks, chica. I feel better about the whole thing.
I understand that most (if not every) person needs alone time. What bothers me is that neither of those people thought that I would understand that. Actually, wait, I shouldn't make it about me. I know the 2nd friend was having issues with her husband and I had nothing to do with that. I still haven't the foggiest clue as to why the 1st person decided to ignore my calls.
What I think I'm getting at is this: If we are truly friends, you will know that, even if I don't understand why, I will honor a request for some downtime. I like to be able to help my friends, but sometimes even the most well-meaning help isn't what is needed or wanted. If you ultimately decide that you can't be friends with me, fine. It'll hurt for a while, but time heals and all that bullshit.
I'm not asking for consideration of my feelings over yours; I'm just asking for a heads-up. Text, email, voicemail, whatever - I'm not hard to get in touch with. So, best of luck with your soul-searching and I hope you come back soon.
20 June 2008
Have you ever been driving down the turnpike and seen a military plane fly over? And you wonder what you would do if that plane just fucking crashed into the turnpike, right in front of you? As you slam on the brakes, you notice the other cars swerving and suddenly, stupidly, you wonder if any of those out of control cars are going to smash into you.
Or maybe, you’re lying in bed, just on the edge of sleep and a rumble or bang from outside shocks you back into full wakefulness. What made that noise? Is it the apocalypse? What would you do if it were? You think about what you have and what you’d need. Shit! How do you deal with the cats? Do you cram them both in the carrier and lug them along? Because if it’s not the apocalypse, they are gonna be pretty pissed off at being man-handled for no reason.
You’re out on a date. Things went well – good conversation, good food, good beer. The two of you are walking down the street, still chatting animatedly. You’re pleased that there haven’t been many awkward silences and you haven’t run out of things to talk about. You say good-bye at a corner and turn to walk to your car. Seconds later, you hear the screech of tires, smell burning brakes, and hear an awful crunching thud. Spinning around you see your date, in a crumpled heap several yards in front of a black SUV. People are gathering around and you can see blood pooling around your date’s body.
It’s a gray and rainy Saturday. You planned on scrubbing the kitchen floor, but instead you boil some water for tea, and settle into your favorite chair by the window to read. The tea is warm and delicious, and the book is engaging. You are quickly sucked in and lose touch with the physical world around you. A knock at the front door makes you jump and you drop your book. You huff a small laugh at yourself and pat your chest, feeling your heart jackrabbiting behind your ribs. As you walk to the door, you realize that nature is calling, and you hope it isn’t Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting for you. You open the door and are greeted with the bore of a rather large caliber handgun, held by a rather scruffy individual.
One day, you wake up and realize that you created the world.
19 June 2008
Apparently, last Friday, the packets I mailed to a pharmaceutical company got mislabeled. An email was sent to the project manager (who I am fine with, in case you were curious) and the PM sent and email to the Princess and me, asking who had put the packets together. I had, and I replied that I pulled the forms from the usual place and couldn't explain how the packets were sent to the wrong addresses. Well, the PM was as baffled as I, but didn't yell at me, or talk to me like I am 4 years old. That is why I'm OK with her.
A couple of minutes later I get an email from the Princess. I should mention that the Princess DOES NOT currently handle this project. She's supposed to, but she's not yet ready to take it back. Add this to the fact that she hasn't been retrained on the process, and you can see why I would think she should keep herself out of the situation, right? Nope. I get this:
Going forward please double check the Shipping Request Form before you take it to XXX; I don’t know if you have the form with the mailing information already typed out and saved down on your desk top, if so, can you make sure you update to the correct address shown below. Thank you.
And now I'm going to yell. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW THE PROCESS! DON'T ACT LIKE MY SUPERVISOR WHEN A) YOU'RE NOT, AND B) YOU WOULDN'T EVEN TALK TO ME WHEN YOU HAD A PROBLEM WITH MY BEHAVIOR! STOP ASSERTING YOUR NONEXISTENT AUTHORITY. I KNOW YOU'RE THREATENED BY MY COMPETENCE! End yelling.
I know that the email seems innocuous, but it's just another thing to add to my list. I can't stand passive-aggressive bullshit.
18 June 2008
Now would probably be a good time to mention that I have some problems with the DE sup. She's barely competent, she treats everyone like her least favorite eunuch, and her perfume has been known to induce asthma attacks. I'll admit that I can be somewhat bossy, but I do my damnedest not to belittle and subjugate the people beneath me. I say please and thank you and never assume that my work is so much more important that anyone else's.
The transitioning is happening verrrrrrry slowly. Meanwhile, I have to deal with this annoying woman who alternates between lording over me like Princess My Shit Don't Stink, and running to my supervisors to whine about how she doesn't like my attitude. Tell you what, Princess, you're in the minority. Just because I'm not all fake smiles and sunshine like you are, doesn't mean I'm throwing you attitude. We are not friends. In fact, we are barely coworkers. You have no authority over me and quit acting like you do. Don't micromanage me one minute and then step back saying, "Well, I take care of the DE people; I assumed your supervisors took care of you." Oh wait, I forgot - as long as your ass is covered everyone else can go rot, right?
17 June 2008
I guess it's because I don't date much, but I just realized that the reason that some people come off as so desperate and clingy is because they are so fucking frustrated with the effort of dating and they want this date to be the date. You know, the last date. It's not simply the loneliness. It's the getting dressed, monitoring your thought processes (especially if you're me), curbing the less than desirable habits, deconstructing and analyzing every stupid thing that happened and every word that was said.
People talk about vibes. "Oooo, did you get an 'I like you' vibe from him?" I don't fucking know. Do I actually know him? Not really. And for someone who is an advocate of communication, I am guilty of drawing my own conclusions instead of coming out and asking. Because asking is risky. If you ask a question, you'll invariably get an answer. You have to prepare yourself for all possible answers. There's the chance that you won't like the answer, but hey, you asked.
I think the best you can hope for is good conversation with a good person - good beer and good food is optional. Unfortunately, some people (and I have been guilty of this too) are too concerned with what comes next. Do I call him? Will he call me? I'd love to say that it doesn't matter, but we all know it does. Some small part of you is screaming "Oh my god, like me! Want to see me again! Think I'm witty and entertaining!" even though you know he didn't think you were a loser because he didn't ditch you while you were in the bathroom.
I'm noticing that I'm making less sense as I go on, so I believe I'll wrap it up. Dating is a trial, but as long as you're not concerned with forever, it can be OK, too. Words of wisdom, yo.
12 June 2008
According to dictionary.com, all three words have a variation of "a stupid or ridiculous person" as the first definition. Nerd is used to define dork, but not vice versa. A geek is also "a carnival performer who performs sensationally morbid or disgusting acts, as biting off the head of a live chicken." Both nerd and geek have a second definition: "an intelligent but single-minded expert in a particular technical field or profession," with geek focusing more on the computer aspect of things. What does it mean to be a nerd, geek, or dork?
It seems that dork still has mostly negative connotations. A dork is a person who can't dress, can't hold a conversation, and isn't even redeemed by an above average level of intelligence. Nose-picking, mouth-breathing, basement-dwelling losers.
The computer people have adopted geek as their own. Geek no longer means pocket-protectors and DnD. Geek means hacker, fixer, modder, the chick who pwnd you on Halo. Geeks live in cyberspace and if your laptop breaks, you know where to go to not only get it up and running, but have it work better than before (thanks, Jewfro!).
I identify with the nerd label. To me, nerd is the highest level of, uh, geekdom? nerdism? Whatever you call it, nerd is the best. I clean up OK, I can hold conversations on several different topics, and I have had sex with a real-life boy (hi Mom!). I've been know to enjoy comic books, sci-fi novels, movies made from comic books and sci-fi novels, Star Trek, pictures of space, video games and shows on the Discovery channel. I love to read and I spend a fair amount of time on the computer. Does this make me a nerd? Frankly, I don't care.
I suppose I could just as easily fit into the geek category, but if your laptop dies, the best I could do is to throw it in the trash for you. Geeks are specialized nerds. Nerds can be nerdy about sports, books, movies, TV, music, and food. Dorks, well, all I got is that it used to be slang for dick. Sorry.
11 June 2008
I did something kind of ballsy the other day. I sent my cyberboy a message. I told him that I think he's "pretty fucking awesome" and I'd like to buy him a beverage. I did this Monday, in the early evening. As of Wednesday a.m., I have received no reply. I attempted to craft a message that would force some sort of reply, whether it be yea or nay, but I suppose it is possible that he would choose not to reply at all. Not the most polite thing to do, but it ultimately makes no difference.
Here's where the uncertainty comes in; I decided to check my sent messages. You know, on the off chance that I dithered over wording too long, my session timed out, and said message didn't go through. Sure enough, I have only one sent message and that one was from a week and a half ago. Now I have to decide if I assume the message went through and he opted not to reply, or if I send a follow-up message. I hate follow-up messages.
"Hey! I sent you a message a couple of days ago, uh, but I don't think it went through. So, uh, I thought I'd send you another message to see if you got the 1st one." Awkward, right?
Summation: I don't know if my message was received and whether I should send a follow-up. Should I just let it go and chalk it up to experience? Display some stalkerism and send another message? Thoughts?
Update: Message resent. Waiting begins. Belly rumbly.
09 June 2008
Nail-biting (or the fancy medical term - onychophagia) is a nervous habit. Mine mostly stems from boredom or inactivity. I'll be watching TV or reading, and next thing I know, my thumbnail is a stub. The article I read lumps nail-biting in with skin-picking, teeth-grinding, thumb-sucking and nose-picking. As I also suffer from the teeth-grinding issue, I have to wonder if I have some deep-seated stress issues. Nah.
The article also mentioned that nail-biting can be a learned behavior. Something to blame Mom and Dad for? Would Freud think that I had a subconscious desire for my father? Considering I am a smoker AND a nail-biter, I seem to have a bit of an oral fixation. Kinky.
There was a ray of hope - apparently most people stop biting their nails by age 30. I have noticed that I can curb the habit more now than I could a couple of years ago. And people think I'm crazy for being excited to turn 30. It's like the magical doorway to adulthood.
I got a survey notification in my inbox that was called "How Are You Feeling?" I figured it would be for a new pain-killer or similar. Nope, it's about depression. I made the mistake of checking off that I do, occasionally, suffer from depression, and yes, I've been diagnosed by a HCP. Next thing I know, I qualify for an additional survey that should take about 20 minutes of my time. Since I'm schlubbing around the house instead of going back to work, I figured why not?
First, I am asked what names come to mind when I think about depression medication. For some reason, I could only think of Cymbalta, Zoloft and Wellbutrin. Then comes the advertising questions. The only ad I recognized was the one with the sad little rock hiding in its little cave. Now I'm being questioned on how likely I would be to ask my doctor to prescribe Zoloft, Effexor, Wellbutrin, Paxil, or Cymbalta. Unfortunately there is no, "I feel I can handle my depression without meds, thanks" option. And I'm especially against Paxil because I had a friend who took it and the withdrawal symptoms were awful.
My least favorite part of these surveys is when they have a list of statements and I'm supposed to pick which medications fit said statements. How am I supposed to know? I don't take any of these meds and I don't plan to. I don't see how the pharmas are getting usable information. Can I relate to Prozac? Not really. Does Wellbutrin understand depression? All I know is that my OB-GYN offered to prescribe Wellbutrin for me so I could quit smoking. If I'm not going to take it for depression, why the hell would I take it to quit smoking?
I'm now bored with the survey and I keep checking off "none" or "I don't know" for all my answers. Plus, it keeps asking me what meds I am on. How many ways do I have to tell them that I'm not on meds (despite what you, my dear reader, thinks) and I don't want to be on meds. I'm not going to ask my doctor to put me on Cymbalta just because I like the colors they used in their print advertising.
Lordy, they are playing sound clips of mournful guitar music. I am starting to think that the purpose of the survey is to make me crazy so I'll get medicated.
Yes, Friday kind of sucked in certain respects, but that's no excuse for the "woe is stupid me" blathering I did. So I said something stupid - not a huge deal. I'm finding it hard to muster any sympathy for my Friday self. That's usually how this works: I get bent out of shape about some little thing, whine, bitch, moan and complain to my friends and family, laugh about it and then get the fuck over it.
I definitely have to thank my friends for dealing with my morose behavior this weekend and for not laughing in my face when I told them what was bothering me. You guys rock!
06 June 2008
I know I'm not the smartest, funniest, wittiest, snappiest, etc. person on the planet. I am aware that I am, at this very moment, surrounded by people who are more gifted than I. People who write better, make better jokes, and can discuss social theory with more élan.
Now that I have thoroughly convinced you of my inadequacies, allow me to explain where I am coming from.
I got slammed for a comment I made today on a blog. I have always had an issue with being perceived as dumb or slow-witted. Maybe it's because I have always relied on my brains to get me through life. It is definitely important to me that people think I'm bright. I don't know why. Regardless of where it stems from, it is real and rearing its self-esteem destroying head, drooling uncertainty on my forehead.
Am I wallowing? Yes I am. Maybe I wouldn't be feeling so bad if it weren't for the fact that the fridge I stored my lunch in today is being cleaned out this weekend and the bitches are going to throw out a perfectly good piece of my tupperware. Or maybe it's because I can't seem to make myself take a chance of something that I really want. It has been a long time since I've spiraled down like this and it sucks the root. I've had enough therapy to recognize the signs of depression. I see these things happening and I can't be bothered to change anything. Oh sure, there will be short spurts of optimism and activity, but they don't last. I'll get angry and sad and want to throw things or kick things. Thankfully for my feet and my things, I don't do that anymore.
If you stuck around through that mess of self-pity, here's the reason I still hate the internet. It isn't significantly divergent from my original reason - I meet smart, funny, insightful, witty people and I feel like a three-year old on the high dive. I'm in the deep-end and I left the water wings at home. End pool analogy.
"Just go off-line!" you're saying. "If you're so fucking miserable, stop doing the thing that makes you miserable, asshole." I can't hide from every little thing that causes me to re-evaluate who I am. Plus, I need to learn not to base my sense of self-worth on what my fellow commenters think of me.
Real life example: I was outside at work, minding my business, smoking my cigarette. A co-worker came out and wandered my way. I'm polite; I said hello, how ya doin'. Next thing I know, I'm getting an in-depth synopsis of her marital woes.
"My husband, who I'm divorcing, is calling my landlord and my landlord is telling my ex all this shit about how my rent was late twice and my water was going to get cut off and I'm fighting for custody and my ex is a maniac; he hit me, broke bones, I had to get stitches and that fuck is going to be raising my kids because his family has money and look like fucking Ozzy and Harriet and I don't have any family. Is that fair? I give up, I just don't know what to do. I'm done."
Whew. I feel for this woman, I really do. Divorce is bad enough without having to deal with custody battles and sneaky exes and rotten landlords, but why did she think that I was the person to tell all that to? Was she desperate for a sympathetic ear? Was the need to vent so overwhelming that it didn't matter who was the recipient? Would she have ranted to the Fed-Ex drop box had she been alone? Maybe I just have that kind of face. A face that says, "I want you to share with me. I want you to spew your pain and frustration and hate ALL OVER ME. I will empathize with you. Yes, shhhh, I know. I'm here now. Therethere."
05 June 2008
As you know, I've been wading in a pool of self-recrimination for a good part of the afternoon and evening. Despite my resolve not to dwell on any stupid or thoughtless comments I have made today, I am unequal to the challenge. That's how infatuation works, isn't it? The crazy-hopeful thoughts, the dizzy highs, and the inevitable muddy lows.
So, as I was scrubbing out my pots, I was contemplating what it is I like so much about my cyberboy. I've already outlined the brains and the humor but another thought occurred to me: I want to learn from him. I want to find out what he's passionate about and see if it is something I have been overlooking. I want him to educate me about his interests and hobbies; to show me how he thinks.
I know that I'm not going to be interested in all the things he is. We may disagree about the best way to spend a Saturday night, or whether or not an entire box of Kraft mac and cheese is an acceptable dinner, but that's OK. As we all know, not everyone likes all the same stuff - each cat its own rat, right? It's just that I have this crazy feeling that he could help me become a better person. Or it's the infatuation chemicals.
Remember a couple of posts ago when I stated that it was easier to be witty and charming online? I was wrong.
Case in point: I made a comment - nothing super insightful or funny, but I went for a cutesy vibe and now I feel that I failed miserably.
I don't know why I'm obsessing so much. I shouldn't flatter myself into thinking that my internet friends think of me at all once they've finished scrolling by my comments. I know that, with a few exceptions, I don't. Does that stop me from fanatically refreshing the page? It does not.
I've been sitting at my desk for the last hour or so, feeling my insides contracting with the icky embarassment I'm wallowing in. Yes, I realize I should let it go. Didn't I just say that I didn't think my internet friends thought about me? Yes. That doesn't stop me from wanting them (specifically my cyberboy) to. In a positive manner, of course. I swear, I'm not an idiot. Really.
04 June 2008
My first reaction was to get indignant that he would put me in that position. Just because we are friends doesn't mean that I will automatically endorse everything you do. I may be predisposed to take your side in certain things, but there's no carte blanche here. Especially knowing my thoughts on the subject.
Finally, I answered his question. Would I go out of my way to rat him out? No. Would I have trouble looking him in the face? Yes.
Notice I state above that I wouldn't go out of my way to rat him out. The reason that the qualifier is there is because I've never met his wife. I wouldn't know her from Adam. Well, from Eve, but you see my point. The chances of her ever asking me point-blank are practically nonexistent. That, however, is not the issue. The issue is the possibly irreparable damage that would be done to our (his and my) friendship.
Yes, I am aware that it is a hypothetical situation, but I have some sort of disorder or something. All I can think about is how fucking disappointed I would be in him, and how I would miss him, but couldn't look at him the same way. Having been the deliverer of such pain, I can't in good conscience bear witness while it happens to someone else. Even to someone I don't know.
03 June 2008
I arrive home and my apartment smells clean. I also notice fresh vacuum tracks in the carpet. Good signs, right? I do wonder if I can keep the broom they left here. Possession being 9/10 and all that. I flip on the bathroom light and it's as if choirs of angels were serenading me. Aside from the openings for the exhaust fan and air vent, I am once again among the ceiling'd elite. Admittedly, it's just the Sheetrock, and they didn't put my shower curtain rod back up, but I had such low expectations. I'm still waiting to find the new thing they fucked-up.
I had to call maintenance (again) last night because a pipe was leaking in my bathroom ceiling. I had decided that nice wasn't cutting it. My friend made a comment about me issuing the maintenance man a good smackdown - he'd maybe even enjoy it. I said that the kind of beating I wanted to do came from a different place.
Anyway, back to the question. In the S&M arena, it's not so much a "beating with love" as it is a "love of beating," or "love to be beaten." For whatever reasons, some people veer towards rougher, or kinkier sex. Of course, kinky is subjective. I may like fingernails and a little hair-pulling while you think having your dog lick cake batter off of you is a good way to spend your Saturday. I would RSVP "no" to that invite, but I don't care if you do it.
The right kind of pain can enhance a sexual experience. Some of the best sex I can remember having involved teeth, fingernails, and an enormous hickey. I could hardly walk the next day but it was worth it. (Note: I am NOT a hickey fan. That was an exception.) I've also had a guy flinch away at the merest bite of my short fingernails. This isn't to say that the sex wasn't good - I simply had to adapt my style so everyone involved had a good time.
I think there has been a change over the last couple of decades. What used to be secret and dirty is now far more publicly acceptable. It probably has something to do with our society, despite remaining remarkably Victorian about sex, is being more open about what happens behind closed doors. People write books, blogs, magazine articles about sex. Sex is in movies, TV shows, advertising, and talked about on the radio. It can be a real bitch-slap when you're not getting any and you are surrounded by people having sex.
While I may enjoy a bit of the rough stuff in the bedroom, I don't get off on (wanting) to beat people when I am pissed off. If I did, I'd have a DSM-IV label slapped on my ass so fast. If two people want to go beyond missionary, that's up to them. Start a website! Make videos! Who cares?