A few words about speedbumps. And snot.

I had a horrible cold all holiday weekend. But Monday? Monday, I got my sorry ass out of bed, put on a bra, and announced that it was a new day! And I went into work.

Corporate Behemoth is in an 18-story tower with a 5-level parking garage underneath. From the garage entrance to the very bottom level, it's a mile of driving. Since I am not what you'd call "an early bird" or "punctual in any way," I typically park on 1 of the 2 lowest levels.

There's been a problem with speeding in the garage, so, in their infinite wisdom, Facilities put in speedbumps. A whole lotta speedbumps. But they went all out and put in these speedbumps that were not really speedbumps at all, but parking stops.

Like, this is a normal speedbump: o
And this is the flavor of speedbump they put in: ^

So, people were driving around the speedbumps and hitting parked cars, and low-riders where getting damaged. And people came to a complete stop before traversing the speedbumps. It was bad.

But now we have some normal-ish speedbumps that are more o than ^. But the people? They still drive like morons! They do not appreciate the new flavor of speedbump!

And so Monday, when I was wearing a bra for the first time in 3 days and trying to pretend that my body composition wasn't still 87% mucus? I did not have the time nor the inclination to get behind somebody who was shy about crossing speedbumps. I needed to be behind a speed demon, not The White Explorer.

Can we all just agree that if you drive an Explorer, it's not necessary for you to come to a complete stop before before inching over a speedbump?

Complete. Stop. Seriously.

Some people just can't handle power tools or 4-wheel drive. Lady in The White Explorer? I'm talking to you. I drive an 8-year-old Honda with messed up rotors and I drive it like I'm outrunning a tribe of angry natives who have never seen an outsider compared to you in your 876,234-horsepower vehicle.

Plus, if we're being honest?

I really, really, really needed to blow my nose. And you were so slow that I ended up with a mucus situation. As in, I wiped my nose on an old Wendy's napkin that had been in my glove box for 3 years. You know, those emergency napkins that are partially degraded because they're so old? The ones you keep only for true emergencies? The ones I had plenty of time to rummage around and find while you were coming to a complete stop at yet another speedbump? After I'd memorized your license plate and put a voodoo curse on you?

Yeah.

But I'm feeling much better now.

Thankful it's only once a year.

Remember when my father-in-law reprimanded me because My Guy wrote the wrong house number on a note he sent him?

Yeah.

This is what went down on Thanksgiving.

FIL: So, did your parents ever make it to Superfarawaysuburb?

Me: Umm ... what?

FIL: Did your parents ever make it to Superfarawaysuburb - to your house?

Me: Our house is in Tinysuburbwood.

FIL: Oh, right. Tinysuburbway. Anyway, did your parents ever see your house?

Me: It's Tinysuburbwood.

FIL: Well, I call it Superfarawaysuburb.

Me: I think the post office would disagree with you.

FIL: Well. Did your parents ever see your house?

Me: Umm ... yeah.

FIL: Well! Next time they come down, call me! I could drive up and meet them for lunch! I didn't get to talk to them much at the wedding.

Me: That's because they avoided you because they think you're batshit crazy.

OK, maybe that last comment was my internal dialogue.

I ain't hatin' on no fruit.

But here’s yet another reason why I love my husband.

Me: I have to meet with this crotchety VP who hates some copy that I didn’t even write. I have to meet with him and act all gracious and shit and fix something that I didn’t even break in the first place. And this guy is infamous for being a real jerk. He’s “the idea guy” and so he can get away with being a total ass. He cusses people out and makes people cry all the time – everybody knows it, and he gets away with it! Also? I was waiting for the elevators the other day, and I heard this horrible slurping from someone behind me. It was like an alien vivisection or something – totally gooey and noisy and gross. And it was this VP, devouring a pear!

My Guy: Who the fuck eats pears?

Allow me to brag.

My brother Poochie is brilliant.

This week, he successfully defended his master's thesis and his GIS certificate. I edited his thesis, and if you ask me? His research is going to revolutionize railroad planning and logistics.

This is also a nice way of saying that I didn't understand a good part of it.

Lest you think that Poochie is a flash in the academic pan? Let me tell you about the revolutionary theory that really put him on the smart-guy map. It's called The George Strait Test.

The gist? No man can punch George Strait in the face. It just can't be done - George is too nice! Everybody loves George! Therefore, no man can punch George in the face.

Even if you're not a country music fan, you gotta admit - Poochie's on to something.

Image courtesy of georgestrait.com.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

So, My Guy and I bought a house this time last year ... a 4-bedroom, 2-bath, 2-story house.

The house was a foreclosure. We got a hella deal. We work on the house every weekend. We still don't have use of the second story. That means we only have 1 bathroom.

Now, kudos to me for mentioning this when the county assessor guy stopped by a few weeks ago. Guess whose tax bill dropped by $700?

But not-so-awesome is the fact that our 1 bathroom has not-so-hot lighting. And the mirror is really high, so I have to stand on my tip-toes to get a good look at my sorry face.

I've never thought much about it ... until the other day when I was in my car. I had something in my eye, so I pulled the visor down and took advantage of the lighted mirror. What I saw was terrifying.

I had eyebrows everywhere. I looked like a yeti.

So, that night, I girded my loins and got out my tweezers. But when I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror, I saw none of the offending yeti brows.

You know what had to be done.

I put the tweezers in my car. But with the sun glaring into my car, I still couldn't quite discern all the rebel brows. Now, you could argue that if I can't see them, they aren't exactly visible. But it's the principle of the thing.

I had no choice but to tweeze my brows in my car, someplace dark with no glare. Someplace like ... the parking garage at Corporate Behemoth.

Yes. I tweezed my eyebrows in my car in the garage at work. While I was gettin' it done, I thought about how wrong it would be to be known as the woman who tweezes in the garage. But frankly? I don't give a shit.

This is perhaps a statement both on the condition of my brows and my burned-out brain.

Tell it like it is.

Nobody asks my advice. And I have a lot of good advice to give. If I’m feeling this way at 36, just imagine what it will be like when I’m 86. Oh, Lord help us all.

So, it occurred to me the other day that I should have taken many, many things in my dating life as signs. Signs that OMG, this is totally not the man for me. For example:

Ex-Ex thought nothing about using the afghan that his grandma knitted as a moving blanket, wrapping it around a washing machine as he and a pal maneuvered that machine up four flights of stairs, destroying said afghan in the process.

I didn’t heed that sign. And I didn’t pay attention a few weeks later when I caught him using my grandma’s tablecloth as a rag while replumbing the bathroom sink. Sure, I grabbed the tablecloth and asked him WTF he was doing. But I didn’t see it as a sign of narcissism or stupidity.

Pay. Attention. Ladies. This shit is important.

Also? I don’t know what sort of vendetta Ex-Ex had against linens derived from grandmas. He needs counseling. Obviously.

Now, I did pay attention in college, when a suitor asked me to either call him or walk over to his fraternity house to wake him up so we could go to the movies. Even my young brain knew that this was a bad sign and most likely a ploy to get me into the vicinity of his bed. If you wanna go to the movies with me, you should also be able to set your alarm.

I asked another guy to the movies instead. We saw Tommy Boy and it was fine. It was fine even though that suitor wore the ugliest sweaters ever on each of our 3 dates. But I guess I get props for knowing that ugly sweaters were fixable. Expecting to be babysat was not.

My Guy does stuff that makes me crazy. I could write a year’s worth of blogs about his kitchen cleanliness or lack thereof. However … I’m a list-maker. And the other day, it was Monday, and I just needed a different flavor of list.

Things I like about My GuyGives excellent hugs
Very funny
Kind and supportive of my crazy ideas
Super smart but not in an asshole sort of way
Always has the right tool
Reads and learns stuff and is always an interesting conversationalist
Gives me sips of his beer even when I should probably just get my own
Is silly
Puts up with the 27 dogs
Makes delicious food
Loves blue … because such allegiance to 1 color is admirable
Is both pro-pancake and pro-cake
Acts like I’m pretty even when I’m not and I appreciate that very much
Teaches me stuff all the time, like how to throw a spiral or how to calm the fuck down
Plans carefully but also takes stuff in stride
Keeps secrets
Tells jokes
Has the best laugh EVER

Again, pay attention. This is the important stuff.

W.W.E.P.D.?

I try to have good manners. Impeccable manners, really. But sometimes? Sometimes, I am at a loss. I just don't know the proper etiquette.

Case in point: I breezed into the ladies' room at Corporate Behemoth the other day. I was wearing dress shoes that clanked on the tile floor, and I was walking fast. I was on a mission. You know, that lady-plumbing-maintenance sort of monthly mission.

So, I breezed into the ladies room, and there were 2 women huddled together near the sinks. As I walked past and got into a stall, I realized that they were praying. One woman was teary, and the other was praying with her.

That is awesome. We should all be so lucky to have friend / coworkers who will comfort us in the ladies' room.

But then I got into my stall, and I dug my ladyparts plumbing maintenance supplies out of my purse. And then I stopped.

They were still praying. How could I possibly pee during a prayer? It would be like saying, "I piss on your higher power!" And I am not about that at all.

So I stood in the stall. And started to feel like I was intruding. And being really creepy for just standing in a stall, listening to these women pray. I couldn't really leave - I had business to attend to. But this was the longest prayer ever in the history of Corporate Behemoth ladies' room prayers! And all that standing in the stall made me realize that I totally had to pee. I was so close, and yet so far from my salvation!

Finally, the prayer was over and I did my business and everybody lived happily ever after. But did I do the right thing? I want to ask what Emily Post would have done ... but I'm pretty sure she is so elegant and correct that such lowly concerns as peeing and monthly ladyparts maintenance are not her concern at all.

Think about it. Can you picture Emily Post farting?

Didn't think so.

Mute no more.

Hi friends. It's been a while. I've missed you!

I am so humbled and thankful for blog friends who've asked where I've been or just kept checking to see when I'm going to get off my ass and write something already. Thank you.

The long and the short of it? All is well. There's just been stuff going down that I didn't feel like I could write about.

Case in point?

I was required to participate in a moandatory - oops, I mean mandatory - corporate flash mob.

Yes. My team at Corporate Behemoth was required to perform like Solid Gold dancers at an all-hands meeting. In front of a couple thousand coworkers.

It was a big secret, and we had to attend 7 hours of rehearsals for a 1-minute dance. Ever showed up for a meeting in the middle of the day all sweaty and gross and unable to offer an explanation, other than "I'm gross?" I have! Because secret rehearsals were in the midst of the regular work day.

Now, I will admit that the flash mob acted as a team-building activity, because we were working together to avoid public humiliation. I actually ended up kind of enjoying the dancing. And it was nice to be praised for being a good dancer, even though as a high school sophomore, I didn't make the show choir. So, my old vocal teacher can suck it.

Buuut ... it was mandatory. During a super-busy time of year. And I don't know about your workplace, but a quick glance around mine shows some really obese people. And a guy with a severe spine problem. And contractors who are expected to work just as hard as the full-time employees but who aren't included in stuff like, oh, say, mandatory corporate flash mobs. This activity did not take into account the interests and needs of these individuals.

And it made me mad. And being praised for being one of the best dancers and having folks request to stand behind me in the formation so they could follow my lead was sort of like pouring salt in the wound. Yay - you're super good at selling your soul! At 1 rehearsal, I actually thought, "Oh. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be stripper." But with name badges instead of body glitter.

And have I mentioned that the performance of this little flash mob was a week after I had to confront a very sexist coworker? A coworker to whom I actually yelled, "I'm not your secretary!"

Yeah. So, droppin' it like it's hot was just what my career and my minor case of burnout needed. Yee-haw!

But it went OK and now it's over, and now we can move on to other things.

So ... what have you been up to?