I take it back. I still hate it. A lot. Why? Let's see...it's 12:32 a.m., and I just finished up today's work...or would that be yesterday's work? It's totally my own fault for procrastinating today, I know. But still. So tired. I would stab that book with my wee mechanical pencil, but I have no energy left.



And yes, my LJ will soon be consumed with pictures. As that little brat from that one reality TV show said all the time, "Deal with it!!!"

..so I think it's time to share some pictures, courtesy of my new best friend and phone, Blackjack II!

I love telecommuting (well..when the remote connection works)! This is my office, or at least my part of the communal office, when I'm at home (and no, I can't work with all of that clutter around me, which is why I'm posting pictures to LJ instead of working, which I really need to do):



Two of my favorite things about working from home: Working with the windows open (and being able to prop my feet up on the windowsill when I sit in my chair), and being able to hang with The Poostinkler. Chester loves open windows, too. Mostly because it is easier for him to hear/see/smell his arch nemesis, the UPS truck, coming from down the street. Ben and I have decided that Chester takes extreme offense to anyone or anything else being big and brown, because it's hard to tell if he hates the driver of the truck (he's such a little racist), the truck itself, or both. It should be noted here that he doesn't react whatsoever to the FedEx truck or any of the 5 school buses that pass by each day, all of which sound, to my ears at least, exactly like the UPS truck. But I digress...


Aww...somebody's so sweet and smart! And big and brown!


Yeah...it's hard to complain about a job that sucks when, about 95% of the time, I don't have to deal with ridiculous Atlanta traffic, obnoxious work-people, a business-casual dress code, socks, fluorescent lights, cubicles, restricted internet access, overpriced cafeteria food, bad coffee, public restrooms, or a fixed 8-5 schedule. Heck, I didn't even bother blow drying my hair today and only put on a dab of makeup in anticipation of my grocery store outing later. So, as much as I dislike what I do and want to completely change careers, on days like today it's kind of hard to remember why (okay, well...it's not, but you get the point).

1) one of my new favorites:







love her. cannot wait until she makes her way to Atlanta.



2) one of my least favorites of all time:

work. or, more specifically, my job...career...whatever.

so, in keeping with everyone else i know turning 30-something and making a major life change (read: going to law school), i am also seriously considering finally going to grad school myself--but for me, it's social work. my first step is going to be taking the GRE again...as it's been about 8.5 years since I took it last. wow. that's an eye-opener. so, i'm going to do that, see how well (or poorly) i do, and go from there. i have two local program options, only one of them having a part-time option...so i guess i really only have one local option. but it's a pretty decent one, i think. the deadline for application was February 1, but i could always submit it late and cross my fingers. or wait until next fall to start. all of this hinges upon securing some sort of financial aid (from g-ma's education fund or elsewhere), of course.

so. that's that. for now.

so, it's been a long while. as promised, this is a real post with updates on all fronts:
( Read more... )

many thanks to flerly and aoide for taking care of my drunk ass on monday night--that's right, i said monday night--after one midday margarita with some coworkers turned into a 6 hour drinking festival, leaving the three of us completely unable to drive ourselves home. it should be noted that we chose to have "a margarita-which-turned-into-a-pitcher-each" at an establishment directly across the street from where we work. that's just how much none of us gives a shit right now.

my main point to the story is not that i am a drunk ass (because this is common knowledge), but that you know your friends love you when they'll drive your ass all the way to powder springs from marietta (when they live in midtown and dunwoody, respectively) on a monday night after you've stood them up because you were too drunk to drive to go meet them for margaritas in midtown, as was the original plan. what can i say? margaritas make me a) crazy, and b) lose my earrings...and i'm still wondering how i broke my cell phone. i owe the two of those chickies (kim and kit) bigtime. sliced bread(s). best thing(s) since (it/them).

on a more serious note, mom finally got an email from my aunt judy (who is not really an aunt, but a second cousin, but so much more aunt-like than actual aunts), one of the only other branches of my family that doesn't live in The Motherland; she, her husband, and their son live in New Orleans:


[Original Message]
From: Aunt Judy
To: Mom
Subject: RE:

Hi cuz! Yes the news is pretty bad. But we still have hopes that at least some of our house is not flooded.
And today we think the paper is setting up temporarily in Baton Rouge which will make things seem more
normal. The cell phone situation is abnormal but it made me learn to text msg! Also the land line here works well,
our hosts' phone is 225-xxx-xxxx. We are fine and the xanax is working well for me! Thanks for the thoughts
and prayers and we will keep in touch.

j.


judy and dave both work for the newspaper in New Orleans. judy evacuated the city with their son sunday, and dave stayed behind to help man the newspaper's offices. he ended up leaving for Baton Rouge yesterday, after talking to judy who instructed him to take a few treasured items (quilts my great-grandmother made by hand, paintings that my great-grandmother's aunt had done, etc.) to the attic so that they would be safe. or, rather, that they might be salvageable. dave, seeing how bad things really were, decided to ignore her instructions and loaded the items she wanted to save into the car and drove them to Baton Rouge. it's probably best that he did, as hopes that their home will still be standing after it's all said and done seem to be dwindling. at times like this, saving family heirlooms, as treasured as they may be, seems so unimportant. i'm just happy to know that they're all safe and well.

In the spirit of the eight-hour workday, I have decided to write on a subject that I feel needs to be addressed: the inexplicable bathroom behavior of women in the workplace. As a woman, I have at times felt jaded by the bathroom behavior of men and, quite shamefully, have always been quick to pass off problems or disturbances in the joy that is the loo to those who do not sit to pee. However, having worked in an office of only women for the last nine months, I have seen the light, and the shit has hit the fan, so to speak. Respect for the private bathroom and all of its components are something that I have always had. I realize that I, being the anal retentive and compulsive person that I am, am not alone. There are other organized perfectionists in this world, and most of them like a pristine bowl and room in which to do their doodie--erm..I mean duty. The image of John Cage, that quirky and compulsive cohort of Ally McBeal comes to mind as he enters the unisex stalls preceded by a mysterious flush saying, "I enjoy a fresh bowl". Freshness isn't the half of it, dear friend. Of course, no private or public bathroom can remain picture perfect without the aid of those of us who were blessed with the understanding of two vital concepts: general cleanliness and potty politics.

I. To Flush or Not to Flush, That is *NEVER* the Question.
It has been brought to my attention, as well as to the attention of a select few of my co-workers, that some citizens of the United States do not know how to flush a toilet, or more disturbingly, do not exercise the knowledge of the flush. Okay. I understand that one may forget to flush every now and again, especially if one is in a mad rush to get back to one's desk and do real work. It is a very simple process, the flushing, so simple that it can be done in three foolproof steps.
1. Stand up and turn around so that you are facing the Porcelain Prince (if you are a man, please skip to step 2).
2. See that silver, shiny thingamajig? Reach out and push it down, towards the floor.
3. Admire the swirls and swoosh of the water as it carries your soiled paper (or just your business, if you are a man) down into the depths of the sea of sewage.
Fairly simple for those of us with working gear locked away in our heads. If you need practice or help understanding this concept, please call me at work right away and I will fly to wherever it is that you people come from and set up a QVC-style demo for the whole office, city, or country. Free of charge.

II. No Illegal Business Shall Go Undetected.
Okay, flushing aside, I have a more delicate, and quite understandably, more difficult topic to address. If you have done your business and it was raunchier than expected, there may appear mysterious spots of poo or urine on the floor, seat, or other general area of the bowl. If your shit shoots across a room, I feel for you. Really. Nonetheless, you should be used to it, and therefore, you *ARE* responsible for wiping up this pooage. The pee is really more of a problem with men, I find, which is understandable. It splashes all over the place. My stepfather, lovely man that he is, sometimes forgets what exactly he's aiming at (or maybe his eyes are bad, whatever) and he gets piss all over the floor, right next to the bowl where a woman may, by chance, put her foot while she is sitting on the same bowl. That is not pleasant. I do not like getting dog piss on my shoes, socks, or bare feet, why would I want man-piss on them? For the love of God and all that is holy (or not, if you're not religious), if you live with one or more women, bend down and wipe up the goddamned pee from the floor. Because if you can't be bothered to clean it, the piss-mold fairy is going to pay you a visit, and she's not like other fairies. She is one nasty bitch. She uses moldy urine for lipstick, and she will kiss you from head to toe.

Picking on men aside, there is a more modern yet very similar trend among women occurring in very high numbers in offices populated mostly or solely by women. It's not pretty. If you are a man and would rather not know of this ghastly sight, please cover your eyes and scroll down to III. I apologize for the graphic nature of the following description, however, this is something that needs to be addressed immediately. Okay, girls. For those of you who are pad-wearers only, may I offer you my admiration and thanks. I cannot be a pad-only girl, or a pad-anytime girl, for that matter, as I feel when I am wearing one, no matter how thin the pad, if it be winged or wingless, that I am in a human-sized diaper. Tampons were probably the most liberating invention of whatever century they happened to pop out in (no pun intended); however, I am sure the makers, rest their souls, would have made some corrections to the design or at least put a label on the side of the pink box warning women to be on the lookout for the Centrally Aligned Spottage that may occur on any bowl, public or private. You see, for those of you who need a lesson in tampon removal, when you pull that string at an angle, that magical wad of cotton comes flying out, sometimes a might quickly and with a certain amount of enthusiasm, and taps the front of the bowl on the inside. To the untrained eye, this is not an issue, because when you flush like a good girl (see Topic I), the water whisks the private business away never to be seen again. Done. Well, wrong-o, girlies. Sometimes, depending on angle, force, and mass, that globby wad of cotton can in fact tap the underside of the seat (that circle you sit on, yes, the same one that men lift to pee) without your knowledge and leave a very disgusting man-repelling and woman-offending brownish crusty stain if not tended to immediately. Seriously, men flip out when faced with an encounter of a CAS, and rightly so. I flip out as well, even when the CAS may be my own, in my private toilet at my own one-bedroom apartment. I am therefore pleading the women of the world to unite and vow to check for the CAS *EVERY* time you sit and remove a girly-thing, or at least once a day if you can't be bothered every time, on every toilet that your cheeks do touch. It will make the world a better place for men and women everywhere. Thank You.

III. Replace It, and It Will Come. Sometimes Twice.
Okay. In a former life, I had the misguided preconceived notion that men were the sole culprits behind the creation that is the ghost that is known as The Empty Roll. I know now the error of my ways, after having been in this office for nearly all of the last 270 days. It's not just men. In fact, it's not men at all. Women are the lazy ones who like that ever-special trick of propping a brand new roll of t.p. on the empty (sometimes, not empty--ghastly!) cardboard shell and against the wall. Now, in public restrooms, this can be excused because sometimes those paper-holding contraptions are so bloody confusing. Fine. If you don't have a key to open it up, how can you replace it properly? However, in private stalls all across this great nation, toilet paper roll holders are not getting the attention they deserve. Think of it this way: that t.p. roll holder has feelings, too. The paper always gets the attention--it has the pleasure of wiping the soft flesh of the private parts, and sometimes even gets the double-duty pleasure of acting as a stand-in for a kleenex. The roll? He gets no respect! He holds the roll in the same place for weeks, sometimes even months for the intestinally challenged among us, and what does he get? He gets to be removed from that blessed porcelain, plastic, or metal frame and orgasmically squeezed into a compact size for all of two seconds before moving onto the act of holding an identical roll for another eternity. To place a new roll on top of the cardboard shell is like saying, "Honey, I don't care if you came". Seriously. If you can't see it that way, think of all the psychos in the world like me who, when they get into the humble commode that is the home away from home, spy that someone has not had the decency to replace the roll and scream in frustration. To the untrained ear, this scream could sound like one of pain, and in a way, it is. It pains me to know that there are people in this world who were not brought up with the understanding that when it a roll is empty, you will replace it, and when others empty a roll, they will do the same. It's silly not to do so, as the amount of effort exerted is comparable to taking a deep breath. It's plain rude as well, like saying, "I'm too goddamned lazy to replace the roll and I'm going to wait for someone else to do it". Ugh! I against my better judgment conducted a very scientific study in the bathroom of this very office in order to prove that if I did not replace the roll, no one would. It absolutely killed me to let it go, but I proved myself right, as the 'new' roll stayed propped on the cardboard shell until it too was a cardboard shell. At which point, I screamed and came out of the toilet ranting like a mad hyena. But I proved my point. Hairy concept, replacing the roll is, however I have outlined the process much like I so thoughtfully did with the flushing. Please modify steps to comply with your type of roll holder (ours is a metal contraption, and quite frightening if you don't know how to operate such a mechanism):
1. Squeeze cardboard shell at left end, until you feel the two metal pieces unfasten, like a barrette.
2. Push the left end aside.
3. Gently slide cardboard shell off of silly looking metal clamp-type rod. It has feelings as well.
4. Slide replacement roll onto rod.
5. (This is the tricky part) With your fingertips, squeeze the claps together and push on the left end until you hear a magical 'snap'.

For those of you who deal primarily with the old-fashioned squeezum-roll holder, please refer to the following steps.
1. Purchase a straightjacket and a bed with straps to hold you down.
2. Have someone come over and strap you in, and then drive you away to wherever it is you people came from.
3. Don't ever come back.
I have lost my patience with you people. If you don't know how to replace a fucking roll of toilet paper, you deserve to be locked away forever. Do you not have *any* friends?

IV. Confucius Say, 'Man Who Not Spray Care Not If He Live or Die'.
For those of you who were not graced with poo that smells of fresh garden flowers, cinnamon and spice, or fresh morning dew, I have a secret of the stars for you. No one's poo smells of these things. Indeed that is why manufacturers of cleaning products have invented the magical scented spray-can that is the blessed Air Freshener. As a general rule of thumb, if you poo, and even if you don't think your shit or farts stink (because they both probably do), use the spray. If you can still smell it by the time you wash your hands (for the love of god please tell me you ALL wash your hands), use the spray. If you are confused for any reason about the stench or slight odor of doo-doo, today's breakfast or lunch, use the fucking spray. Better yet, for those of you who do not frequently partake of the spray, use it even when you pee. That way, every time you go into the bathroom, regardless of business done, it will smell nice and clean for the next user and you'll never be confused as to whether or not to use it. Who knows--you may have to make an immediate return, and we all know there's nothing worse than running into a toilet desperately clutching the bowel area of the torso only to be greeted by a very unfriendly reminder that someone who had a quite nasty lunch has sat his or her cheeks upon your friend the shared office bowl. It's really even unfriendlier when you realize that you were the last poor schmo to use the bowl and you stunk it up and didn't even know it. You had been acclimated, so to speak. It speaketh volumes about a person who sprayeth not.

I think that should be it for now. This has been a public service announcement from The Girl Who Was at Work Not Working and GirlBlah Productions. Thank You.