I’m like a priest. Well, not at all, really, only in the way that everyone confesses to a priest. Otherwise, I’m very un-priest-like.

Why does everyone at work tell me EVERYTHING?

I mean, I know the answer to that question, and it’s that for three years I’ve maintained a pretty much perfect record of not gossiping, of being a good listener, and being discreet.

And I won’t pretend that I’m not, as Edith Wharton puts it in The Age of Innocence, “fully aware that [my] reputation for discretion increased [my] opportunities of finding out what [I] wanted to know.”

It’s has come in handy on rare occasion. But by and large, I don’t want to know.

What is it exactly that I know?

Lots of things. Everything short of where the bodies are buried. Straight from the horses mouth. Stuff that would make you say “Wow” and you don’t even know the people in question.

And most days it’s fine, but today is one of those rare days when I’m dying to spill.

End rant. I’m ok now.

"No Girls Allowed."

I don't like Fry's Electronics.
No, they didn't have a 'no girls allowed sign.' Although I wish they would have.

Something about that place makes me feel like I'm treading water in jello. The employees look miserable, bustling around like if they stopped moving, they'd have to admit how hung over they were. Everyone seems lost, and the few that aren't are bumping and bouncing through the rest of us like a ball in a fooseball table. It never ends. Did you know that place has fifty cash registers? Fifty. And yet somehow we still spent an eternity in line.

And that's where we met the crazy man. He was standing behind us in line, and when I took a picture of a sign saying that our Fry's receipt may contain a chemical known to cause cancer ("Yes, I'm here to return my cancer and yes, I have my receipt..."), he used the opportunity to strike up a conversation with Nick about his unicycling shirt. He wanted to start a unicycling club with Nick. Every time he'd ask something, we'd end our response with, "Ok, well, you have a great day now," and turn around, only to be asked another question.
It quickly became apparent that the sort of club he wanted to start with Nick would probably involve a tree house, a 'no girls allowed' sign, and him using Nick's skin as a lampshade.

Once outside, we hid in a far corner of the parking lot until he left.

I'm so ruined for bitch about your job sessions.

Seriously, it's this bonding thing among friends, and I got nothing.
Nada.
Zip.

When everyone is talking about their boss's ridiculous rules or annoying habits, what am I supposed to say?


"When he hired me, my boss insisted on giving me more money that I asked for."

"My boss always reminds me to take my vacation time."

"My boss counsels married couples in his off time. For free."

"My boss gives me a raise about every six months."

"My boss surprises me sometimes with chunks of stock."

"My boss never bugs me, but drops everything and gives me his undivided attention if I need something."

"My boss rescues puppies."



I mean, seriously. Can't he at least have an annoying voice or something that I could make fun of? A often used phrase that I could do imitations of? GIVE ME SOMETHING HERE. Every employee is entitled to that. Like health insurance.
This is so bad for my social life.

There is nothing on TV that we can't find a way to criticize. It's a gift.

TV - ".... The movie 300 is being hailed by critics as more groundbreaking than The Matrix...."

My Nick - *deadpan* "What an endorsement."

Sarah Smile - "Of course by 'groundbreaking,' they must mean, 'totally gay'."


I don't really have anything against the movie, for all I know it might be very watchable, it's just that I can't escape the feeling that I've seen it before *cough*AlexanderTroyGladiator*cough* so groundbreaking is exactly what it DOESN'T seem to be to me. And The Matrix was just a new brand of boring, convoluted and heavy-handed in it's "meaning." Unless you happened to like it. In which case, yay, glad it brought you some joy and didn't leave you feeling robbed of your time.

The second* day of Daylight Savings is worse.

The first day, you're prepped. You're ready. You know it's gonna feel early, but you can do it. The second day feels like "What, this again? I thought we did this."
The second day feels like a friend who asks too many favors.
The second day just feels RUDE.

I wanna go home and curl up around Dulce and take a nap in the sun.
(Also, to wash the outside of the windows again. Although with three dogs running around out there, it's a losing battle.)



*I know it's technically the third day of Daylight Savings, but since I don't have anywhere I HAVE to be on Sunday, it doesn't count.

Let's review the rules.

1. Nobody gets to be rude on the phone until at least 10 am on mondays. I think this is fair, and benefits everyone.

"It's a cat, Dad."

About a year ago, my father called me, and was talking about Rose's cats. He was complaining that they were skittish and shy and wanted nothing to do with him. Glad to find a safe topic, I gave him some tips on bonding with shy cats. He went on to complain that it was hard to give them their flea drops. I agreed, that if you couldn't surprise them and get it done within a few seconds, you just had to give up and try again later. He said he would continue to chase them and hold them down, because "no cat was going to get the better of me."

At which point there was nothing to do but bang my head, slowly and softly, into the wall.

"It's ....... it's a cat, Dad."

Sometimes I think that phrase sums up my relationship with my father. This is the same man who, when he drifted into my line of sight just as I was giggling to myself over something that was funny in my 8 year old imagination, spanked me for about a half an hour until I would tell him what I had been laughing about. (Ironically, what I had been thinking about was a way to surprise him and make him smile.)

And so what I wanted to say that day on the phone, "It's a cat, Dad. Who on earth is it going to impress when you win?" I've wanted to say many times in my life to people, to whom I am usually the cat, metaphorically speaking. (But occasionally even to myself, because when it comes to my faults I am my father's daughter in many ways. I'm not immune to getting caught up making my point in conflicts with people who matter very little to me.)

Lately I seem to be the cat in a few people's lives. Situations where they feel they have to "win" in some way that matters to them, even thought I play a very small, and frankly powerless, role in their lives. Who cares what I think anyway? If you think I'll oppose you in some why, you've over estimated my power. Not that many people listen to me. I don't even listen to half of what I say. If you want a sympathetic listener to your bullshit, the world is REALLY BIG, with LOTS of OTHER PEOPLE. If you want a friend, remember, friends don't have to agree with each other. I don't demand that of anyone.

And it's sad, but also annoying, to be pounced on, and have some one's bitter false reality shoved down my throat, when I was just minding my own business, sitting in the sun, not hurting anybody.

You can't treat me like the cat, and then wonder why I'm skittish and have claws.

Dad, I don't think you were Father of the Year, and I won't revise that statement no matter how hard you try to charm/lean/bully me. I don't want to go to lunch with someone who tries to rewrite my memory, who pretends he has no idea why I don't like him. Even if it's a free lunch. And who the hell cares what I think, anyway. I'm not your boss. I'm not the President of the United States. I'm not even your neighbor. I'm just little ole me, minding my own business. You might say it matters because I'm your daughter, but believe me, if that fact had mattered more to you when I was young, the fact that you're my father would matter more to me now. I'm not unforgiving, but I won't rewrite. I won't play anyone but myself in the pageant of your memory.

Dufel, yeah, your technical voodoo is stronger than my technical voodoo. I can't block you from contacting me. I'm the cat of the technical world. Dear god man, find something else to do besides contacting me. Take on a bigger challenge. I found better things to do than contact you, and I'm telling ya, I'm having a great time. Seriously, why the persistence? Do you really think that winning the battle of Don't Contact Me will win you the war of Let's Be Friends Again? You cannot be that delusional. Besides, I'm not that pretty, or that witty or that fun. I have my charms, sure, but you know what? SO DO A LOT OF OTHER WOMEN, AND FRANKLY, IT'S THEIR TURN.

The rest of you, and you know who you are, leave me alone or I'll call you on it. And if you're that concerned about what opinions I carry in the privacy of my own mind, I'm sure it worries you to think about what pretty unpleasant noises I can yowl on this backyard fence of a blog.

I also still own records.

TV - "... now available on DVD and Blue Ray Disc."

Sarah Smile - "What is blue ray disc anyway?"

My Nick - "It's like a DVD, just better."*

*quiet for a moment*

Sarah Smile - "Can I rant for a minute, like an 80 year old woman, and you can nod and then promptly forget all about it, because I really am too young to be talking like this?"

My Nick - "Uh, sure?"

Sarah Smile - "When I was a little girl, I had an ancient projector and some old silent movies, Keystone Cops and stuff like that. On warm summer evenings, I would watch them on the side of the house, with my dog Jubilee for company. The quality was horrible, because the projector was on the ground everyone had wide shoulders and a big bobble head from the angle, and everyone's face had the texture of stucco. And you know what? It was perfect. I don't think I've ever enjoyed movies more than I did those. I don't understand why we need to keep making movies better and better quality. Does it really even matter after a certain point? I mean, if it matters to some people, then they can just rock on with that, whatever, whatever makes you happy. But how about a little acknowledge meant to those of us that are perfectly happy with their VHS collection? Sometimes "good enough" really is good enough! I don't even want to try to keep up with all the "improvements."

My Nick - *nods*

Sarah Smile - "I'm over it now. Thank you. Now lets go watch the Office Space DVD on your laptop in bed."



*He explains it this simply because he knows me and technical stuff. I not only just want the short version, the short version is about all I can usually understand anyway.

Monologue

*walks out of the bathroom in a robe*

"Ok, that was one of the weirder experiences of my life. So I just used my new Mandarin Lime BodyWash/BubbleBath in my bath. It didn't occur to me that taking what is essentially an orange oil and heating it up would make me smell so much like a Panda Express. Not to mention that soaking in an oil while in a round tub with a slight incline is probably the closest a human being will come to experiencing what it would be like to have no bones. I couldn't even sit up without my butt sliding out from under me. At one point, I actually thought I was going to go down the drain.

I am a piece of boneless orange chicken."

Past the halfway mark.

Only four more days until my Knickers gets back from the Tour of California race.

*folds arms over chest*

Hmmmmmmmph!

I don't like this away thing, of him being away for so long.
It's like a game of suck and blow, without all the fun of pseudo kissing, but with all the sucky-ness and blowy-ness left in.

I GET it, already.

I shouldn't have teased Salesguy K about getting a Glamor magazine addressed to him, here at work.
Not that it wasn't funny, but now he's signing up for all these other magazines to compensate. Cars, scantily clad ladies, hunting, etc.

Finally today, as I handed him a magazine on fishing, I said, "Ok. I'm sorry. I get now. You're a big ole manly man. You've made your point, quite heavily. No, literally heavily. These magazines really add up. Sheesh."

It IS her own hair. Let her shave it if she wants.

Before I go on, I should clarify that I do think Britney is having a meltdown, and I do think she's acting like she needs help and she's having trouble asking with words. That seems quite clear.

But of all the odd things she's done, shaving her head doesn't seem so odd. When she said she was tired of people touching it, I had a sudden flash of sympathy. I mean, in the two hours it took to do my hair on Sat, I got sick of it. And she's dealt with it, what, almost daily, since she was what? Nine? How old was she when she started on the Mickey Mouse club?
At any rate, it's been a long time.

And she has a pretty shaved head, as shaved heads go.

I think it's a not so subtle statement, of starting over. That's not so bad a statement, either.

The Eternal Debate.

Do I or do I not like Disneyland?
I can never decide.

I like the Jungle Cruise ride. I hate the gift shops. I like hugging the characters in costume. I hate that I like hugging the characters in costume. The movies are fun. I don't think most of the characters in Disney movies are good role models.
It's soooooooooo cheesy. Is that always a bad thing?

Some days I think it's innocent fun, and other days I think its soulless and wrong.


Why can't someone create a NarniaLand? With no gift shop. I'd be so much less conflicted. And think of the rides!

What does it feel like to not be sick?

I've forgotten.

Also, today would have been a perfect day to play hooky. The forecast is 80 whole sunny degrees, not a lot of tourist traffic. I wish I were on the monorail at the Wild Animal Park. Or watching the baby seals down in La Jolla Cove. Or feeding the fish at Balboa Park.

I'm looking at you, Chillies. And don't think I've forgotten you, TGIFridays.

Nick and I have made a new resolution. As a matter of principle, no longer will we order any menu items which have a verb it in it's name.
Also, nothing with the words, "-Crusted," "Sizzlin'" or "Kickin.'"
Obviously, nothing that is "Slammin.'"

I wouldn't call this a diet, per se, since I intend to fill the void in our diet with Pizza Hut CheesyBites pizza.

No, this is a statement to restaurant chains everywhere.

It's dinner. Not a pep rally.

I'm not mean. Never mean. Just firm. It saves both our time. I know. I used to be one of THEM.

Sarah Smile: That was satisfying.
Lately we've been getting a lot of calls with just a recording.
Inviting us to call.
And I'm so busy I just hang up on them.
Because I don't have time to jot down the number or sit on hold after I've called them.
But the phones are light this morning.
So I wrote down the number, and called, and finally got a person.
She answers with, "What's your first and last name please?" and I said, "No. We're going to start with something different.
*rant about how I work ten very busy lines*
"and what I need from you is to tell me exactly how you are going to make this stop."
I think I scared her a little.
Because she outlined each step of removing my number from the database.

Thérèse: Ha ha aha ha hahahahahahahah
That's my girl.

Sarah Smile: *nods*
That felt good.

Thérèse: I believe you.
There is nothing quite as scary as a woman on a crusade who is right.

How I spend my Friday off.

Sleeping.

I've been sick for over a month. I've been on antibiotics for over a week. I've been in the ER once. I'm on three prescriptions. There is no sign that this is something more serious than a cold.
I should be feeling better, right?

Wrong.

And I'm convinced that my medications are not designed to cure me, they're designed to put me to sleep, to Rip-Van-Winkle-me until the year 2159, at which point they will discover a cure for the common cold.

Lest it seem that I exaggerate....

........ two of the construction workers just had a ten minute argument about whether air coming out of a vent was warm or cold.

"It's warm."

"It's cold."

"No, it's warm."

"Feel that, it's cold."
"It's warm."
"No. It's cold."

Finally I had to tell them to quiet down, that the cold air was coming from a door they left open and that the only thing on the other side of that vent was a meeting of executives who were being loudly serenaded by their argument.

Another Construction Worker Rant

I don't want to sound like an elitist snob, but shouldn't we be a bit worried about the fact that we're trusting the construction of WALLS and CEILINGS OVER OUR HEADS to men that have difficulty filling out their name badge?

People are so nice to me.

Even when I'm a whiny, sniffly brat.

Nick especially. All this week, as my cough got worse, the Whinies got worse as well.
He's been such a saint about putting up with me. I recognize how annoying my constant whining must be, and I really am trying to fight it.

But I've currently got a full-blown, nasal, high-pitched, the-whole-world-is-against-me case of the Whinies.

I mean, I do have some justification for it. The construction crew (the ones that gave me attitude yesterday, grrrrrr) didn't cover my desk last night while they widened a doorway. The part of the wall that is now additional door space was all over my desk this morning.
In powder form.
Like crack or snow, just not as much fun.
Seriously great for my cough.
Also, the dust they kicked up is now floating in the air and settling on my hands, forearms and neck. I'm allergic to dust.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

*tries to pulls self together*

Owner with a Sense of Humor said he's got tequila, for my cough or my Whinies or something. And the warehouse manager made a special trip over to give me another canned air duster.

No better treatment for the Whinies than people being ridiculously nice to me. Now if somebody would just give me this pet, I think I'd be entirely cured.