Election Protection: for the horny politico in your life. And they even have Slick Willy…
Archive for September, 2008
I was in the Lawyerly Place bathroom, having just started the bladder relieving process, when I heard the main door open and a voice say, “Hi-lo? Hiiiii-looooooo?” It was the nice cleaning lady who looks after my floor. I called back, letting her know I was using the facilities. Almost instantly, she launched into an onslaught of agitated Spanish. “I no el hableeo el spaniel and I definitely no comprehendo,” I yelled back, hoping that was close enough to convey my complete lack of understanding.
About two seconds later, there was pounding on the door of my stall. Then more frantic Spanish. Sighing, I said, “I don’t speak Spanish, but I am trying to pee. Please leave me alone. I’ve got performance anxiety.” There was more pounding and Spanish, but this time much louder. It was getting ridiculous. “I don’t freaking comprehend no el spaniel. Go Away.” The pounding went on for a few more seconds, and then abruptly stopped. I figured the cleaning lady got the gist and left me in bathroom peace.
Except, no. I heard a grunting sound, looked down, and saw the head of the cleaning lady appear under the stall door. Obviously, this was Vastly Disturbing and I started to freak out. “What the hell do you think you are doing? GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF MY BATHROOM STALL!” She kept coming under the door, sort of twisting and squirming around on the floor. I just sat there, hunched over on the toilet, hiding my private bits, yelling at an ever increasing volume, pants around my ankles. Somehow, she managed to get herself into my stall, stand up, and open the door. Then, she turned to me, reached for my arms and attempted to yank me off the toilet, jabbering in Spanish the entire time. I was not about to get off the throne in front of the crazy lady. No way, no freakin’ how. Not even if she offered me gold plated toilet paper.
We struggled for a few minutes. She kept trying to pull me up, off the toilet. I valiantly tried to stay hunched over, protecting my girly stuff from view. When she realized that my desire for modesty was trumping her best efforts to get me off the John, she looked at me and started waiving her arms around. “Boom! Boom! Constructioni! Boom!” She looked rather panicked.
I might not know what exactly it portends to the Spanish speaking populace, but I was pretty sure Boom signals something bad in any language. After about two seconds of deliberation, I decided it was time to forgo my potty break and get out of the bathroom. Worst case, it would get me away from the nutso cleaning lady. Best case, I could figure out what the hell was going on. Believing bathroom etiquette should never be compromised more than is absolutely necessary, I waived my hand to indicate the cleaning lady should turn around. As she did, I suited up and promptly left the bathroom of craziness. She was hot on my heels, still yapping away in a language I couldn’t undertstand.
As I walked back to my office, I noticed the Place of Lawyerly Things was strangely empty. I rounded the corner by my admin’s desk, saw her grabbing her purse, and started to tell her about the bathroom loony. “Super Admin, you will not believe what God’s green Earth just hap –“ Super Admin interrupted me. “The building, um, just got a bomb threat. They are evacuating people and for some reason the fire alarm isn’t working, so they have to tell people to get out. I had to help clear out this floor, so I sent Juana into the bathroom to get you. Why aren’t you going downstairs?”
Oh. Ok then.
It started as the most straightforward thing: sorting my Kilimanjaro of dirty clothes. Under the “I heart Unicorns” t-shirt, there was a pair of eCrush’s pants. Thinking I’d accidentally grabbed them on a recent cleaning rampage, I set the pants aside to wash and return. A few minutes later, I pulled out his boxers. Then more pants. Socks. By the time the darks and the lights were separated, two weeks of His and Hers clothing was piled on my bedroom floor.
So late last night, eCrush and I talked about Laundry Etiquette. I explained that finding his clothes, and the assumption it was OK to leave them for me to wash, felt like a passive aggressive infiltration into my space. Plus it irked my feminist side to holy Hell and back. eCrush felt leaving his dirty laundry was an indicator of relationship security. He explained it as form of marking his girlfriend territory. Sorta the domestic equivalent of Arnold’s “I’ll be back.” He couldn’t understand why a shared spin cycle pushed me to an Emotional DEFCON 5.
As we talked, I realized I’m not ready for such a tangible expression of commitment. I need relationship baby steps, preferably with written notice and a side of valium. The most I was willing to give at this point was toothbrush lodging, and I had extended that invitation a few weeks back. At the time, eCrush saw it as a relationship milestone while I saw it more as continuing a lifetime of good oral hygiene. For me, sharing bathroom real estate was a Big Step that I’m still adjusting to. Weeks later, I still experience a nanosecond of panic whenever I see his blue Oral-B sitting next to mine.
And there’s a universe of difference between a toothbrush and Tide. The thought of washing his clothes with mine felt like playing a game of Chutes and Ladders. Except that I’d just landed on the square with the super huge ladder; that one that surpasses the entire board and leads to victory in one turn. It felt like I’d missed all the steps; that I really didn’t get to play out the game and because of that, winning had become essentially meaningless. And sometimes, playing is just as important as winning the prize.
More Cowbell is hours, and I do mean hours, of fun.
Go heavy on the Walken.
It’s Friday. I don’t do real Lawyerly work on Fridays.
Instead, I believe Fridays should be dedicated to on-line shopping.
While pursing this policy, I came across what I’m sure is going to be a best seller at the local Poverty Barn. The Glitter Skull! Apparently, over time it’ll age to a rich, warm patina. Somehow I don’t see that canceling out the Tacky.
Yesterday eCrush Boy put me in charge of our Weekend Game Plan. In the past, we’ve both figured out what we were doing as individuals and then sort of located mutually empty times where we could hang out. If all else failed, we would share sleep time. But I guess the planning component of our weekend has evolved. It seems eCrush wants us to have one plan, inclusive of both him and me, with all events overlapping. And as of Thursday morning, I was in charge. While I was a little confused by this sudden shift in our dynamic, my inherently bossy self silenced the part of me that was questioning the change.
Over Achiever Me spent yesterday diligently coming up with proposed activities. There was the “Sunny Weather Plan,” the “Foul Outside Plan” and the “Wanna Be Lazy and Hang At Home Plan.” On and off during the day, I emailed the options to eCrush. As expected, his A-type heart appreciated all my anal-retentive tendencies. By the end of the work day, there was a tentative agenda in place.
So, on a seemingly tangential but actually related topic… Last night, I finally broke down and bought some shelving from the Second Job Which Restores My Faith In Humanity. The system does require some assembly, but it’s minimal. Basically, I just need to drill some holes in the wall, toss in some screws, attach a lot of pieces and presto-mundo, storage heaven! It’s the kind of thing even a non-toolsy person can deal with.
During our Good Night Call, I mentioned to eCrush Boy that I was invoking my power as Official Weekend Planner. We were changing things to include a new Friday Night Construction Project: putting up my shelves. I said I would even let him use my new power drill. It makes a vrooooomvroom sound and has some sort of thrusty action that makes the holes appear faster. Come on, that’s incentive! Anyhoodles, eCrush Boy was not amused.
For awhile, I’ve suspected that eCrush is not like my father when it comes to Fun With Tools. Over the years Dad’s fixed toilets and washing machines, changed brake pads, painted the inside and outside of our house at least three times, and constructed brand new cherry cabinets during the Massive Kitchen Renovation of ’04. Give Dad a saw, and he morphs into the Mr. Wizard of home repair. Apparently, eCrush was not raised in a DIY household. His father did not walk around with a hammer in one hand and a wrench in the other. eCrush’s family is what is referred to in some circles as Puke Inducingly Rich and whenever the garbage disposal broke, they’d call a plumber. So, as soon as I mentioned my little project, eCrush asked if it was too late to get professional instillation. I explained this entire thing involved a little leveling, eight pilot holes, some electric screw magic and a minimal amount of brawn.
As I mentioned the leveling, eCrush got real quiet. At the point where I discussed pilot holes, I knew this was not going over well. As I talked about putting the hold-the-screw-in-the-drywall thingies in and how that was the hardest part of the entire project, eCrush broke.
eCrush (in a State of Total Panic): I have never done anything like this. I am not handy. This is what you pay people to do. You know, people with job titles like Handyman.
Me (rolling eyes but maintaining Patient Voice): Come on, we can do it. I know what I’m doing and it’ll be Tool Lesson 101 for you. Bring over your own hammer if it makes you feel more comfortable.
Me (sort of suspiciously and all squinty eyed): You have a hammer, right? Right?
eCrush (way too proud in lieu of what he was admitting): Nope. No hammer.
Me (Patient Voice gone, replaced by Incredulous Voice): You’re a boy! How can you not have a hammer? How did you hang up all the fancy art work in your apartment?
eCrush (with an overt tone of So Sue Me): Hired somebody.
eCrush: You still here?
Me (not at all joking): Do you have balls? I mean, really?
eCrush (slightly offended): Just because I don’t have tools does not mean I am not appropriately manly.
Me (on a high horse): Well, combined with the fact that you own hideous madras pants, it does. Seriously. I mean, seriously Seriously.
eCrush (willing to go down fighting when it comes to his Manhood): Jesus Christ on a stick. Will you let the madras pants go already? And look who is being all judgy tonight. If you think I need a hammer, I will go buy a freaking hammer. Once I locate a tool store.
Me (will not be defeated): Forget it. I’ll just give you one of mine. The flowered one my grandma gave me when I went to college. It’ll match your sissypants. Now, break out the Carhartts, babe. You’re going to help me put up shelves while we watch the Maybe Debate.
eCrush (clearly determined never to wield a basic tool of any sort): How about I watch and hand you things?
Me (banging head against wall where shelves will one day be hanging): So, can we discuss which one of us is going to wear the pants in this relationship again?
eCrush (going out with a bang): You mean the non-madras ones, right?
So, apparently there is some sort of Honest Weblog Blogger tag jobby thing going around and iMetro, the District’s Metroific Super Stud, included me on his. What’s with the sudden tags, Internets? Is there a full moon? Has hunting and fishing season recently started and morphed itself into an web version? I don’t know what forces are at work, but I don’t want to offend them. The Interweb Gods can be viscous. In order to keep them appeased, I’m going to do this Honest Weblog thing. Supposedly, this is how it works:
- When a blogger receives the (dubious) prize of being tagged by another blogger, s/he must write a post on the topic of being chosen. It must mention the name and link of the blogger who has bestowed this highly sought after honor. Cursing them is optional.
- Next, the blogger must choose a minimum of 7 blogs that s/he finds brilliant in their content and/or design or otherwise deems worth mentioning. These are the new victims recipients of the Honest Weblog love.
- The blogger must then list those seven blogs, with links, in their own blog and leave the new beneficiary of all that blog adoration a comment informing they were gifted with an Honest Weblog. I think it might also be advisable to tell them they better pass it on, or else Internet Guido is gonna find them and break their keyboard.
- If the blogger feels so inclined, s/he can show a picture of those who are awarded an Honest Weblog. But since most people don’t have blackmail worthy pictures just floating around, that part can be skipped too.
- The recipient of the Honest Weblog MUST pass on the Honest Weblog so that the Tagging Hell continues.
Without further ado, I am gonna target the following blogs (and no pinky-give-backs, and no revenge spamming, and no getting mad at me if you don’t like it):
- Herb of DC. He apparently owns madras pants. While I generally abhor that evil form of legwear, there’s something about Herb that leads me to believe he can pull them off. There’s a sense of inner panache. Plus, he generally cracks me up.
- Average Jane. I know her. We’ve shared dating pain.
- Pithy. This is as close as I get to a revenge tag. She linked me in a Meme the other day and I’ve been struggling to fill it out ever since. So, I’m going to chuck it and just call us even. That aside, she likes her felines as much as I like mine. She’s cool.
- Velvet. Update, damn it!
- Livit, Luvit. Don’t know her, but wanna. Something tells me she’d be fun to have a drink with.
- Restaurant Refugee. Because really, I think he’d find this mildly annoying and I’m feeling feisty today.
- Jennsylvania. While I never in a gagillion and a half years expect this lady to ever actually do this Honest Weblog thing, she’s still my Blog Hero. It’s my blog and I can tag who I want to. Pfft.
So Interwebs, I think we’re square.
My friend just emailed me this article. Apparently, some guy was pulled over for a DUI. As the fates would have it, he also had a little tummy upset thing going. As all those who suffer from lactose intolerance know, sometimes, you just gotta pass a little wind. So, this guy did. Bam! Battery charges in addition to his DUI issues. I particuarly like this part:
“The gas was very odorous and created contact of an insulting or provoking nature with Patrolman Parsons,” the complaint alleged.
And in the dude’s defense, “I couldn’t hold it no more.”
eCrush Boy called the Republican platform a Movement yesterday. I swore, he said it with a Big M. So I’ve decided to continue my jesty harassment of his political beliefs.
These were just sent to The Place Where Sexy Republicans Work:
Obama/Biden finger puppets! “Create puppet shows! Have your talking points ready: Hurricanes Hannah and Ike, pollution, world peace, it’s easy if you try.”
Obama soap! “In addition to the highest quality glycerin soap and light milk and honey scent, we added a pinch of inspiration, a spoonful of change and a whole lotta hope!”
Ha! That’s hours of fun coming to him in 3 to 5 business days…
This is me, officially applying for my Geek Card. It’s been a long time coming. Over the years, I’ve been reluctant to admit that I spend a lot of time in Geekadelphia, but I think it’s time to publicly join my brethren. Heck, I already have one foot in the door. For instance, last night, when eCrush Boy and I were talking politics, I managed to use seven Geekish references to his three.
- This is so not Sarah Palin and Her Special Destiny, retardo. (Battlestar Galactica)
- No blasters! This is a no blaster zone! We agreed that political talk would not lead to anger. (Star Wars)
- Yes, I am mocking your views with my monkey pants. (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
- Are you sure that wasn’t a sexy mistake? Because it sure wasn’t an ordinary mistake. (Futurama)
- Hey, no pulling a Crazy Ivan! (Firefly)
- Resistance if futile. Why don’t you just suck it up and die with honor? (Deep Space Nine)
- Clearly you are experiencing User Error. Go ahead and replace the user then press any key to continue. (general Geekery)
- It’s arguably Obama 2.0. (general Geek Computer Speak)
- So say we all! (Battlestar Galactica)
- I’m just sayin’, I don’t think there’s a power in the verse that can stop it. (Firefly)
My honorable mentions:
- Don’t anger a Fan Girl. (general Geek Advice)
- Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal! (Firefly)
- Do not anger the vengeance demon. (Buffy)
- Artificial Intelligence is no match for Natural Stupidity. (general Geek Maxim)
All day, I’ve been trying to figure out where my inner Geek came from. It’s not like I was exposed to D&D early in life. My parents are fairly normal, and I can’t find other evidence of the Geek Gene in my family history. I think it may have just crept up on me. First, there was the Geek ex-boyfriend who demanded I watch Firefly and LOVE IT! So began my love affair with the Geek Master, Joss Whedon. Then I developed a covert obsession with classic Geek Lit (the Ender’s Game series, Dune, anything by Isaac Asimov or with dragons on the cover). When Lord of the Rings came out and I considered Gandolf as a possible Halloween costume, I clearly was on my way to full fledge status. It was only a matter of time and I was in too deep to turn back.
So here I am, declaring that I secretly love the Renaissance Fair. And when I decide to move around my furniture, I’ll only do it after I have made and consulted detailed, to-scale floor plans which also take into consideration lighting and traffic patterns (well, this might really just mean that I’m anal-retentive). Like most Geeks, I also have a questionably intense relationship with my computer. Upon occasion, I’ve been known to talk to it, argue with it, and curse it when it acts up. That’s gotta be Intro to Geek Computing. I assume the next step in obtaining my Geekhood would be learning some funky computer language or buy gaming-related T-shirts, which I have no desire to do. Even I have limits. But if I’m being totally honest, I should admit that I have been weighing the pros and cons of putting Linux on my Mac. That’s like the secret password to move from normal to Geeksville.
If my Geek Worthiness is in any doubt, I should point out that I have also developed an unhealthy addiction to Diet Coke. As a result, sleep and darkness no longer hold a correlation in my life. At times I feel I’m on the verge of going Geek Vampire with my new aversion to sunlight. Over the years, I’ve been known to stay up until the wee hours working on a project, shutting everything else out, and limiting my human contact. And when it’s done, I feel like a Jedi Master. Yeah, I did just say that. Do not mock the The Force, interwebs.
But really, my Crowning Glory Moment of Geekhood came yesterday at lunch. A Lawyerly Client asked me my favorite sport, and I asked if Tetris counted. I think I need help, Obi-Wan.