Know your limits. And when to go home and have a drink.

There are a lot of Indian guys who work in my area at Corporate Behemoth. Most of them are contractors who come over from India for a year or 18 months, then go back home. These are smart guys who know a minimum of 3 languages and then immerse themselves in this weird culture away from their families. I have a lot of respect for them.

That said, there are some cultural differences that are funny, annoying, or supremely horrific.

Horrific? The thinly veiled contempt for women.

Annoying? The tendency to send an e-mail, then come over to my desk to announce you've sent me an e-mail. Or, the tendency to skip sending me an e-mail, but instead come over to my desk and expect me to drop everything and edit something for them on the fly. Because, after all, I am only a woman.

But the funny?

Oh, sister.

There's this one guy who is so young and clean-cut and adorable. He makes me feel old because instead of wanting to get on him, I have an overwhelming desire to make him a sandwich.

I guess this is what middle age feels like.

Anyway, today? Today, Young and Clean-Cut mentioned that he and some of his cohorts are planning a road trip for the long Christmas weekend. They are generally really excited to see everything they can in America - so, they've seen more of the country than many natives. Their Christmas destination? Mount Rushmore.

Oh, Young and Clean-Cut. You're gonna need more than a sandwich.

A bunch of folks were trying to convince Young and Clean-Cut and his posse that there are other, more suitable destinations for the end of December. His initial response was, "But, the Internet says it's sunny right now!"

The guys were being redirected to maybe San Antonio or maybe New Orleans. But then, Fannypack Bruce stepped in.

Maybe you know Fannypack Bruce. He's the older guy who does testing but asks 27 questions an hour. He keeps two Igloo coolers on his desk and wears a fannypack 24-7. And the fannypack strap has a phone clipped to it. You know, to complete the look.

Fannypack Bruce always has something to add. In detail. And today? His addition was a long diatribe about "a swell KOA near Mount Rushmore."

Camping? Most of these guys don't own winter coats but consider anything colder than 50 degrees arctic conditions. Focus, Fannypack Bruce! Stay on message!

That was about the time I left. I can only do so much.

The sun ain't gonna shine anymore.

Life as I know it is over. Oh-ver.

When I was in third grade, my dad gave me a clock radio for Christmas. It has two alarms, buttons I know by feel, and SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN.

The best part? It has a label on the top that says "SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN." You know, lest someone mistake it for real wood and try to use it as kindling.

We've been together for, umm, 28 years.

And now? My clock radio is ailing.

A few months ago, the clock gained about 20 minutes a day. I unplugged it, said a little prayer, and plugged it back in. All better.

But this weekend? This weekend, it was keeping double time. As in, it gained 12 hours a day.

As someone who likes to be places sort of on time and who is also in no way a morning person, this is a problem.

I did the ol' unplug / prayer combo again, and so far, it seems to be working. However, I can't deny it: my simulated wood grain pal is in hospice care. Our time is growing thin.

I am devastated. Did I mention that I can program this sucka by feel? And that we've been together longer than most marriages?

I was willing to be brave and look for a new clock radio. Except ... they are all horrible. I'm willing to forgo SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN, but I need a radio because a straight-up alarm freaks me out. I need a digital display because I'm blind. And I need buttons that I can aspire to operate by feel. I do not need to dock the iPod that I don't have. And I don't need to project the time onto the wall in giganto size.

So, there are some OK alarm clocks out there. But none of them are Just Right. None of them are my alarm clock. I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm truly sad about this. I guess you don't just break up with someone after 28 years without some sort of angst.

Do you have an alarm clock you love? What's it like? I'm taking suggestions.

And yes, I realize this is totally a first-world problem.

Calling Dr. Atkins. And Cesar Milan.

So, My guy is back from his work trip - and not a moment too soon.

I don't mean to be all old-school patriarchal and "Just wait until your father gets home!" But duuuuuuude.

I stayed up late one night making My Guy a birthday cake. He wanted a caramel cake with canned caramel frosting. I could do so much better, but if the birthday boy wants boxed cake with canned frosting, that's what he's gonna get.

The next day when he got home, he sent me a few really random texts:

"I'm so sorry."

"Like 3 inches of cake left."

I thought he got home and ate the cake. But no. The labradoodles had catapulted onto the kitchen counter and scored the birthday cake. The 2-layer birthday cake that was at the very way-back of the counter.

All gone.

It had been a really, really long day, but I stopped at the store on my way home. They had another caramel cake mix, but not caramel frosting. I guessed German chocolate frosting was as close as I could get, and I ran to the express lane.

There was one lady in front of me. She wrote a check.

By the time I got home, I threw the cake mix at My Guy. "It's not the cake you want, but I did just beat an old lady to death with this box."

We went out for dinner and delayed the cake redux.

The next day, the labradoodles got into the bread drawer. They ate an entire loaf of 8-grain bread, 3 hamburger buns, half a bag of pretzels, and half a bag of Tostitos.

There was vomit. And wrapping. Everywhere.

So, we've got some dogs that need to cut out the carbs. And the assholery.

Yeah, it's a word.

The 1 upside? We didn't have a star on our Christmas tree. Now, there's a lovely Tostitos bag shard adorning the top of the tree.

We have the only house on the block that doesn't have Christmas lights. If our neighbors only knew the level of classiness inside ...

My earth-shattering pronouncement about the state of television today. Also? You kids, get off of my lawn!

I have purposely avoided the Kardashian fray. Even before Kim's over-the-top wedding and subsequent 15-second marriage, I've just found that family ... icky.

But now? Now, I think I've figured it out.

See, I sort of half-watched an episode of "Kim and Whats-Her-Name Take New York." Or "Khloe Visits Kim and Whats-Her-Name in New York." Or "Some Other Sister Whose Name Starts With a K Does Stuff in New York." Whatever.

But I watched it with the sound off, which was actually a really interesting sociological experiment.

You know what I saw?

I some some body language that completely spilled the beans.

These people are not nice. They don't listen to each other and they don't give a rat's ass about the other person's wants. There was absolutely nothing authentic about any of it. And really? Kim, we don't believe that you wake up with a full face of make-up, including falsies.

Sorry. And Kim & Ko.? Shame on you for adding to the cacophony telling impressionable young women to aspire to all things superficial. I'm pretty sure thick eyelashes and a ball-player husband don't ensure happiness. So, can you guys please just do the world a favor and go away?

In a striking contrast, I ran across a great article today about someone who devoted their life to using television to spread grace. Not promoting themselves - promoting grace and acceptance.

For a shock to the system, might I suggest this lovely article about The Greatest Person Ever, on TV or Not on TV, Mr. Fred Rogers? It's long-ish, but so worth it. It's a great way to purge that Kardashian aftertaste from your system and to focus on what we should really all aspire to - not bootyliciousness, or having a big effing wedding, but being a decent human being.

I've turned into a softie.

My Guy left yesterday for a convention. He has to go every year, and every year, it's over his birthday. Ick. He'll be gone until Thursday.

I was really sad to see him go. I was surprised at how sad I was.

Let's be honest: My Guy is a kind, funny, wonderful man. But sometimes he makes me crazy. Like how our bathroom mirror is in a constant state of greasy smudgetasticness because he wipes condensation off with his dirty t-shirts. Because boys are dumb.

So, I should be excited to have almost a week of clean bathroom mirrors and time to do whatever I want.

However ...

While I was tooling around Target yesterday, I realized I was in no rush to get home ... and no one was waiting for me. And then I remembered that it used to be like this all the time.

I lived alone, and I was alone a lot. That sort of solitude helps you figure yourself out. But it's also really, well, lonely.

I miss my husband. Which, I guess, means that I've overcome one of my fears about getting married: being dependent upon someone else.

Don't get me wrong: I am managing to function in My Guy's absence. So, like, when Lady Doodle decided that the alpha was gone and so she'd make a play for the position, and growled and barked and was mean to the other dogs, prompting Foxie Doxie to conveniently and oh-so-logically stake his claim by peeing on my bed a 12:45 this morning? I was able to deal with it. And by "deal," I of course mean "go completely ballistic."

But really? Things are just easier when the entire pack is together. That means Mr. Wiping-the-Mirror-With-T-Shirt Guy, too.

Plus? I just miss my friend.

Why yes, my husband is clean-shaven.

When I was little, I was scared of facial hair. Maybe I watched too many westerns. I was convinced that any man with a beard or mustache was A Bad Guy.

Bret Maverick?

Totally A Good Guy.

Creedence Clearwater Revival?

Haunted my dreams.

I still don't like their music. There. I admitted it.

Let's blame my parents, their TV habits, their record collection, and their ability to remember theme song lyrics. I can sing the Maverick theme song. But I still hate CCR's music.

Images courtesy of Google.

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.