Obviously, not much to report.

I got my aspiration on today. It went well, and now I have a lovely bruise on the ol' boobie.

As usual, I can't take any good painkillers - only Tylenol. I don't mean any disrespect to the fine people who make Tylenol, but ... WTF, Tylenol? Seriously. Tylenol is only good when you pair it with wine. Which I am. Because I am a proactive, smart, take-charge, kind-of-buzzed lady.

Kudos to Average Jane who advised that oh, crazy lady, maybe you don't need to tell your new male boss exactly why you need to take the afternoon off. Good call. Based on Jane's comment, I mentioned it to My Guy ... who was basically like, "Oh dear God! Why would you tell your boss about your boob? No! Nooo!"

So, yeah. Thanks, Jane!

Mega thanks, too, to my dear husband, who understands that every breast procedure calls for burgers and fries. So, when I texted him, "The boob needs Five Guys," he did not question the request. Instead, he came home with fries and burgers - the perfect accompaniment to Tylenol and wine.

He just offered me more wine. I should probably stop blogging.

Yes, I am worrying my pretty little head about it.

I can't bring myself to watch "Mad Men." I know it's a great show, and if anyone could convince me to watch any program, it's Jon Hamm. But I just can't stand watching how the women portrayed on the show are treated.

I'm almost OK if I think about it as an accurate portrayal of sexism that is long, long gone. But it's not distant history. It seems like we're rehashing the same stuff in the upcoming election.

Obviously, I'm super pumped about democracy and you bet your ass I'm going to vote. But all the tomfoolery? Make it stop!

My particular pet peeve is the growing number of candidates who seem to feel like it's finally OK to just come right out and voice their opinions on my ladyparts, my role in my household, and, oh, how being a woman is a pre-existing condition that requires special care and consideration.

Some rape is legitimate - more rapey than other rape. Women need flexible work hours so they can go home to cook dinner for their husbands. Being handed women's resumes that you didn't request means means that you really did try to hire women. Abortion is the business of the government, not a woman and her doctor.

I've learned so much.

And now? I'm tired.

I'm tired of being told that I'm not to be trusted with my own body. I'm tired of being told that I should be happy to have a job and shouldn't worry my pretty little head about what I'm actually being paid. I'm tired of people acting like the crazy talk is kinda normal.

I guess I can blame my parents. In yet another example of how they failed me, they never bothered to tell me that I am not bright and my work isn't worth as much as that of my male counterparts. They never sat me down for "the talk," where they covered sex, Santa, and how Jesus and George Washington expect me to prepare gorgeous meals every night for my husband. My mom and dad even went so far as to make me think that I was smart, and could do whatever I wanted to do in life - in or out of the kitchen.

I know, I know.

Now, I'm finding out that it was all just a big fat lie.

I'm also finding out that my entire career as a writer and editor has been built on a yet another lie.

Of course, I'm talking about Bic's new pens for women. All these years, I've been using Man Pens and didn't even know it. It's a miracle that I haven't permanently ruined by manicure and my mind. Ellen explains it all best:
Yes. Men have pills for hair loss and erectile dysfunction, and women have finally gotten a pen.

Please vote - with your ballot and your dollar. Vote for the people and companies that have your daughters' best interests at heart.

Also? I'm pretty sure that "best interests" does not mean "a future in a steno pool."

Just athletic enough to climb on my soapbox.

So, there's this article, aptly titled, "In which I blame my PE teacher for ruining exercise for me forever."

And I read the article, and was basically like, "This author is my spirit animal! Yes!"

And then I read all the comments, which are basically a gajillion women saying, "Yes! You are my spirit animal!"

And then I realized that holy shit, that mandatory class that's supposed to teach us how to be healthy and active has basically turned thousands and thousands of girls / women / female people off of being healthy and active.

It seems that every non-jock has at least 1 horror story about a PE teacher who was mean, vindictive, unsupportive, and / or batshit crazy. If you're like me, you hate this crazy, so you hate PE and try to find ways to get out of it. Somehow, your brain expands that to hating all exercise.

I hated PE since the dawn of time - quite possibly because my elementary school memories include:

• Getting beamed in the face at close range by a basketball, and having the PE teacher tell me it was my own fault because I ran 2 feet off course in our obstacle course
• Dying of embarrassment when the PE teacher made a big show of attempting to teach me how to swing a bat - but eventually admitting defeat - as my entire class got pissed that their softball game was halted

Physical activity? Fun? What?

I read somewhere recently that exercise is like pooping - your body just has to do it. It's necessary and not negotiable.

Now, instead of going off on a tangent about how my then-2-year-old brother decided for a while that he didn't like pooping and so just wasn't going to do it (this was also around the same time he decided he was only going to eat orange foods), I'm going to stay on task and save the poo tale for another time.

Here's the thing: we have to empower girls to take charge of their bodies. And making somebody feel bad because they can't serve a flippin' volleyball is not the road to empowerment.

I hope that things have changed since the olden days when I dreaded PE with all my heart and soul. I'm guessing they probably haven't. Not for me, anyway - I still have dreams that I'm running late for high school PE and if I miss it, I'll have to run to make up the class ... the class that was GRADED and counted towards your real-life GPA. It was a nerd's nightmare, and it haunts me to this day.

In my fantasy world, all PE teachers focus on learning new stuff and having fun. And this speech is mandatory at the beginning of every class:

Today, we're going to learn new things and we're going to have fun. There's room for everybody in this class. Remember, we all have different skills - some people are great at math, and some people are great at kickball. We all have our special gifts. Now, let's have some fun!

Oh, and anybody who makes fun of another student automatically flunks the class. For the year.

Maybe if I had that type of environment, I wouldn't be, you know, almost totally sedentary.

Did you like PE? How did it translate to your adult exercise or lack thereof?

There's a reason I stay at my desk and don't talk much.

The great thing about starting a new job is all of the people watching. Everybody is new and interesting, and foibles stand out. Basically, you haven't had time to become numb to the weirdness.

At Globotron, there's the coworker who strides - not walks, but strides - like a confident hooker. She's mean, and yesterday she had her skirt tucked into the back of her underwear. I saw her across the room and didn't have the opportunity to help her out. I'm assuming she figured out there was a reason she was feeling a draft.

There's the lady we called Jumpsuit Judy for the 3 days she worked at Globotron. She might want to consider laying off the shoulder pads and icy blue eyeshadow.

Then, there's the maintenance guy who looks like a hunky, Hispanic Freddy Mercury.

 

Maintenance Mercury is always smiling, and I looooove him. Every time I see him, I want to break out into the "heyyyyyeheheheheheheh" part of "Another One Bites the Dust."

Or at least greet him with some song lyrics.

See him pushing a broom? "You work hard ... every day of your life! You work 'til you ache in your bones!"

Grab the elevator door so he can get on? "You've paid your dues ... time after time. You've done your sentence, but committed no crime."

Pretty much any occasion? "Fat bottom girls, they make the rockin' world go 'round!"

I can't help but wonder what the world would be like if we all said exactly what we think. I would either be in prison or lauded as a great creative thinker. Probably the former.

This is what real awareness looks like.

I'm celebrating Breast Cancer Awareness Month in a very special way. Much like a very special episode of the cheesy 80's sitcom of your choice, "very special" = "kind of crappy."
 
Remember a few weeks ago when I found a lump and had a mammogram and sonogram? Good times! Today, I had a follow-up appointment with the breast surgeon - or, as I like to think of her, The Boobie Doctor. Because I hate the idea of surgery, and she's really great and wears cool glasses and was honestly impressed today when I told her that I got my cool bracelet at a garage sale.

The Boobie Doctor and I decided that I should have my current asshole cysts aspirated - not because they are dangerous, but mostly because they hurt when my 7-pound dachshund walks on them, which is basically every night. I'm going to get my aspiration on on Monday.

The good? I have done this 3 times and totally know the score. When the nurse was going over the instructions with me, I was all, "Yeah, whatevs. Been there, done that. I like your hair."

The bad? I get to tell my new, male boss that gee, I need to take at least an afternoon off, and gee, wanna talk about my rack?

The ugly?

Sigh.

This is so dumb and so not fair. And even though I've switched to a non-aluminum deodorant and am in the process of throwing out all the plastic in my kitchen and completely revamping my diet, The Boobie Doctor basically said that all things considered, stress is causing my cystacular flair-ups.

Whaaa? So, she's saying that trying to get pregnant, leaving a job I'd had for 6 years, starting a new job, finding out that oh, we're barren, and getting fired was stressful? That's crazytalk.

It's annoying that stress isn't something you can fix with a vitamin. Addressing it is deliberate, and difficult. And it doesn't really fit in with the pouting thing that I've got going on right now.

But the even stranger thing than the pouting?

I really am OK with the aspiration.

I was by far the youngest woman in The Boobie Doctor's waiting room. I was alone. I wasn't upset. I knew what the situation was, and I knew what the options were. I was in control. I didn't even feel like crying later in the car. Mostly, I'm just annoyed about talking to my boss - even though he will be lovely about it.

It just sort of is what it is.

Maybe this is just what my normal is like ... regular normal, punctuated by needles-in-my-boobs normal. And really, needles-in-my-boobs normal isn't that big of a deal.

But I would rather be on a beach somewhere, drinking a Bloody Mary. I'm not completely insane.

But my teeth are lovely.

Yet another day o' corporate training. Would you like to see a process model of my trip for far? Sure you would!

Cha Cha -> Training -> Mind Explosion -> Cha Cha's Brain Oozing Out Her Ears

The end.

One day left. I'm ready to go home and see my sweet husband. We've been able to chat every night, and that helps my sanity. Traveling is OK, but it's just not the same as being home.

Case in point? I forgot my mouthguard. So, I've slept all week with a nekkid mouth. I mentioned my "lips together, teeth apart" mantra as I attempt not to clench my jaw while I sleep. It's the absentminded packer's sad-but-less-spitty mouthguard substitute.

My husband's response? "Well, I won't worry about you gettin' busy with some random dude on your business trip since you left all your sexiness at home."

Yes. When My Guy thinks of my mouthguard, he automatically thinks of sex. Or, Not Sexy.

You know that scene in "Date Night" where Tina Fey has already put her mouthguard in, and she responds to Steve Carrell's sexytime overtures by pulling her spitty mouthguard out, and he's all, "Uh, nevermind?"

This is my life. My poor husband.

I'm delirious and need to go home.

--

Wanna read something a little more, erm, not insane? Check out my profile at Derfwad Manor's Slow Cook Thursday. There's a delicious recipe in there and everything!

And now for something completely different.

I am really lucky in that I genuinely like the people I'm traveling with. Sitting in a hotel conference room starting at 7 a.m. our time is made much more bearable by funny, friendly folks. It's pretty much the antithesis of my experience at Mega Corporate Behemoth.

I've been fortunate to have made some really lovely friends in my various and sundry jobs.

When I first moved to my fair city 13 years ago, I didn't know a soul. "Friends" had just gone into syndication, and the local Fox station played it 3 times a night. I watched it 3 times a night. Because I had no 3-dimensional friends.

My first day at my new job, my cubemate Minnie showed me the ropes, and took me out for lunch. Her manner was so warm and friendly, and she immediately put me at ease. Minnie and her husband kind of took me under their wings - like, he was the guy I called when my basement flooded. They are those kinds of friends.

When I sat in my Cube of Despair at Mega Corporate Behemoth with no friends and no one who would give me the time of day, I thought a lot about Minnie. It didn't take much for her to reach out to me, but it made all the difference in the world to me. I desperately needed a friend like that at Mega Corporate Behemoth, but just thinking about Minnie made it a little better. After all, I couldn't be a total leper if she was still my friend. And I could be a friend to the newbies hired after me.

I got to see Minnie and her husband last week. They've moved away and we don't get to see each other much. It was wonderful to hear their laughter and catch up. And I was so glad that I had the opportunity to tell Minnie about Mega Corporate Behemoth, and how in a roundabout way it gave me the gift of her friendship all over again.

This is what winning looks like.

I’m traveling for my new job at Globotron. This means I’m so entirely out of my hermitting-it-up-at-home element.

I’m in North Carolina for training. So far, I’ve seen the Chapel Hill campus (lovely!) and eaten some jambalaya (yum!). This almost makes up for the fact that I’m in 4 days of training in a nondescript hotel conference room … training run by a guy who looks like John Malkovich sporting John List glasses and another guy who looks like he could very well have had a renaissance-themed wedding. I spent some time today trying to imagine his various wedding costume options. Is it possible to make chain mail out of pop-tops? Because that's what I settled on.

I realized this morning that I should never travel without my tweezers. Evidently, no mirror in my home has adequate lighting. Whenever I’m away from home, I immediately notice rouge brows. And yet, I have no means of addressing the situation. So, I sit in a nondescript hotel conference room, thinking about John List, John Malkovich, ren faires and my yeti-like brows.

Oh, and I think about the training, too. Sure. Yeah.

How are your weeks starting off?

We really need our own show on HGTV.

My brother and his wife are planning on buying a house in the spring. An older house. They are admittedly a little apprehensive about home maintenance and remodeling.

Since My Guy and I bought a beat-down old house, we are now basically Poochie and Mrs. Poochie's home-ownership role models. Like AA sponsors, but with more dried paint in our hair.

Mrs. Poochie is looking for the silver lining, or at least some humor to justify the sweat and dirt of fixing up an older house. Her questions made me remember some of our best home-improvement adventures. And by "best," I mean "funny in retrospect."

Case in point?

Poochie helped us paint the exterior of our house. He and My Guy determined that they were better painters with steadier hands if they drank beer. I generally stayed on the opposite side of the house and painted trim while standing on the ground. I just couldn't watch them climb the big rented ladder, and I didn't want to think about the beer.

Several months afterward, I learned that at one point, Poochie got stuck on the steep roof. And My Guy had to go inside the house, throw him a rope through a skylight, and belay him down the side of the house. Like our house is the Alps.

My mom, Mrs. Poochie and I all had the same cringing response to this tale. My dad, on the other hand, thought it made perfect sense. Dudes.

Our more recent home-improvement debacle involved remodeling the entire second floor of our house. Even though we had the bathroom and floors done professionally, it still took forever to get the space habitable. Finally, late on a Sunday afternoon, after eons of work, we finally moved our furniture up our narrow little staircase into our new, luxurious master bedroom.

Well, we moved all of our furniture except for our queen-sized box spring.

I guess in 1939, building staircases to accommodate big ol' furniture wasn't a top priority. So, while we could cram the mattress up there, the box spring just wasn't happening. We got it jammed into the doorway of the stairwell ... and then it became clear that it wasn't getting any further.

At first, I kept thinking that we just needed more brute strength. But really, there was no way around it: no queen-sized box spring is going to fit through a stairway the size of a straw.

We were exhausted. All we wanted was to set up our bedroom a mere 14 months after moving into our house.

Now, our pal Google will tell you that it's possible to cut a box spring in half. You may scoff at this suggestion, and figure that such butchery would spell uncomfortable sleep from there on out. You might even go so far as to say that folks who attempt such tomfoolery are white trash who didn't plan well and buy a 2-piece box spring in the first place.

Ehh. I can't argue on the white trash bit, but I can tell you that you can cut your boxed spring in half, fold it like a burrito, carry it up your narrow-ass stairs, and then reassemble it. And no sleeper and no chiropractor is any wiser. Shit works. Even if you can't look as your husband saws your bed in half, it will all work out. Slap a dust ruffle on there, and no one will ever know.

If you need a tutorial, YouTube is a gold mine. I highly recommend the video where the wife / girlfriend person gets her arm caught in the boxed-spring burrito. It's hilarious. We watched it several times for the entertainment value alone.

See? Having a house is kind of like having kids. Much dumber people that you have done it. You'll be fine.

I married well.

My Guy survived his 5-day conference. Yahoo! Sure, he had to schmooze clients like a salesman even though he's a software engineer. Sure, the hours were grueling. But I got to see him in a sport coat, looking all cute-like. So, I'm pretty sure it was all worth it.

To celebrate, we went out to our favorite neighborhood pizza place. The typically hopping spot was strangely deserted. We figured that since it's Wednesday, the neighborhood families were at school. Or maybe church. More beer for us!

As we finished up our beer, carbs and cheese, a family came through the door. It was a dad, 2 kids, and a mom ... a mom who is a director at Mega Corporate Behemoth. The woman who hired me, handed me off to a different manager 2 days into my contract, and then abruptly ended my contract when I outed myself as, you know, someone who wants to work. And not just sit around.

My bad posture immediately got worse. I dropped down into the booth. "Ohmigod," I said. "That's my old boss!"

My Guy, classy fellow that he is, did not immediately turn around and stare. He also didn't get up, knock over a table, and cause a rumble. No. Instead, he sat up taller and allowed me to cower behind his huge noggin.

Seriously. Between my bad posture, his good posture, and the angle of the booths, I was invisible. Like my time at Mega Corporate Behemoth, except that I had someone to talk to.

From the safety of my husband's hulking skull, I was then able to consider our options.
Option A: Admit defeat. Say hello as we walk directly past Director Lady's table on our way out the door. Make sure my lip gloss was fresh, even though I was wearing grubby-looking fleece pants that basically make me look unemployable. The chances of me willingly choosing this option were slim to none.

Option B: Sneak out the back door. This was my favorite option. My Guy surveyed the situation and saw that the back door had a sign on it, asking confrontation-adverse patrons not to use it and to instead woman up and just walk past their old bosses. Or maybe the sign just said, "Broken-ass door. Do not use." But the outcome was the same: we were stuck exiting through the front door, right by Director Lady's family.

Option C: My Guy would get up from the table first. I would walk behind him. We would time our escape with the waitress's visit to Director Lady's table, therefore obscuring Director Lady's view. We would be Important People With Places to Go, so we wouldn't have time to look around the restaurant on our way out. Worst case scenario, I'd hold the to-go box in front of my face. Like the lady of grace and dignity that I am.

Option D: Order more beer. Drink enough to get up the courage / idiocy to approach Director Lady and thank her for wasting my time and crushing my spirit. Point out that she has nonexistent managerial skills and has fallen into the sad category of folks who build corporate fiefdoms aimed at insulating from layoffs, not producing actual work. Add that her haircut is not flattering. Accidentally knock a pitcher of red Kool-Aid into her lap. If a pitcher of red Kool-Aid is not already on the table, order one in order to knock it over. Wait for waitress to bring Kool-Aid. Realize that big, dramatic gestures lose some power and style when you have to wait patiently for props.

So, I went with Option C. I avoided conflict, fake niceties and jail time. However, I have to give My Guy credit - he was up for whatever. Also, he pointed out that I have nothing to be ashamed about, and that skulking about town is not necessary. I didn't do anything wrong. And even though I told my manager that "nobody gave a shit" that I was there, it was a fuck-friendly workplace; my use of a level-B cuss word was not justification for termination.

I don't care. But I do. You know?

However, all's well that ends well. We made it out of the restaurant alive. Once on the sidewalk, we felt a bit giddy at our successful escape. And, My Guy earned himself some extra credit. Without me saying a word, he said, "Wow - her haircut is really not attractive."

You know how it is.

You know how sometimes, your 80-pound labradoodle gets a hotspot on his hip? And then he chews the shit out of it? And it ends up being an open, oozing sore about the size of a big ol' chicken breast?

And you know how sometimes your husband is working 24/7, and you've been out of town, and you come home to Massive Side Wound Doodle, and you dope him up on Benadryl and only by the grace of God to you manage to clean the wound without barfing? And then you put a cone on the dog in the hopes that he won't chew his hip off in the night?

But you know how sometimes dogs freak the eff out about cones? And refuse to sleep? And keep you and your exhausted husband up all night, until you have a brilliant epiphany at 4 a.m. and trade the cone for one of your husband's t-shirts, which you don your labradoodle in backwards, with hind legs through the armholes and tail through the neck, and you tie a knot to keep the shirt around his waist, and then he falls asleep without gnawing him some oozing sore deliciousness?

You know how sometimes you take a day off of work to give your oozing-open-wound-having, 80-pound dog a bath, and he manages to get you and your entire house wet, even though he's actually the only good dog you have? And then you get ready to take him to the vet, but then you step in a gallon of pee, because one of your other dogs is pissed that Massive Side Wound Doodle is getting all the attention, but you only realize this discontent when you step in urine in your sock feet? But you manage to get your skanky, sweatpants-wearing self to the vet, mostly urine-free but smelling of wet dog? And the vet says that usually, they have to sedate dogs and shave around their severe hotspots, but you have done such a superior job of carefully cutting the hair around the hotspot that such tomfoolery is unnecessary, and you decide in your sleep-deprived stupor to change your potential pageant talent from eavesdropping to trimming hair around massive oozing sores?

Yeah. That's been my day.

Adventures in junking. And being a bad neighbor.

I'm heading home this weekend to flea market it up with my mom. Junking has been in the air as of late - I hit quite a few estate sales last weekend. It occurred to me that all estate sales feature the same thing: one of those portable toilets.

Yeah.

They never seem to sell, either. I mean, that's not really the sort of thing that you buy just in case. What happens to the portable toilets? Is the landfill chock full o' portable toilets? Or is there a secret society of used medical supply dealers who hit estate sales at the very end of the last day and buy the toilets for mere pennies, then resell them for a tidy profit?

Also, if you're setting up an estate sale and you don't have a portable toilet, do you have to go get one to add to the sale items? If you don't, do you incur the wrath of some sort of estate sale governing board?

One of the estate sales last weekend was 2 doors down from our house. It was interesting to go inside a neighbor's house, and I got the inside scoop that the house is going to be rehabbed, not torn down. Huzzah!

However, getting back to my house from the estate sale was an exercise in selective blindness. See, Creepy Chuck was taking advantage of the estate sale traffic on our street. Yes, my scary-ass neighbor set up a garage sale in his driveway.

Keep in mind that Creepy Chuck and his equally pedophillic-looking buddy set up the sale in the driveway the night before. Then, they covered all the goods in tarps. Creepy Chuck then sat in a lawn chair in the driveway, protecting the bounty from would-be prowlers. And probably staring at our house the whole time.

It was dark. He didn't even turn on his Christmas lights. He sat out there all night.

So, the next morning, when I was walking back to my house from my early visit to the legit estate sale, I passed Creepy Chuck's sign that screamed, "Estate Sale Here!" He'd attached American flags to the sign. Nevermind that it wasn't an estate sale - it was a driveway sale of what appeared from a distance to be some tired-looking crap. And, he didn't appear to have a portable toilet. He did, however, have a wheelchair for sale. In fact, it was the prominent, closest-to-the-street, hey-this item-makes-this-sale-look-promising, showcase item.

Again: who buys used medical equipment at random sales? Isn't there an opportunity to return this stuff when people die, or at least a friendly suggestion of what to do with it?

Anyway ... Creepy Chuck didn't appear to do a lot of business. I'm not sure what it was - the multiple "No Trespassing" signs, the general unkeptness of his house, the strong aura of creepy that surrounds him at all times - who is to say? But he held on to the bitter end - way after the bitter end, actually. He finally drug his unsold bounty back into the house at about 8 p.m.

I am a firm believer that it's a better deal to donate stuff and then take the tax deduction - you assign the value of the items and you don't have to deal with organizing your stuff or the interesting people who shop at garage sales. But, you know, Creepy Chuck didn't ask me - probably because I run screaming whenever I see him.

Seriously. If he's around, I avoid checking my mail. I am such a wuss. A judgmental wuss.

If I'm ever in a pageant, my talent will be eavesdropping. And being crazy. And projecting that crazy onto other people.

I do love eavesdropping. I just can't help it.

Tonight, My Guy and I went out for pizza. There were 2 very excited little boys across the restaurant from us. They were eating with 2 mom-types, and evidently, there were a lot of super crazy things to discuss. I guess when you're 5 years old, shit just got real.

We didn't catch much of their conversation, but my favorite gems?

"It was so late! It was, like, 40 o'clock!"

And, of course:

"He ate a crayon. And he had to go to the muhmergency!"

This stuff makes me laugh. And it's a little easier to focus on that as I reflect on my day instead of considering my new boss, and how he gushed for a solid 15 minutes about his daughter. She is a dancer, and he is obviously so, so proud. It was delightful.

And then, my new coworker gushed about her son, who is a large-and-in-charge football player. She, too, was busting with pride. It made me love her.

And then they asked me if I have kids. And I said, "No, I have 4 dogs."

I'm sure there are parents out there who would be offended by my response, charging that I was trying to equate dogs with kids. While I will admit that My Guy and I refer to the dogs as "The Babies," I don't mean to suggest dogs are the same as kids. For one, I've heard that you can't keep kids in kennels.

The thing with today's workplace getting-to-know-you session is that I was deflecting. Moving the conversation from kids to dogs was so much easier than saying, "No, we found out we can't have kids, and I'm truly thrilled to a) see your authentic enthusiasm; and b) learn about your awesome kids; but it just kind of hurts to a) not have anything to add to the conversation; and b) imagine the wheels turning as you wonder WTF is wrong with me since I don't have kids."

I know, right? Project craziness much? It's not a muhmergency, but it's still something that I'm processing.

So much untapped potential.

Today, the second day of my new job, brought a lot of introspection. Which is a fancypants way of saying that I didn't have crap to do.

I got to work at 7:45, which is basically a world record for me. I got there early for an 8:00 meeting. When I went to said meeting, the room was dark. And empty. Turns out the meeting got cancelled, but nobody bothered to tell me. It was like I was living in an alternate universe.

So, I settled in to read everything in Globotron's Sharepoint site. It was mind-numbing. So I also did a fair amount of daydreaming. A sampling:

• My cubemate talks to herself. She just said, "Raffle tickets? Sounds good!" What am I supposed to do with this? What are these raffle tickets for? Do I need some? Why can't she either engage me in conversation or keep her inner monologue inside, as it is an inner monologue?
• What if today's super boredom is a sign of things to come? What if I am truly just not meant to work in the corporate world and will be bored and die a slow, horrible death in any environment that involves cubicles? I could be home doing laundry right now. At least I would be productive.
• I need to chill the eff out.
• Banjo is definitely on to something with her suggestion that I combat the uncomfortable toilet seats by bringing my own in a roller bag that I take to and from the ladies' room. I always feel weird taking my purse to the bathroom during, you know, that time. But instead of shoving a tampon up my shirt sleeve and making a run to the ladies', maybe I could just pack a roller bag and completely flaunt it. Like, I'd have my smaller roller bag for regular days, a big roller bag for days Aunt Flo is visiting, and a jumbo, I'm-traveling-overseas-for-an-extended-period suitcase for those days that require the super-mega lady products, if you know what I mean. And I could design suitcases for these uses, complete with self-cleaning compartments for your grab-n-go toilet seat, and sassy designs that scream, "I'm a woman! And I'm dealing with my woman parts with this fabulous and stylish carry-all! Deal with it!" And then I could build an empire of pyramid marketing, like Mary Kay, and women could have home parties to sell the suitcases and personalized toilet seats and pretty soon I'd be hailed as a self-made millionaire who escaped Cubeland but also as a post-feminist charlatan who convinced women that they needed all these accoutrements to deal with their bodies, and as a women's studies minor, I'd be deeply conflicted, but conflicted in my beach house, not in Cubeland, so I could probably work through the guilt.

Back on the corporate horse.

Thanks for the good thoughts about the job and the boobs.

The boobs are OK, as, too, is the job.

Today was my first day at Globotron. I am pleased to report that people actually talked to me, the boss took all of us newbies out for lunch, and I actually have a desk next to a window.

This, of course, is in stark contrast to Mega Corporate Behemoth and The Cube of Despair. And on my first day at Mega Corporate Behemoth, the boss invited me to lunch with her and Crazy Coworker. They talked to each other the entire time and blatantly ignored my attempts to join the conversation.

My Guy mentioned that it's like I'm getting back into the dating pool after having a really horrible boyfriend. He's so right. And my first date with Globotron was pretty OK.

So far, the only thing that gives me pause about Globotron is that the toilet seats are uncomfortable.

Seriously. It's not like I was camped out there for more than a quick tinkle, but in that 30 seconds, I thought, "Damn! This was not ergonomically designed with my ass in mind!"

But I think I can live with it.