Please read the title to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Love in an elevator.” And now that we have that taken care of:

I’ve been reading a self-help book, as I am wont to do, that told me to look for love everywhere I went, and to look for the connections between others and myself, and between others and other otherses. This was very good for me, because lately I’ve been witnessing a lot of hate in the world, and it’s started to get me down in a major way. I’ve gotten so tired of experiencing all the aggression that occurs 1,000 times a second on the freeways, for example, and it all culminated a couple weeks ago when someone put a pre-printed business card on my car that said it hoped I got cancer, because I was parked a little bit over the line in the tiny compact car space that my compact car does not fit into properly. Yes, I will repeat that: Someone went to the trouble of ordering and purchasing business cards that say on the front, “Way to park, asshole.” And on the back, “I hope you get cancer.” It was actually quite a visually appealing card, with a lovely combination of fonts printed on a nice brick-red color. But the point is, feeling that malice directed at me was the straw on the camel’s back of hate that I’d been witnessing, and it made me really, really sad.

So, back to the self-help book. The day after I read the section about looking for love everywhere, it was “one of those mornings” where all forces of the universe were determined to slow me down, and after running to catch the metro, I got there a minute too late, and had to wait, all sweaty-like, for the next one. When I finally got on, a woman using a walker (with difficulty) got on, too. A youngerish woman and a blind man both got up for her to take their seats. (Side note: The question has been raised as to how the blind man knew to get up for her, and my guess is that the youngerish woman said something, or maybe he’s just that good.) Well, the walker woman (henceforth referred to as Walker Woman or WW) took the blind man’s seat and began talking with him and the youngerish woman (YW). When the blind man got off, he said goodbye to YW, and she and WW kept talking. Throughout their conversation, I unabashedly eavesdropped and exchanged eye contact and smiles with both of them at various points. When it was time for me to get off at my stop, I said goodbye to Walker Woman, and Youngerish woman got off there, too. And here comes the best part: Youngerish woman crossed to the other side of the platform to wait for the train going in the opposite direction. She had gone past her stop, and I believe it was out of love, because she didn’t want to prematurely end her conversation with Walker Woman. She wanted to make sure WW was taken care of, and then and only then did she get off and make her way back to where she needed to go.

Love.

I’m so glad I missed my train that morning and ended up on the one I ended up on.

That day marked a new chapter for me, one of looking everywhere for love and kindness, and finding it. I make a point to make eye contact, smile at, and talk with more strangers, and I’m making new friends all over town. I still see the hate, and it still bums me out, but now I have something with which to balance it.

I think you should try it, too. We’ll fill the world with love, one person at a time. Then one day, we’ll realize that we don’t see any hate, because there won’t be any.

(Do I sound like a hippy, or what?)

I was just reminded of a conversation I had a few months ago that reminded me of how much I hate being talked down to. There aren’t a lot of things I enjoy less than being patronized. I get it a lot, being a. a girl, b. a girl who has a young, innocent-looking face, and c. a girl who is polite and not too loud. Not many people are scared of me, and a lot of people think this gives them clearance to treat me like they’re my kindergarten teacher. And then, there are the people who talk that way to everyone, and I think the woman I’m about to discuss falls into the latter category.

This woman works at a place that does casting director workshops that last for several weeks at a time. So basically, you pay a few hundred bucks up front, and you go every week or whatever and take these workshops with casting directors. It’s a pretty cool idea I guess, but I’ve never heard of actors getting work from these particular workshops, and furthermore, they’re pretty expensive, especially if you’re trying to pay for other classes and whatnot. Sooooooo, a friend of mine had given this woman my information as someone who may be interested, and you know, I’m always up for hearing the details about an opportunity, so I was happy to listen and consider, but it was pretty annoying from the get-go. She was quizzing me about my talent and experience, emphasizing that they don’t just accept any Tom, Dick or Harry off the street, and you know, you have to take this seriously and you have to really be doing this as a career and have real potential, etc. But the most annoying, nails-on-the-chalkboard, whistle-in-your-ear, telemarketer, Jehovah’s witness-level of annoyance came from this: After everything, everything she said, she then said, “Does that make sense?” Everything. After every single sentence. I know that she must do this with everyone and must not even realize she does it at this point, but it comes across as so condescending, like, “Do you understand the meaning of the really simple thing I just said? I want to make sure, because you seem really dim, and it’s probably pretty hard to wrap your head around ideas. That must be tough.” Or maybe it’s more like, “Do you understand me? Because I know I’m talking way over your head right now, because you’re just a layperson, not a genius like me.” Either way, she must not have had any idea how irritating she was, so I thought I’d help her out by repeating it back to her to call her attention to it. So our conversation sounded a little like:

Her: We want to make sure that our actors are serious about their careers. Does that make sense?
Me: Yeees, yes, that does make sense.
Her: We need to know that you’ve worked, does that make sense, and that you’re taking active steps to get yourself more work, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, both of those things make sense, and I have, and I am.

And then came the part where she asked if I wanted to sign up.

Me: I’ll definitely keep it in mind for the future, but right now, unfortunately, I just don’t have the money.
Her: Well, we suggest that you have a separate bank account where you save money for acting, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, that does make sense, but you know, right now is just not a good time.
Her: Well, because if you’re serious about your career, you really need to be setting aside some money for it, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, it does make sense. Believe you me, if I were making enough money to have even a penny to set aside, I would.
Her: So we really suggest that you save some money, does that make sense?
Me: WELL, I SUGGEST THAT YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF; DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?

And then she was silent, and I said, “Make sense of this!” and hung up and smiled peacefully in the beams of benevolent sunlight filtering through the windows.

Just kidding. I didn’t say it. I didn’t say it because I’m polite, remember? Damn it. Damn it all. I’m so polite. But I thought it. You can bet your bottom dollar I thought it. I positively screamed it in my mind. But I didn’t say it, and now, thanks to my politeness, this awful woman is probably going around right now making sense of everyone she comes across.

So I apologize to you if you ever cross her path, and if she ever talks to you like you’re just now learning English and how to tie your shoes. Maybe someday when someone else is being a condescending jackass, I’ll say what I want to say, even if it’s not the politest thing ever. And if it doesn’t make sense… who gives a shit?

Today as I was leaving the gym, I turned on the radio and heard the last of a story about a group picking out Hebrew names for all the planets or something. When they got to Uranus, both dj and guest admitted that the English word should be changed, too. There’s nothing good about that name; I think we can all agree on that. And it reminded me of a project in Mr. Hutchinson’s Earth Science class in high school. We were all assigned planets, and we had to give presentations on them. Uranus was assigned to me, and in my presentation, I did what I felt any self-respecting highschooler would and should do: I planned out my sentences to sound like I was talking about your butt. You’d do that, too, right? Things like, “Uranus has a pock-marked surface.” Gold, right? Well, nobody in that class so much as even snickered! Crickets! Literal crickets! I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here, but I was always under the impression that Uranus, like farts, is always funny. Yes, we’ve all heard it before. But it’s still funny! Just like farts! I have no doubt that farts have been funny since the dawn of time, and always will be. And the same goes for Uranus, as far as I’m concerned. And if I can’t count on my fellow highschoolers to laugh at those things, on whom then, can I rely? It’s an unsettling thought. Almost as unsettling as the toxic gases emitted from Uranus.

I just had to check my horoscope for fun to see what it would say, because the last few weeks, and especially the last couple days, have been bat-shit crazy. I feel like it’s time for me to clean out my life like an attic, and time to stand up for myself and assert my rights, which is something I’ve tended to struggle with. People are coming at me like rabid bats in a dark cave (I’m going to try to use only analogies that include bats), and it’s wigging me out and making me think really hard about who I am and how people see me. Right now I’m done being the nice one, and I’m especially tired of keeping my thoughts to myself in order to appease others or keep from making waves.

So anyway, I read my horoscope, and it made me laugh like a bat who’s just read her horoscope and found it very apropos: Here’s what it said:

The world is mad at Pisces today because you will no longer play their game. There will be those that try everything to turn you around. They all have their own reasons that they claim are for your best interests. Your path is in the stars not in the starry eyes of those that wish to control you.

Enough said.

Bats.

OK, y’all, riddle me this:

We got a bunch of these paper plates at work, and I looked at them and for a second was like, “Oh, good — recycled!”

Then I took a closer look…

Those little rats! Right? They’re trying to fool old people and people who don’t read things carefully by pretending to be environmentally friendly! #1, They call themselves “Green Label,” using a term traditionally used for earth-friendly merchandise. And even more ridiculous is this piece of BS: “Made from 100% paper; a renewable natural resource.” Well, what the hell else would paper plates be made of? Kittens?? And do they think we’re so dumb that we think trees are just totally renewable; that we can just chop them down willy nilly and re-plant them and immediatly have an insta-forest?

Those deceitful little rascals! Who are they trying to kid with this thing?! Me, obviously. Well, nice try, buttheads. I’m hip to your jive.

I’m wearing my cranky pants today. Or maybe cranky shoes is more accurate, because it’s mostly because of my feet. As some of you know, I injured both of my feet in early December for the dumbest reason: I wore the wrong shoes in Disneyland. Ironically, these ones, that I was so excited about and bought 2 pairs of. Which apparently have no shock absorption or arch support. And who knew, but apparently I am an old person and have to worry about ruining my feet by wearing the wrong m-f-ing shoes. And even more unfair, as evidenced here, I am very conscious about taking good care of my feet. It would be one thing if I didn’t try, but I do, and feel that this is entirely unjust.

When my sister April came to visit, we spent a day at Disneyland, and something you need to know about us is that we are never half-assed about Disney excursions. When we were little, Disney World was truly the happiest place on Earth for us, and we are used to long, hardcore days of fun (if anything involving anamatronic singing tiki-birds can be called “hardcore”). So when she came, we got a park hopper pass and spent about 4 hours in California Adventure and 6 hours in the Disneyland park. We do it right. Except… I wore those dang shoes, and my feet were fine until we were about to leave, and suddenly I just couldn’t walk. I could shuffle, but couldn’t bend my feet at all without excruciating pain. This went on for almost two weeks, so I went to the doctor who said I had damaged my ligaments. I spent the entire holiday season in sneakers with Dr. Scholl’s arch supports — I even found an outfit for our company holiday party that I could wear with cute sneakers. I have been so good, and have tried so hard to allow them to heal, and for a long time they got slowly better and better. I even went hiking twice, and wore heels one time and boots one time.
But apparently I got too cocky, because within the last week or so, they’ve been relapsing. Now even my cute sneakers hurt, and all I can wear is my dorky New Balance running shoes. I mean, at least I’m getting some wear out of them, because heaven knows I won’t be running anytime soon. I’m so tired of feeling unfashionable and flagrantly ignoring the dress code at work. I mean yeah, I kind of ignored it before, but not flagrantly, and at least that was my own choice.

Even with the dorky sneakers my feet hurt. Pushing on the gas pedal while driving causes sharp pains in my heel, and combined with heavy traffic and PMS, let’s just say that this morning I screamed out a not-so-nice word on my way to work. Grrrrr.

I know I’m being a total baby about this, because I could actually have much worse things to be cranky about, like oh, I don’t know, a terminal illness, and in the grand scheme of things, this is not that bad and doesn’t interfere with my life THAT much. But I can’t do any of the physical activites that make me feel good and not irritable, like hiking, spinning, or anything that involves my feet in any way. That pretty much rules out… everything except swimming, yoga, and pilates, and swimming is usually more trouble than it’s worth because the pool at the gym is almost always packed. So that means I am getting no aerobic exercise and am about to jump out of my skin. And most frustrating of all is that on April first I am flying to Vancouver for a week of skiing with my family at Whistler. I have been looking forward to this trip forever, and if I can’t ski life will be so unfair. I have lots of trouble with ski boots anyway, so I’m kind of feeling like the odds are stacked against me.

You want to know the other reason I’m cranky? For over a year I have been asking for a keyboard tray under my desk at work so I don’t have to hunch my shoulders up when typing. Finally, yesterday I got it. My desk is like a curvy corner, and the dude said he was going to install it right in the bend. Except he didn’t put it right in the middle, he put it like 5 inches over to one side, and it is HURTING MY OCD. I NEED IT TO BE IN THE MIDDLE. It is making me crazy.

So, to recap for you: My feet hurt, my body is fidgety, and my brain hurts because it really wants the keyboard tray to be dead center. It hurts so much, like when I drive over bump after bump with the left wheels of my car, and until I drive over enough bumps with my right wheels, the entire right side of my body screams in panic and agony.

Am I a brat? I sure sound like one. “Waaah, waaah, I might not be able to ski at this amazing ski resort I’m going to. My life is soooooo hard. Waaaaah, my keyboard tray is off center.” I know, I know. But writing about it makes me feel better, so thanks for reading. Know what would make me feel even better? A bloody mary. Hmmmm…

You may be familiar with my stance on the horrible injustice that is this: It is seven years past “the future” (the year 2000), and we still do not have personal robots to do our bidding and talk in adorable robot voices. If you’re not familiar with said stance, here’s a refresher.

Today on my morning commute, the radio was talking about something that made my heart skip seventeen beats and made me squeal with joy.

Yes. It is finally almost here, for all of us.

The personal robot.

On the radio, the one phrase that especially excited me was when the DJ said, “Yeah, they say in the next few years they’ll be rolling out robots that will do your housework — answer your phone, get you a beer out of the fridge.”

Specifically, a robot scientist in Korea has designed a robot named EveR-1 who can “hold a conversation, make eye contact, and express joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness.” (Story here).

I cannot believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long! I have to admit, I kind of had my heart set on a robot that looked a little more robotty, like how I pictured it in the 80s — much like this little guy, but perhaps with eyes that are slightly less creepy:

And something rather unsettling is that according to the radio, the folks in Korea say EveR-1 is too ugly! Something about her hands being too big, among other things. I personally think she’s gorgeous, and if she has man-hands, all the better to fix things around the house! And the more I think about it, the more I get a little terrified, if a small amount of terror is possible. Are the personal robots going to set the bar that much higher for women’s appearances? Is my future husband going to leave me for a perpetually young robot with giant cartoon eyes, fish lips, a microscopic waist and ginormous gazongas, like an anime character or one of those hideous Bratz dolls? Will he be like, “OMG, Marcy, Why can’t you look more like Lindabot 8,000?” Will he fantasize about her while we do it? Will she be able to do it with him???

OK, now I’m in a panic. Seeing as how the future is here, I’d better go brush up on my science so I can design my own robot, one who looks like a combination of Val Kilmer and Tom Cruise in the Top Gun volleyball scene, and also like Johnny Depp, and also with the approachable, dorky-chic appeal of John Krasinski from The Office.

All I know is: The future is finally here, people, and I don’t know whether to be excited or scared. “Be careful what you wish for” has never seemed like such good advice.

I have some adorable new sneakers that I’ve been wearing nonstop since I got them, but there’s one problem. The fabric on the inside of them is a nice fuzzy felt-y fabric. It feels delightful to the touch, but it grips my socks and tugs them down as soon as I start walking. I can’t go more than ten paces before I feel the heel of the sock slip down over the heel of my foot, and thus begins the quick progression of the sock, shimmying its way down until it forms a lumpy, uncomfortable sock mass right under my arch.

Also, I posted a blentry days and days ago, but lo and behold, it wasn’t posted after all! I could see it when I was signed into my WordPress account, so I assumed it was there, but it was tricking me. So I have re-added it for your enjoyment. Scroll down a couple blentries to “Linkies, Not Minkies,” and enjoy. My favorite link today is the Brick Testament one. Click on “The Law,” and read all of them. They are awesome. Once you click a picture, be sure to click the arrow in the upper right-hand corner of it to view the whole little story. Awesome.

I had a store credit at Bloomingdales for a super fun amount, and I went there yesterday to try to spend it. I never usually shop at Bloomie’s, and at first I couldn’t find anything that I loved. I tried on tons of stuff, and the more I tried on, the less I could tell what I liked. I ended up getting a $96 hoodie — yes, a sweatshirt hoodie, which I already have tons of — but I kind of fell in love with it. I also got some makeup and put a cute dress on hold. Well… I left the mall and went home, and started thinking I should go back and get the dress, so I went back a few hours later. But on my way to where the dress was, I decided to try on some jeans. And I had just recently been thinking to myself, “I don’t care if I buy cheap jeans, because the really expensive ones aren’t that much better anyway.” Well. I pulled out three pairs of Sevens and one pair of Joe’s jeans, and I am telling you, every single one made my butt look SMOKIN’ AWESOME. Better than it has ever looked, ever. I narrowed it down to two: One pair of Sevens and the Joe’s Jeans, and put them on hold. But the problem is, if I keep the hoodie and the makeup, AND get a pair of jeans, I will exceed my store credit and will spend $100 of my own money, which I absolutely should not do right now. And won’t. I won’t! I won’t do it. I will choose. I can make this decision.

But I can’t stop picturing myself wearing the jeans WITH the hoodie. They would look so cute together!

I’m realizing something that I’ve really always known, but if I had doubts they’ve been extinguished. With very few exceptions, there is a direct ratio between cute and expensive. The cuter something is, the more outrageously expensive it is. It doesn’t always work the other way, because I’ve seen some butt-ugly expensive stuff. However, the fact remains: If I had boundless stores of money, I would look positively darling, every single day of my life, even at the grocery store!

Temptation. This is why it’s best for me to just not go shopping. If I never look at expensive clothes, I won’t feel that I need the expensive clothes.

Or maybe I can pick up some freelancing work.

Hmmm…

What do you people do? Do you face this beast of desire? Someone tell me how to kill it!

Joanna and Jay, your requests and dedications are coming soon, but first we must discuss how I drove my roommate’s newish SAAB to work today while my oldish Mazda is in the shop, and how I am now spoiled forever.

I shall discuss some points of the newish SAAB and also some items regarding my oldish Mazda.

First, so as not to hurt my Mazda’s feelings, I would like to give it props for having a V-6 engine and being very powerful, and also providing a notably smooth ride for both driver and passenger. Also, I enjoy the way I can adjust my seat up to the tiniest minutia with the automatic and user-friendly seat adjusting buttons, one of which is shaped like a peanut, which I find charming. And finally, my Mazda has a great-sounding stereo system.

However: Within mere seconds of turning on the SAAB this morning, my butt began to feel cozy and warm, due to the amazing seat warming device. Today was the coldest morning in a while, but my warm butt made me feel snuggly and contented, like a cat in the sun. Also, the reason my Mazda is in the shop is because it’s doing this lurching thing when going from idling to moving, and it’s getting super annoying. The SAAB, on the other hand, zips along powerfully yet shifts smoothly in all gears. Thirdly, the SAAB smells like new leather and refinement, and conjures images of smoking jackets and mint juleps on the veranda, whereas my Mazda smells like dirty socks, invoking visions of… dirty socks.

In conclusion, I like refinement and warm buns, and therefore must get a new car STAT.

Poor Sean Preston. He’s so cute!

I know. He can’t possibly have inherited any intelligence whatsoever.

(pause)

At least he’ll inherit some money.

Pop open a can of Mountain Dew, Ladies, because it’s time for X-TREME HAIR REMOVAL!

***

I’m pissed off. The topic? Bikini wax expectations. This is a relatively new thing, as in something that seems to have arisin within the last decade, and I’m not sure who exactly I have to thank for it. And by “thank” I mean kick in the nuts.

I’ve done a little research, and have come up with this conclusion. In America right now, having a brazilian bikini wax (which I call “X-Treme Hair Removal”) is as standard and socially required as shaving your legs. And I say FUCK THAT. You know why? Because it fricking hurts, that’s why. And it’s also recockulously expensive. Last time I went to get my bikini and eyebrows done, the total was a whopping $87 smackers. Can I afford that every 3 weeks, along with everything else? Hell, no, and even if I could, out of principle I don’t want to.

Look. I’m not saying we should all be running around with a 1970s bush going on. I am a stickler for hygene and grooming. And I’m not one to go against the crowd on issues of what’s expected of me regarding my personal appearance. Call me a conformist, but I imagine it would be tough to be known as “’70s Bush Girl.” But come on, throw us a fricking bone. As if women don’t have enough to feel bad about, now we have to be paranoid about that??? “Oh no, I’m between bikini waxes, I’m going to be judged, and so-and-so is going to be all grossed out!” WTF??? COME ON!!!!

If men did it too I could maybe wrap my head around it. I already think men should shave their armpits. Armpit hair is disgusting on both men and women, so Get on that, Men. But for me, it’s great if a guy just trims “down there.” Just so it’s not all over the place. I think if any man holds a woman to a certain waxing standard, he should have to go get that exact type of wax done once, just once, and let’s all sit back and see how quickly his expectations will change. The first time he hands someone a 50-dollar bill to rip all the hair off his balls, he’ll think twice about complaining about his date’s between-wax status. And he’ll probably also cry a little.

This rule hurts not only women, but men also. My research has concluded that women everywhere are too scared to hook up with anyone if we aren’t fresh from the salon. We’ll be too embarrassed to admit the real reason, so we’ll make something up. Men will feel rejected, and we’ll feel sad, like we’ve let ourselves down and let him down, because this is just one more expectation we can’t live up to.

Plus, this is one more thing on our plates, making us busier than ever, making MEN have to wait for us (and complain about waiting, and make jokes on sitcoms about it) while we try to alter ourselves so we’ll be accepted by society. Makeup, high heels, hair removal all over the place — We get it. We’re not OK as we are. What’s next? God only knows.

Who made this rule, and who is enforcing it? Someone tell me. I’m not saying it’s only men — Women are huge enforcers of beauty standards. But I have a feeling this originated with porn, and the fact that porn dictates how I’m expected to look makes me sick.

If you are reading this and you are a man, or have insight into what men think about this, please comment, because I need to know! Is it really a big deal for men, or do women just think it is?

And if you’re someone who might someday ever want to date me, and if you expect me to get XTreme Hair Removal, get out your wallet. ‘Cause you’re paying for it.

***

UPDATE: As of 4:36 PM, I am feeling slightly better about this topic. After reading this blentry, a male friend conducted some of his own independent research, and 5 out of 5 male subjects stated that while they do think X-Treme Hair Removal is nicer than Standard Hair Removal, the issue is never a deal breaker.

***

UPDATE #2, 5:59 PM: I have had a spirited IM conversation with Eric, who has brought up an excellent point. This is perhaps more of an L.A. trend than a National one. I would like to hear from someone in another state, please. Do you feel this same type of pressure? Also per said conversation, I have decided to veer from all tradition and simply shave it into the shape of a tiny Care Bear. Instead of the Care Bear Stare it will be the Care Bear Hair!

Yesterday I had an eye doctor appointment — and let me just interrupt myself here to ask you why we say “eye doctor” instead of “optometrist.” Why do we do that with eye doctors only? It’s never acceptable to say, “Aaaugh, I think I have a cavity. I’d better go to the tooth doctor!” Or, “Oooooh, yeah, that’s a sketchy mole. You should see a skin doctor ASAP.”

Anyway, so I went to the optometrist in Santa Monica, and afterwards my pupils were so dilated I was like the opposite of Little Orphan Annie, who had no pupils (see Appendix A), and decided that instead of driving home in the bright sunlight I should instead seek refuge in a nearby shoe store — for my eyes, you see. Conveniently, I had a store credit at this very store, so for the sake of my vision, I decided I’d better find something to buy.

It didn’t take me long to find these adorable specimens of footwear (They’re Rocket Dog, if you’re wondering) (God bless Rocket Dog and all that they do):

I got both colors, and the magical part is, the total was something like $68.34 (yes, for both!) and my store credit was for $68.75. I generously let the store keep the change.

I was so happy. I couldn’t wait to wear them. I planned my outfit for today around the tan ones. And then, I put them on this morning, and the left one hurt my m-f-ing toe!!!!! I guess in the store I had walked around mostly with the right one on, but I did try the left one and got no warning signs that it would hurt. The main problem is, I think they’re a little too short, and it takes my big toe and squeezes it over towards my other toes, which as you may remember, is unacceptable as it may lead to bunions, one of my greatest fears in life, along with getting taken hostage and running out of Advil.

Maybe I could get a bigger size, but I fear the next size up will be too wide, and plus, these are the kind of shoes that only look good in small sizes, and I’m pretty sure the next size will make my feet look like boats.

So I came to work today in my boring flip flops (Both flip flops and sneakers are frowned upon at my office except on Fridays, but I’m at that “whatever” stage, so whatever). And I feel totally un-cute, and my day — nay my life — is ruined forever! Scowl.

Appendix A:

UM…. Am I in Pergatory? My worst nightmare is coming true. I was peeing in my favorite bathroom stall at the office yesterday (for information on which one is my favorite and why, see Appendix A), and mid-pee, what do you think happened? Yes. It flushed itself. I was all, “Wha…???” because as you may or may not know, one of the reasons I took this job in the first place was because the office did NOT have automatic flush toilets. If you’re unfamiliar with my stance on these evil, wicked beasts, please refer back to this blentry.

Apparently I go on vacation and everything goes to pot around here (no pun intended). Adding insult to injury, I discovered that an entire bag of UNexpired yogurts I had in the fridge had been thrown out while I was away. Argh!

So anyway, they’ve replaced my favorite manual-flush toilet with an evil automatic one. I don’t know if they’re changing all of them and just starting with one, or just changing the one, but I do know this f-ing sucks, and I may have to start job-hunting again.

Appendix A: OK, so there are four stalls in the ladies’ room. The last one, the big handicapped one, is the worst, because the toilet seat sits up on stilts, causing a big gap between the seat and the rim, and when you pee, unless you concentrate very hard, your pee shoots out the front of the toilet and gets you, the floor, and everything wet, with pee. All the women here seem to have made that mistake once, and God willing, only once.

The first stall has horrible water pressure, and if you use a toilet seat cover and/or any toilet paper at all, which most of us do, it all creates a tight ball that refuses to flush and just rolls around in the hole, even if you flush it over and over.

The second stall is not ideal because, and this may get complicated, but hear me out here: Since the last one is by far the worst, nobody wants to use it. If you’re in the second stall and someone else comes in, she is almost definitely going to choose the first or third stall, thus settling in right next to you. Some poeple don’t mind this, but I get stage fright when someone is too close to me and find it nearly impossible to pee, try as I might, and you can just forget anything else (not that I do anything else, Jeff, don’t worry, girls don’t go #2, least of all me). Same goes for people talking to me while I’m in the stall. If you ask me, it’s common sense that conversation should end when the stall door closes.

The point is, the only really desirable stall, the one that used to offer me a peaceful sanctuary of relaxation, has now been turned into something that will only infuriate me and cause me stress and nervous breakdowns. Why is life so cruel?!!!

UPDATE: Well, after someone read this blentry he was totally incredulous about my stage fright comment, and in retrospect I may have been exaggerating a little (ME???). Usually I can pee fine with someone next door, unless they’re talking to me. I really do find it impossible to carry on a conversation and pee at the same time. Chalk it up to my not being the best multi-tasker. But really it’s the poo thing that gets me (which, again, Jeff, I do NOT do, I’m just saying I imagine if I did it would be difficult to do so with someone in the next stall). The worst is when two people (not me) are sitting in stalls next to each other, and we’re they’re totally silent and can hear each other breathing, each one waiting for the other to finish and flush so she can let the poo make the noise it makes when it lands in the water. I mean, not that I’m familiar with that; I’m just saying.

So today is my day off, and just now I walked down to the bank to open a new savings account, and sat down to wait for someone at a desk to help me, and this dude walks up wearing jeans and a bright yellow and blue basketball jersey with "Fila" in huge letters across the front.  The only way I knew he worked there is he asked me if I had a question. 

"Yes, I do," I replied. "What the hell are you wearing?  Look around.  You work in a bank!"  OK, no I did not say that, but are we serious here?  I looked at the girl behind the other desk, and sure enough, she was wearing full-on sweats!  Like, pink sweat pants and a little pink hoodie.  I know this is So-Cal and we like to pretend we’re laid back by wearing uber-casual clothes while we’re actually stressing ourselves crazy about our agents and managers and the fact that we still have over 0% body fat, even after the power spinbox yogalates we did for four hours this morning.  But the bank?  I mean, I’m even required to dress "business casual" at my editing job, where I’ve never once seen a client face to face.  Even on "casual Fridays," sweats and b-ball jerseys are frowned upon.  (Oh my gosh, I’m starting to hyperventilate because I just realized I used the term "casual Fridays" in reference to my own life.  Excuse me while I call my boss RIGHT NOW and quit my job and make plans to move to an island where I can make ends meet by trading shells.  That is, if I can stop the dry-heaving, which is preventing me from speaking clearly).

So I went over to James’ (his name was James) desk and he began the very official process of getting my new account opened by signing into his computer, except that he couldn’t because he had forgotten his password.  We joked about that for a minute, and then he decided to write my name down on a plain pad of paper, for some reason.  Except that the pen attached to the desk didn’t write, so he picked up a green highlighter instead, and wrote "Marcy Minton" in fat green letters.  Then, once that was done, I guess he remembered his password and started typing some stuff, blah blah, yadda yadda, and then went and got a form from somewhere.  He came back and started to fill it out, and I saw him searching the desk for a pen and coming up empty, so I said, "You can use this one."  And as the words came out of my mouth and the pen passed from my hand into his, it felt like slow motion, and I thought, "I will never see this pen again." 

As it happens, just, JUST before leaving for the bank I cleaned out my purse. I had had 2 pens, but decided that was excessive and removed one.  This information will come in handy for you a little later.  But back to this pen. This pen happened to be one of my favorites.  It was one I stole from work during a brief period when they were getting us really nice clicky, soft grippy pens. 

So we finished opening the account, and he says Thank You, and I say Thank you, and he shakes my hand, and I get up to go, and Sure Enough.  He keeps my pen.  I hesitated for just a fraction of a second, picturing myself asking for it back and the awkwardness that would surely ensue, and while I hesitated he began filling out some other type of paperwork with it, and I realized that he seemed really to be struggling today, and therefore I would let him keep the dang pen, darn it.

On my way out I stopped at the ATM to deposit a check.  I opened my checkbook to fill out the deposit slip, and this is the part I told you about, the part where it sucks that I cleaned out my purse this morning, because instead of having one pen left, I had no pen.  Dammit.  So I marched back inside, determined to ask James for my pen back, awkwardness be damned, but there he was, all innocent looking in his loud jersey, still writing with it.  I couldn’t do it.  So I went to the table where you fill stuff out and used one of the pens attached to the desk (the first one I tried didn’t work, by the way.  They really need to get on that!) and went back to the ATM.  I was just about to seal the envelope and stick it in the machine when I realized I hadn’t endorsed the check.  Arrrrgh.  So I went back in again to use the pen, and this time I passed James, and he said, "Did you have another question?"

"No, I’m just… depositing… some…"  And he was already like, "Oh, oh, OK, ok," and the awkwardness I had been hoping to avoid was there anyway, but I was still sans pen.  UGH!  So by this point I was SO ready to just get out of the f-ing bank, and I went back out to the ATM and it was BEEEEEEEEEEPing, and I realized I had left my card inside! But luckily everyone seemed to have steered clear of that ATM, probably because of the ear-splitting beep coming out of it, so my card was still there, and I finished up my transaction and walked home.

Lessons learned: Never clean out purse, never let people in sweat pants/loud jerseys handle your finances, never assume that once you’ve stolen a pen it won’t be stolen from you, and never assume that a simple task will be accomplished simply and without hassle.  Never.