The design of the restroom in my office building is quite peculiar. Notably the individual stalls. There are four of them in total, each with a 10 foot high door. No joke. Each stall has a swinging, plantation-shutter styled door that goes from floor to ceiling. On second thought, make that 12 feet. Another idiosyncrasy: each of these doors is fully equipped with a push-button handle lock as well as a deadbolt which when turned to the lock position displays the word OCCUPIED in red letters. When said deadbolt is not bolted, the door says VACANT on the other side. I can peacefully relieve my bowels with the utmost assurance that no one without a pickaxe can walk in on me. But this comfort comes at a high price… does anyone else see the catastrophe that could potentially occur because of such irresponsible architectural oversights?
What if I were a man? And what if I worked with other men in the age bracket of, say, early twenties. Let’s just say I really needed to go. Like, “go”, you know? So I’d walk down to the men’s room eager for a brief respite from abdominal and or intestinal stresses. I would turn the handle of the first door I see only to find, that although the door clearly advertises a VACANT toilet-it must be, in fact, occupied for I cannot open the door! And so I try the next VACANT stall as well, only to find myself dismayed once again as I cannot enter. With increasing frustration I’d dance uncomfortably to each of the six stalls welcoming me with a green VACANT placard only to be repeatedly let down.
It’s just wrong. I hope that architect’s contract has expired and he can’t find work. What a sick sense of humor.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
MY FIRST CANNOLI
There’s a little place by my house named Henri’s Bakery. I’ve passed it a few times before, and each time made a mental note to check it out. Yesterday I was wandering around the neighborhood looking for a place to eat dinner, and I thought I’d peek inside…check out the croissants or something. Given the fact that this place was nestled in the heart of an ugly old strip mall I should’ve known better than to expect that the pastries would be good—much less authentic. I miss the cuisine in France so much that I couldn’t help but hope! Ah, naivety. (That’s French, too.)
Once inside, I was greeted unenthusiastically by a short lady who was either Romanian or Mayan…or both. Her accent was equally as unidentifiable as her parentage, and the displays were about as unimpressive as the customer service. I’d bet two baklava that not a single item on the shelves was fresher than 36 hours. So, after pacing up and down the long, empty counter I settled on a cannoli.
EXIT BAKERY
Now I was really excited to find someplace worthwhile to eat…the sight of any bakery at 6pm is disheartening. Even in Paris, everything’s been picked bare by late afternoon and only random pieces of Flan and burnt raisin bread and crusty baguettes are left over. Henri’s was especially disappointing. Note to self: never come back.
So I’m juggling a bakery bag and my purse and my keys to unlock the car with a remote, and oh joy, it won’t unlock. This has happened a few times before. Usually it just takes a few more insistent jabs and the locks fly up with a really loud BEEPBEEP. Not this time. I set everything down and just pushed the remote over and over again. Open. Open. Open. Come on. Open. Are you kidding me? I was suspicious before that I drive the Swedish version of the Love Bug, but this just proves it. How can a vehicle be fickle? It’s just bolts and metal and oil. Nope, my car has a soul. I’m sure of it. He also has a sick, sick sense of humor.
I can actually unlock my car manually, but that won’t turn off the alarm. When I had this problem before I just used my keys to unlock the door; the alarm would go off, but it never lasted long. The remote would finally work and BLIPBLIP, it’s all good.
As soon as I opened the door the alarm went off just like I knew it would. Be casual, don’t look guilty. This IS my car. I kinda hunched over in the driver’s seat…after a few angry gestures. Fortunately, I had my mechanic’s number in my cell phone. He told me to try unlocking from the passenger’s door or the trunk, but nothing worked. You’d think that by putting the key in the ignition that the alarm would silence, but noooo. The engine locks! All the while I’m punching the unlock button on my little remote. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I call each of my roommates. No answer. No answer. No answer. Finally Lina calls me back and comes with a screwdriver so we can open the remote and put in a new battery. Lina really did a number on that remote. It’s all scratched up in the back, like a cat was playing with it or something. After a few minutes I asked for it back before it was shred to bits.
Maybe it just takes a little finesse, not so much metal and hardware. I squeezed the remote to open the battery compartment and saw a little green light. No way. I absentmindedly pushed the unlock button. BEEPBEEP. That’s it?! It’s all over? After 45 minutes of ear splitting alarms and flashing lights and inconvenience I just give the remote a little squeeze and the alarm turns off! I guess any rational person would be elated, but I was pissed. Was all that drama really necessary? I mean, I didn’t learn any life lessons. I didn’t have to change a battery or flip a switch, the problem just solved itself.
The problem just solved itself.
That cannoli wasn’t any good.
Once inside, I was greeted unenthusiastically by a short lady who was either Romanian or Mayan…or both. Her accent was equally as unidentifiable as her parentage, and the displays were about as unimpressive as the customer service. I’d bet two baklava that not a single item on the shelves was fresher than 36 hours. So, after pacing up and down the long, empty counter I settled on a cannoli.
EXIT BAKERY
Now I was really excited to find someplace worthwhile to eat…the sight of any bakery at 6pm is disheartening. Even in Paris, everything’s been picked bare by late afternoon and only random pieces of Flan and burnt raisin bread and crusty baguettes are left over. Henri’s was especially disappointing. Note to self: never come back.
So I’m juggling a bakery bag and my purse and my keys to unlock the car with a remote, and oh joy, it won’t unlock. This has happened a few times before. Usually it just takes a few more insistent jabs and the locks fly up with a really loud BEEPBEEP. Not this time. I set everything down and just pushed the remote over and over again. Open. Open. Open. Come on. Open. Are you kidding me? I was suspicious before that I drive the Swedish version of the Love Bug, but this just proves it. How can a vehicle be fickle? It’s just bolts and metal and oil. Nope, my car has a soul. I’m sure of it. He also has a sick, sick sense of humor.
I can actually unlock my car manually, but that won’t turn off the alarm. When I had this problem before I just used my keys to unlock the door; the alarm would go off, but it never lasted long. The remote would finally work and BLIPBLIP, it’s all good.
As soon as I opened the door the alarm went off just like I knew it would. Be casual, don’t look guilty. This IS my car. I kinda hunched over in the driver’s seat…after a few angry gestures. Fortunately, I had my mechanic’s number in my cell phone. He told me to try unlocking from the passenger’s door or the trunk, but nothing worked. You’d think that by putting the key in the ignition that the alarm would silence, but noooo. The engine locks! All the while I’m punching the unlock button on my little remote. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I call each of my roommates. No answer. No answer. No answer. Finally Lina calls me back and comes with a screwdriver so we can open the remote and put in a new battery. Lina really did a number on that remote. It’s all scratched up in the back, like a cat was playing with it or something. After a few minutes I asked for it back before it was shred to bits.
Maybe it just takes a little finesse, not so much metal and hardware. I squeezed the remote to open the battery compartment and saw a little green light. No way. I absentmindedly pushed the unlock button. BEEPBEEP. That’s it?! It’s all over? After 45 minutes of ear splitting alarms and flashing lights and inconvenience I just give the remote a little squeeze and the alarm turns off! I guess any rational person would be elated, but I was pissed. Was all that drama really necessary? I mean, I didn’t learn any life lessons. I didn’t have to change a battery or flip a switch, the problem just solved itself.
The problem just solved itself.
That cannoli wasn’t any good.
AN OPEN LETTER TO MALE HORMONES OF THE LATIN VARIETY
Dear Male Hormones of the Latin variety,
As an overachiever myself I understand where you’re coming from. And yet, I enjoy a vacation once in awhile. So could you please tone it down a bit? Reign it in? Maybe go part-time? Your overpowering influence inspires such strange behaviors. No man in his right mind calls the next day, or maintains eye contact, or walks around in public with his shirt half buttoned. How do you do it, Male Hormones of the Latin variety? I’m envious of your powers of persuasion. Surely if I possessed such authority over the masculine mind and instincts I would exercise said authority in much more responsible ways. Alas, I cannot—but if I may offer a few suggestions which will be beneficial to us both…
When your Latin-lover host is overly-eager it has an adverse effect on us women. He could look like Ricky Martin, but if he calls within 24 hours of obtaining my phone number I am instantly disappointed. Even disgusted. There simply isn’t room for anticipation in such a short amount of time. I haven’t yet built him up in my mind to be more attractive, and talented, and suave than he actually is. This takes at least three days. So listen up, Senor Testosterone, simmer down and give it a few more days. You’ll be very pleased with the outcome of this new strategy.
Also, the songs and poetic compliments are very much over the top. I like a little appreciation—let’s face it, I deserve it—but when the verbal adoration is carried beyond a certain point I become quickly aware that Jose isn’t sincere at all. In fact, you tricked Jose into thinking that he can flatter me into bed. Not so. While such craftiness does prove to be effective on the weak minded and/or bimbo female-types, such tactics will only illicit rejection and insult from the cleverer and therefore more desirable varieties (commonly known as “hard-to-get”). Keep the sweet talking to a minimum, and I just might feel an estrogen-induced need to prove my desirability. We can meet halfway. Maybe 60/40…or 70/30 if you absolutely can’t resist.
On another note, there seems to be a dearth of your presence among the Anglo-Saxon variety. Could you help a brother out? Population density has to be uncomfortably high in Central and South America, Spain and France. Let me provide you with an attractive relocation proposal. There are plenty of good-looking specimen in the North American region in need of your assistance. With the increasing number of hormone-killing entities such as Playstation and Gaming, natural selection has struck Male Horomones of the Anglo-Saxon variety with a near-fatal blow. So what I’m trying to say is: could you share the love?
Sincerely,
Hopeful
or Desperate
...you decide
As an overachiever myself I understand where you’re coming from. And yet, I enjoy a vacation once in awhile. So could you please tone it down a bit? Reign it in? Maybe go part-time? Your overpowering influence inspires such strange behaviors. No man in his right mind calls the next day, or maintains eye contact, or walks around in public with his shirt half buttoned. How do you do it, Male Hormones of the Latin variety? I’m envious of your powers of persuasion. Surely if I possessed such authority over the masculine mind and instincts I would exercise said authority in much more responsible ways. Alas, I cannot—but if I may offer a few suggestions which will be beneficial to us both…
When your Latin-lover host is overly-eager it has an adverse effect on us women. He could look like Ricky Martin, but if he calls within 24 hours of obtaining my phone number I am instantly disappointed. Even disgusted. There simply isn’t room for anticipation in such a short amount of time. I haven’t yet built him up in my mind to be more attractive, and talented, and suave than he actually is. This takes at least three days. So listen up, Senor Testosterone, simmer down and give it a few more days. You’ll be very pleased with the outcome of this new strategy.
Also, the songs and poetic compliments are very much over the top. I like a little appreciation—let’s face it, I deserve it—but when the verbal adoration is carried beyond a certain point I become quickly aware that Jose isn’t sincere at all. In fact, you tricked Jose into thinking that he can flatter me into bed. Not so. While such craftiness does prove to be effective on the weak minded and/or bimbo female-types, such tactics will only illicit rejection and insult from the cleverer and therefore more desirable varieties (commonly known as “hard-to-get”). Keep the sweet talking to a minimum, and I just might feel an estrogen-induced need to prove my desirability. We can meet halfway. Maybe 60/40…or 70/30 if you absolutely can’t resist.
On another note, there seems to be a dearth of your presence among the Anglo-Saxon variety. Could you help a brother out? Population density has to be uncomfortably high in Central and South America, Spain and France. Let me provide you with an attractive relocation proposal. There are plenty of good-looking specimen in the North American region in need of your assistance. With the increasing number of hormone-killing entities such as Playstation and Gaming, natural selection has struck Male Horomones of the Anglo-Saxon variety with a near-fatal blow. So what I’m trying to say is: could you share the love?
Sincerely,
Hopeful
or Desperate
...you decide
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
ANAGRAMS
i'm a fan of lists lately, i thought these were clever:
william shakespeare: I'll make a wise phrase
belgium = big mule
debit card = bad credit
the eyes = they see
narcissism = man's crisis (THE WINNER!)
darling i love you = avoiding your yell
Saturday, June 13, 2009
"ANOTHER SONG ABOUT THE DARKNESS"
i make all my worst decisions in the dark.
this brilliant thought came to me around 2:45am as i was driving home eating the last of a box of cream puffs.
really what is it about nighttime that just steals away my sanity? maybe the sun gives off wisdom as well as light and life. no--that can't be true, florida is the perfect example of a people who receives ample sunlight and still can't drive, dress, or vote (2004 election). yep and hollywood is in "sunny california". i find scandinavians to be a particularly sharp race, and their winter season is rather dark and bleak.
maybe it's because i've been awake for more than 13 hours and expended all of my good judgment juices (which isn't to say that i have a lot of that juice--maybe a cup's worth? 2 when i've had a good night's rest...)
i really should set a curfew just to ensure that i'm not conscience during those wee hours of the morning---hell, even late evening! we'll say from 10pm on. oh, and this ensures that i won't publish my nonsensical thought process online for all the cyber world to see.
maybe i'll start tomorrow.
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