The following is an issue I feel quite strongly about, but haven't been otherwise compelled to write about...until now.
Foot flushers. You know, the people too neurotically afraid of germs to just use their damn hands to flush the toilet, and insist on raising a leg and using ther shoe-covered foot? Those people.
Normally I think this is a ridiculous behaviour and is completely unneccessary. You DO wash your hands after going (and flushing), don't you?? If not then it appears we have a larger problem on our hands than we thought.
If you do, then what is your issue with using your hand to press down the lever that will whisk your unmentionables out of the bowl and down the pipes, never to be heard from again? Please explain this to me. You have read the studies that prove public toilets actually carry less bacteria than, say, a cell phone or table top, right? No? Google it. It'll blow your mind.
As much as this behaviour blows my little mind, what gets my goat (what does this saying even mean? I don't have a goat, but if I did, who would really go after it? Are there goat nabbers?) is when it persists into the winter months.
Think about it.
We live in New England. Chances are we have a foot of snow and slush and salt and ice on the ground at any given moment. Even just walking from a parking lot into a building you track it in with you. Now we're coming upon the event that has spurred this post. You go into a restroom. You do your business. You, you foot flusher, you, lift your soggy, slushy boot-clad foot to flush the toilet. And you spray that messy, dirty shmuck EVERYWHERE. All over the seat! And what do you do? Do you, foot flusher & germ phobic, grab a paper towel to wipe it down so the next occupant doesn't have to deal with your slush flush mess? NO! Because you are crazy and inconsiderate! I hope you get a cold!
That's right. I wish germs upon you, oh fearful one. And, not that my readership reaches far or wide, I hope that, if you are such a flusher, perhaps you'll consider knocking it the heck off fer cryin' out loud. At least for the winter months. I truly do not think it is too much to ask.
That, or I will find you. And I will sneeze on you. You have been warned.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Destiny, Destiny! There's No Escaping That For Me!
I don't know how I feel about words like "destiny" and "fate." Sometimes I think they're bandied about too freely, and perhaps those bandying are one "destiny" short of donning a fake Jamaican accent and trying to steal all my money on the TeeVee. If ya know what I'm saying. If ya don't, you maybe shouldn't be here.
Sometimes, though, I say things to myself in a similar vein. "It wasn't meant to be." "Whatever is going to happen is going to happen." Usually it's a consolatory phrase to try and make myself feel better after a relationship or what have you, doesn't work out. That, or sometimes it's a pep talk in the middle of the night after watching too much NCIS and wondering just how easy it would be to break into my house and WHAT was that noise I am definitely going to die. It's usually that one, actually.
Still, occasionally, some things do seem to be determined before we can even stand on our wobbly little jello legs. For instance, I appear to be becoming a dirty hippy. No, a clean hippy. But, still, a hippy nonetheless.
I wasn't baptized into any organized religion. My parents, however, kind of baptized me into the earth. Kind of. They brought me outside as a wee babe, and rubbed some dirt on my forehead, promising me back to Mother Earth.
I'm actually pretty proud of this. A lot of people say they don't know what happens after death. I do. Decomposition. We're all going to break down into simpler chemical compounds someday (See: decompose), regardless of all the soul stuff. Which, quite frankly, seems quite the messy topic most days. So I'm actually kind of pleased my parents skipped the religion business, and went straight to nature. It's just more...what's the word? Natural.
It works for me, anyway. And totally predicted my ending up a hippy. It's like it was meant to be! Not that being baptized Catholic means you'll end up a priest. But...come one! How many people get "promised back to the earth"? Clearly, my fate was written on 100% recycled paper before I'd even hugged my first tree.
Admittedly, though, I'm not really that crunchy. I am trying to crunchify a bit more, though I'll never be caught dead in birkenstocks. There are some lines you just don't cross.
I'm really just tired of all the chemicals in every single product I use, or even think about using. I've grown fairly girly since my tomboy youth, and I have no intention of giving up makeup or potions and lotions. I'm just trying to find better alternatives, and even make some of my own.
So I'm keepin' on crunchin' on. And, just as Dr. Frederick Frankenstein learned in his dream about the family business, there's no escaping destiny!
Though, for the record, I hate trail mix. Guess my hippy flag only flies at half mast...
Sometimes, though, I say things to myself in a similar vein. "It wasn't meant to be." "Whatever is going to happen is going to happen." Usually it's a consolatory phrase to try and make myself feel better after a relationship or what have you, doesn't work out. That, or sometimes it's a pep talk in the middle of the night after watching too much NCIS and wondering just how easy it would be to break into my house and WHAT was that noise I am definitely going to die. It's usually that one, actually.
Still, occasionally, some things do seem to be determined before we can even stand on our wobbly little jello legs. For instance, I appear to be becoming a dirty hippy. No, a clean hippy. But, still, a hippy nonetheless.
I wasn't baptized into any organized religion. My parents, however, kind of baptized me into the earth. Kind of. They brought me outside as a wee babe, and rubbed some dirt on my forehead, promising me back to Mother Earth.
I'm actually pretty proud of this. A lot of people say they don't know what happens after death. I do. Decomposition. We're all going to break down into simpler chemical compounds someday (See: decompose), regardless of all the soul stuff. Which, quite frankly, seems quite the messy topic most days. So I'm actually kind of pleased my parents skipped the religion business, and went straight to nature. It's just more...what's the word? Natural.
It works for me, anyway. And totally predicted my ending up a hippy. It's like it was meant to be! Not that being baptized Catholic means you'll end up a priest. But...come one! How many people get "promised back to the earth"? Clearly, my fate was written on 100% recycled paper before I'd even hugged my first tree.
Admittedly, though, I'm not really that crunchy. I am trying to crunchify a bit more, though I'll never be caught dead in birkenstocks. There are some lines you just don't cross.
I'm really just tired of all the chemicals in every single product I use, or even think about using. I've grown fairly girly since my tomboy youth, and I have no intention of giving up makeup or potions and lotions. I'm just trying to find better alternatives, and even make some of my own.
So I'm keepin' on crunchin' on. And, just as Dr. Frederick Frankenstein learned in his dream about the family business, there's no escaping destiny!
Though, for the record, I hate trail mix. Guess my hippy flag only flies at half mast...
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Snow: I'm Shovelin' It!
Yesterday my area got about a foot of snow. Needless to stay I shirked my adult responsiblity of going to work and stayed home, but, luckily, I wasn't alone. Only one person from my department braved the blizzard and made it in. I actually feel kind of bad - she lives the farthest away out of any of us. Still, I sure enjoyed my day off. As did my mother and father and sister. It sure was a full house, only without the scrunchies and live-in uncles.
The only downside of a snow day is that you must shovel yourself out before the next day. I mean, you could wait til the next day to shovel, but the only thing worse than the impending doom of work after a snow day is the impending doom of work after a snowday AND having to shovel yourself out before your coffee has even started pumping through your veins.
As such, my mom and I went out in the late afternoon to shovel out the garage, two car ports, and the front walkway. Shoveling is one of my least favorite things to do. I still haven't mastered the concept of "lift with your legs, not with your back." It always feels, no matter what varied technique I try, that I am in fact using both parts of my body in the act of shoveling. No matter how slowly, or how hard I focus to try and make sure I am utilizing my leg muscles, my back still ends up tweaking out.
On top of back pain, fingers numbed by the frigid temperature, and arms that come to eventually feel like those of an unusually weak toddler, it's also one of the times I feel least attractive. I think shoveling is only beat out by actual illnes. Having bodily fluids forcibly projected out of one or several orifices, sweating like a junky on detox, and producing enough mucus to plug the hole in the ozone layer does not make one feel like a pretty, pretty princess.
Shoveling is not that much different. Being out in freezing temperatures and doing intensely physical work (hey, it is if you're idea of a work out is cleaning out the litter box!) turns your nose into a veritable snot faucet. And it is neither refreshing nor attractive. On top of that, you've piled on several layers of warm clothing, causing your body temperature to rise and your glands to start producing copious amounts of sweat. So you're standing in the cold, sweating your face off, feeling a sort of awkward, clammy temperature not unlike feverish stupors of illnesses past. Whisps of hair sticking out of your hat are plastered to your face and are, somehow, freezing into tiny icicles. Your cheeks, bit with cold, turn the bright red color displayed in winter-themed commercials as healthy and cute, only you stopped being able to feel them three minutes ago and you can't help but wonder if red has turned to black and doctors will be forced to surgically remove your face due to horribly disfiguring frostbite. Your arms hang slack at your sides, barely able to grip the shovel's handle, let alone lift it above your waist whilst filled with snow, in order to fling it far from your body and the path you're trying to clear. The ground is slick with ice, so as you attempt your work you slip and slide around, flailing and spazzing, jerking your body around in a foolish attempt at keeping your balance.
You end up looking like an invalid with mental issues, is what happens. Shoveling is mock illness. All the symptoms are there, but you aren't actually sick. I don't care what fuzzy, cutesy hat you wear, or how colorful your scarf is, it is utterly impossible to look attractive while shoveling. This is science, people! Proven, age-old facts!
That being said, I don't exactly put in a whole lot of effort when shoveling. My mother has her shoveling technique perfected. She drops the shovel blade straight down into the snow about a foot into whatever drift she has chosen, effectively chopping out and defining a smaller section. She then goes at this section horizontally, scooping it away in layers. I'm not particularly gifted at explaining things, so I hope that made some semblance of sense. Either way, she always creates clear cut, neat paths with her method.
Mine is the madness. I shovel at random will, here, there and back again, creating a complete crumbly mess. I'm lazy. I don't get many days off, and to be forced into manual labor on such a gift of a day is just unfair. I resent this, and thusly half-ass the clean up job. And I make sure I look pathetic while doing it, hoping someone (my mom), will take pity on me and say "You poor girl! I can't believe you have to shovel on your day off! Here, put down that shovel, and go sit on your buttocks in your warm home! I will shovel for you from this day forward! You'll never lift this beastly snow-removal tool again!" Needless to say, I'm still waiting.
As my shoveling came to a close, wondering why no neighborhood child had wandered over and offered to shovel it all for 20$ (a steal, indeed! Though probably because I don't really live so much in a neighborhood as on a street of speeding death), I heard the faint but distinct sound of snowmobiles in the distance. A thought suddenly came to me, and it seemed like I would finally make my well-deserved millions.
Snowmobile plows! If we attach a smaller plow to a snowmobile then they could get to all the tricky, hard to reach areas of driveways and walkways with ease! I would absolutely pay someone to snowmobile plow the parts of my driveway the truck plow missed - I mean, who wouldn't?? Clearly, I was onto something! Alas, a quick query in google and all my hopes and dreams of vast fortunes were crushed. Snowmobile plows already exist, and why no one is cashing in on this in my neighborhood is a mystery to me. It would bring childhood entrepreneurship to a whole new, lazy level. And that's something my own lazy behind can, well, get behind.
The only downside of a snow day is that you must shovel yourself out before the next day. I mean, you could wait til the next day to shovel, but the only thing worse than the impending doom of work after a snow day is the impending doom of work after a snowday AND having to shovel yourself out before your coffee has even started pumping through your veins.
As such, my mom and I went out in the late afternoon to shovel out the garage, two car ports, and the front walkway. Shoveling is one of my least favorite things to do. I still haven't mastered the concept of "lift with your legs, not with your back." It always feels, no matter what varied technique I try, that I am in fact using both parts of my body in the act of shoveling. No matter how slowly, or how hard I focus to try and make sure I am utilizing my leg muscles, my back still ends up tweaking out.
On top of back pain, fingers numbed by the frigid temperature, and arms that come to eventually feel like those of an unusually weak toddler, it's also one of the times I feel least attractive. I think shoveling is only beat out by actual illnes. Having bodily fluids forcibly projected out of one or several orifices, sweating like a junky on detox, and producing enough mucus to plug the hole in the ozone layer does not make one feel like a pretty, pretty princess.
Shoveling is not that much different. Being out in freezing temperatures and doing intensely physical work (hey, it is if you're idea of a work out is cleaning out the litter box!) turns your nose into a veritable snot faucet. And it is neither refreshing nor attractive. On top of that, you've piled on several layers of warm clothing, causing your body temperature to rise and your glands to start producing copious amounts of sweat. So you're standing in the cold, sweating your face off, feeling a sort of awkward, clammy temperature not unlike feverish stupors of illnesses past. Whisps of hair sticking out of your hat are plastered to your face and are, somehow, freezing into tiny icicles. Your cheeks, bit with cold, turn the bright red color displayed in winter-themed commercials as healthy and cute, only you stopped being able to feel them three minutes ago and you can't help but wonder if red has turned to black and doctors will be forced to surgically remove your face due to horribly disfiguring frostbite. Your arms hang slack at your sides, barely able to grip the shovel's handle, let alone lift it above your waist whilst filled with snow, in order to fling it far from your body and the path you're trying to clear. The ground is slick with ice, so as you attempt your work you slip and slide around, flailing and spazzing, jerking your body around in a foolish attempt at keeping your balance.
You end up looking like an invalid with mental issues, is what happens. Shoveling is mock illness. All the symptoms are there, but you aren't actually sick. I don't care what fuzzy, cutesy hat you wear, or how colorful your scarf is, it is utterly impossible to look attractive while shoveling. This is science, people! Proven, age-old facts!
That being said, I don't exactly put in a whole lot of effort when shoveling. My mother has her shoveling technique perfected. She drops the shovel blade straight down into the snow about a foot into whatever drift she has chosen, effectively chopping out and defining a smaller section. She then goes at this section horizontally, scooping it away in layers. I'm not particularly gifted at explaining things, so I hope that made some semblance of sense. Either way, she always creates clear cut, neat paths with her method.
Mine is the madness. I shovel at random will, here, there and back again, creating a complete crumbly mess. I'm lazy. I don't get many days off, and to be forced into manual labor on such a gift of a day is just unfair. I resent this, and thusly half-ass the clean up job. And I make sure I look pathetic while doing it, hoping someone (my mom), will take pity on me and say "You poor girl! I can't believe you have to shovel on your day off! Here, put down that shovel, and go sit on your buttocks in your warm home! I will shovel for you from this day forward! You'll never lift this beastly snow-removal tool again!" Needless to say, I'm still waiting.
As my shoveling came to a close, wondering why no neighborhood child had wandered over and offered to shovel it all for 20$ (a steal, indeed! Though probably because I don't really live so much in a neighborhood as on a street of speeding death), I heard the faint but distinct sound of snowmobiles in the distance. A thought suddenly came to me, and it seemed like I would finally make my well-deserved millions.
Snowmobile plows! If we attach a smaller plow to a snowmobile then they could get to all the tricky, hard to reach areas of driveways and walkways with ease! I would absolutely pay someone to snowmobile plow the parts of my driveway the truck plow missed - I mean, who wouldn't?? Clearly, I was onto something! Alas, a quick query in google and all my hopes and dreams of vast fortunes were crushed. Snowmobile plows already exist, and why no one is cashing in on this in my neighborhood is a mystery to me. It would bring childhood entrepreneurship to a whole new, lazy level. And that's something my own lazy behind can, well, get behind.
Monday, January 10, 2011
She's a Super Freak: When Understhings Give More Away Than You'd Like to Show
I recently purchased some 'theraputic' thigh-highs from the Vermont Country Store. I did so because last year I had a couple of treatments to rid myself of my unsightly spider veins. I'm a sprightly twenty four years old, and it did nothing for my appearance to have purple lines all over my legs (mostly my thighs). I was even asked once if someone had drawn on them with pen. So, it was vain (and vein! hah!), but I'm glad I did it.
The doctor who performed the procedures recommended I wear compression hosiery to help deter new spider veins from forming (yes, after all my vain vein pain, new ones could form). I purchased a pair of knee highs and full hose at her suggestion. Apparently I have thighs of steel (or generate lots of thigh friction at the very least) because it was only a matter of months before they were destroyed. It looked like the crotch area had been put in a blender, and I had a feeling they would be of little use to me in this state. While the knee-highs remained un-shredded, I couldn't imagine how helpful they'd be at preventing more spider veins when they were almost exclusively on my thighs.
Enter my new thigh-high compression hosiery! If there was any doubt about my old-lady status may it be laid to rest! Just call me Grandma! Though, I'll admit, another reason I was attracted to the thigh-highs was their lacey thigh-band. It nearly made me feel young again...even in compression hosiery.
Since I have a desk job and sit on my expanding buttocks all day, I took my new thigh-highs out of the packaging and put them on under my work pants.
Everything was going great until I went into the bathroom at work and caught a glimps of myself in the full length mirror. Let it be known I have recently gained a little weight. Nothing too noticeable to the outsider (or so I thought), but enough that my pants were feeling a tad tighter to me. In the full lenth mirror I could see with horror the lacey thigh bands holding up my hosiery in high relief through my pants.
Now everyone at my office must either think I'm getting some later tonight, or that I'm a secret spy a la Angelina Jolie as Jane Smith in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Well that, or, as my dear friend just put it, "you're a prostitute on your lunch break." Sigh, what are friends for??
The doctor who performed the procedures recommended I wear compression hosiery to help deter new spider veins from forming (yes, after all my vain vein pain, new ones could form). I purchased a pair of knee highs and full hose at her suggestion. Apparently I have thighs of steel (or generate lots of thigh friction at the very least) because it was only a matter of months before they were destroyed. It looked like the crotch area had been put in a blender, and I had a feeling they would be of little use to me in this state. While the knee-highs remained un-shredded, I couldn't imagine how helpful they'd be at preventing more spider veins when they were almost exclusively on my thighs.
Enter my new thigh-high compression hosiery! If there was any doubt about my old-lady status may it be laid to rest! Just call me Grandma! Though, I'll admit, another reason I was attracted to the thigh-highs was their lacey thigh-band. It nearly made me feel young again...even in compression hosiery.
Since I have a desk job and sit on my expanding buttocks all day, I took my new thigh-highs out of the packaging and put them on under my work pants.
Everything was going great until I went into the bathroom at work and caught a glimps of myself in the full length mirror. Let it be known I have recently gained a little weight. Nothing too noticeable to the outsider (or so I thought), but enough that my pants were feeling a tad tighter to me. In the full lenth mirror I could see with horror the lacey thigh bands holding up my hosiery in high relief through my pants.
Now everyone at my office must either think I'm getting some later tonight, or that I'm a secret spy a la Angelina Jolie as Jane Smith in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Well that, or, as my dear friend just put it, "you're a prostitute on your lunch break." Sigh, what are friends for??
Monday, January 3, 2011
Who Goes There??: The proper way to announce yourself to a bathroom
I was just in my company's restroom when all of a sudden I hear this weird noise which could either be interpreted as someone knocking on the door with a stick, something going wrong with the heating system, or a bomb. Maybe. I sit still, and it comes again. I assume it is the former option and say meekly (in case I'm wrong and someone walks past and thinks I am talking to myself in the bathroom), "occupied!" Then it comes again, this time with a "Helloo?" like I am one of those miners stuck underground and the rescuers want to know if they're getting close.
Jesus! Can't a girl pee in peace?? "I'LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE!!"
There's got to be a better way of determining if a public restroom is occupied than rapping the door with a stick. Presumably a mop handle. For instance, one could knock and say, "It's the janitor!" and then, should anyone be in the bathroom, the occupant could reply "I'll be out in a minute!" instead of sitting and wondering what the fuck kind of noise was that?! and crouching in case it's a bomb threat.
Jesus! Can't a girl pee in peace?? "I'LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE!!"
There's got to be a better way of determining if a public restroom is occupied than rapping the door with a stick. Presumably a mop handle. For instance, one could knock and say, "It's the janitor!" and then, should anyone be in the bathroom, the occupant could reply "I'll be out in a minute!" instead of sitting and wondering what the fuck kind of noise was that?! and crouching in case it's a bomb threat.
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