Over-sharing on the Elevator

I tend to communicate in a total stream of conscience type of way, to my own detriment.

When leaving the office today, a woman appeared as the elevator door was shutting. I frantically mashed at buttons, trying to locate the door open button. As the woman entered the elevator, I said

"Sorry! Sometimes I get flustered and can't decipher between the door open and door close button! It's kind of like with greater than/lesser than signs. I have to employ that old second grade tactic of 'the alligator always wants more' and I have to visualize."

Was it only my second grade teacher who used that little teaching mechanism? Apparently so, or maybe it was just due to my ridiculous ramble that this woman stared at me with a "what the fuck is this girl talking about?" look. I recognized this look, as I get it often from my friends, my family and people I work with.

On a side note, I always try to hold the elevator door open for people. Except for that tart in the garage who parks her BMW SUV in a compact car spot every. single. day. I can't stand that type of asshattery, so I let her wait.

My Husband, the Prankster

My husband fancies himself something of a prankster. I recently learned that he gets this from his parents, who joyfully torture each other by hiding sandspurs in each other's undergarments. I know, right? Crazy, but funny. When I found out about those hijinx, I had much more respect for the in-laws.

Today when The Husband got out of bed to take a shower, I asked him to leave the water on for me when he was done. He forgot, so I asked him to turn it back on. I stepped in to find that he had turned the water to the coldest setting.

"Funny, Husband! Really fucking funny, you son of a whore!" I screeched from the shower. {Note: I love my mother-in-law, but one of my favorite pet names for the hubs is "son of a whore." It just rolls off of the tongue.}

A few minutes later, I get another blast of freezing water.

Apparently, my dearest saw fit to journey into the guest bathroom and flush the toilet just for shits and giggles.

I love him. And I will pay him back in kind when he least expects it...perhaps on the morning he has a big client meeting. Because nothing says "I love you and good luck" like a freezing cascade of water.

New Heights of Lazy

Last week, I realized exactly how lazy I have become, and it's down right embarrassing:

1) The Husband recently told me that he prefers generic Oreo-type cookies. Fine, I'm good with saving a couple of bucks. I, however, do not like generic Oreo-type cookies - because of the packaging. A couple of years ago, Oreo changed their packaging so that you simply have to open a re-sealable flap on the top of the box to get a cookie. The generic kind still make you open the package at the end so that you have to pull out the tray of cookies, take what you want, then shove the tray back in. I simply cannot be bothered with that much work to get a cookie. I am now rationalizing that it is a good thing to buy the generic - I am too lazy to perform all of those steps.

2) A few weeks ago, I was going to make a roast in the crock pot when I realized that I was out of liner bags. I thought, "Oh crap. Now I can't make the roast." It took me a few minutes to remember that before the invention of the crock pot liners, I did in fact scrub the crock pot by hand.

3) We have cheap-o microwaves at work. I'm used to putting something in the microwave and hitting 2 for two minutes. Like magic, the machine starts automatically. At work, I have to hit time cook, then 2-0-0, then start. And for Pete's sake, there is no button that opens the microwave door. I have to wrench the thing open myself.

I'm not proud of these confessions.

Vanity is Embarrassing...but it's still not picking your nose

So, after my rant about cubicle etiquette a few days ago, yours truly got busted in a compromising position this afternoon.

There I was, minding my business in my cube. I was wearing really cute shoes; every time I wear them, I marvel at their cuteness. I love these shoes with the bright pink flower print (so much so that I usually email OND just to tell her that I love my shoes, because she gets me like that). I love them so much, that I saw fit to hike up my pants leg and stretch my foot out in front of me. Pointing my toe, rotating my ankle to admire every angle, loving how thin my ankles looked...I glance up to see some techie standing in the entry to my cube, watching me. I quickly pretended to scratch an imaginary itch on my ankle and proceeded to be very busy and important.

I might be vain, but at least I wasn't doing something my mama would be ashamed of.

Over or Under. The Battle Rages on in the Haphazard Household

I lost the battle with Cottonelle. I'll admit defeat by minority, but I will not play to popularity. I am an under-roller (shout out to B, even though you don't remember that conversation so many moons ago). I will ignore the popular vote, and maintain dictatorship over toilet paper direction in my own home.

So, on the rare occasion that The Husband is moved to actually replace the roll of toilet paper (rather than just place it on the sink), he does it the opposite way of how I'd do it...on purpose. In fact, TH thinks it's funny to switch the direction of the rolls of toilet paper just to irritate me. He enjoys this so much, his coworkers love to tease me about it at firm events. Obviously, his anal wife is office fodder. This does not help his situation in the least.

Today, I'd had it. I'm a tad OCD, and I like things just so. So, after a day spent cleaning MY house, I found my husband in all of his hilarity had switched the roll I had just replaced. I strode out of the powder room and calmly poured myself a glass of wine. Then I sat on the couch and informed The Husband that for every time that he intentionally pisses me off via toilet paper, I will hide one of his dress socks. It is yours truly, after all, that does the laundry.

He thinks I'm kidding.

Game on, Lover. Game fucking on.

A few thoughts on office etiquette...

December, huh? I don't have any good excuses, save the fact that the people who read this blog are people I communicate with on a normal basis.

Since my last post, I started a new job - one I really enjoy. I wasted so many years in jobs that I hated, I had no idea that it was possible to find a job that didn't make me contemplate driving off of a bridge. The irony that my new job is not exactly in accounting, but rather a badass combo of accounting and technology (oh, somewhere in SC my grad school systems professor is laughing his ass off) is not lost on me. A year ago, if you would've told me that my economy-induced expulsion from public accounting would randomly land me in a job working for one of the world's largest financial institution's tech department, I would have told you to put down the pinot and sober the fuck up. Thank you God, there is life outside of billing my day in six minute increments and being expected to work every Saturday.

While I love my new digs, I just want to point something out to my peeps in Cube Land, Corporate America. You are working in a cube...in actuality, you do not have walls. When I walk by your cube, I can see you pick your nose, Guy Across the Aisle. I beg of you, stop it. STOP IT! BTW, I can also see you if you are scratching your nether-regions. Oh, and one more thing Lady to my Left...pick up the damn phone. The fight your teenagers are having over who controls the remote doesn't warrant use of the speaker phone. I swear to God, if those were my kids (after all, we're all perfect parents before we have kids), I'd tell them to figure it out or fight to the death. And while I think it just oh-so-cute that you then appear in my doorway and apologize for your progeny's ill exploits, you are just further annoying me. Pick up your effing phone. And my final complaint....Dearest Guy Three Rows Away....for Christ's sake, please do not bring in food that stinks up the whole damn floor. I like Mexican food as much as the next person, but I walked out of the office today smelling like a bordello in Tijuana. And as much as I love my job, it's just not as much fun as prostitutes and tequila...so if I'm going to get called out by The Husband for having an alternative lifestyle, I want to have a good story to back it up.

Consider it Constructive Feedback...

Dear Beggar holding the "traveling and out of money" sign,

I don't mean to be a bitch, but I am less likely to give you money if I see you sitting on the corner holding your sign and eating a Big Mac Extra Value Meal while listening to your iPod and texting on your Blackberry. You seem to have means to an end. I will continue my tradition of dropping a couple of bucks into the Salvation Army bucket or donating to Toys for Tots...I hope you don't mind. You don't seem to need my charity desperately. I'm just saying.

Sincerely,