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13 January 2010
posted by shine at 7:37 AM
17 December 2009
I'm writing this on Tuesday because well, because it happened last night. I'd like to keep all the details fresh.
Last night, after I got home from work, I decided to take a bath before meeting my mom for dinner. For those of you who know me, you know how much I love a good bath. I had about an hour, so I settled in with a book for a good soak.
Of course, in the middle of it, I had to get out and poop, but that's a whole different TMI story. Probably one that doesn't need to be told.
Anyway, I finished my bath, but instead of reaching down to unplug the drain while I was still sitting in it, the way I normally would, I just...got out of the tub. With all the water still sitting in it.
I realized my mistake as I was drying myself off, so I went to the side of the tub where the drain is located, so I could lean down and unplug it.
Sounds simple, right? But here's the thing. My skin was still all wet. And my shower curtain is vinyl. It was basically like sitting in a car with vinyl seats on a hot summer day. My skin stuck to the shower curtain like a tongue to a frozen metal pole. All of my momentum was carrying me forward. I lost my footing and proceeded to fall, head first, back into the tub. Pulling the shower curtain into the tub with me, but somehow not ripping it from its metal loops on the rod itself.
It took me a few minutes to come to terms with what had just happened and then a couple more minutes to untangle myself. I got out of the tub, dried myself off and realized...I still hadn't unplugged the drain.
15 December 2009
Last year, over spring break, I took a little trip to Me-hee-co. It was lovely. The beach was awesome, as was the swim-up bar. Who doesn’t love a swim-up bar? But I think my favorite part of the whole thing was the speed bumps.
I know, I know. It seems weird. Mexican speed bumps are the shit, though. There are at least five different kinds, and they’re everywhere. Residential streets, highways, sidewalks, hallways, you name it. And they take that shit seriously in Mexico.
First, they have the normal, average, everyday USA kind, but about 2 inches taller. If you’re in your teeny tiny car, it’ll rip you up if you don’t slow down. So everyone slows down. These were mostly in public parking lots, like the airport.
Then there are… well, how do I put this? You know the road tits? The ones they use for the left turn lane, so you’ll think really long and hard about trying to get out of it once you’re in it? They’re like the lane dividers but ten times the size? Well, there are speed bumps made out of two to three rows of those. They’re all over the highways and busy streets. They seemed to be the most effective. No one speeds over those things.
After that, we have the big-wide-rounded-top speed bump. It was my favorite when I lived in El Paso, because it’s fun to speed over that kind. They had them in the Target parking lot, and we always referred to them as “Target Speed Bumps.” It never occurred to me that Target may not put those in parking lots nation-wide. What a disappointment. But they had some in Mexico. Not as fun because the cab drivers slowed down too much.
The next ones are the slant-up-flat-top-slant-down kind. I don’t really enjoy these so much. They were the least prevalent, usually seen at check points and things like that. I actually only remember encountering them on the day trip to Chichen Itza. I was on this giant bus. And I get carsick. The tour guide wouldn’t shut up. He kept making these incredibly ridiculous numerological parallels between the Mayan pyramid and everyday things in Western culture. Yeah, I’m pretty sure the Maya didn’t know anything about Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or that there would eventually be 52 cards in a deck. But thanks, dude. Glad you could listen to yourself talk for nine hours.
My all-time favorite speed bumps were these ones that were almost the reverse of the slant-up-flat-top-slant-down kind. There were two slant-down-flat-bottom-slant-up-flat-top ones in a row. These were everywhere, but mostly in the residential neighborhoods. Like the one on the way to the hotel. It was almost like they just decided to build in structured potholes. Probably you could get away with speeding over those things, but I wouldn’t advise it.
Of course none of that matters, since lanes and speed limits are really barely even suggestions in Playa del Carmen. Going the wrong way, but in the right lane? No problem. Just pull a U-turn in front of all the traffic, they won’t mind. And if you happen to drive a tour bus, you have the right of way. At all times. Even if it means the guy driving the other way while you’re passing someone has to go off-roading for a few minutes. Some would call it a really boring game of chicken, in which everyone knows who the winner will be. On another trip, some passengers were telling us about the driving in the Dominican Republic. Apparently, there mothers will drive little scooters while just holding their children onto their sides, sort of football style in my imagination. Compared to that, the driving in Playa del Carmen is amazing.
14 December 2009
To start your Monday morning off right, Rebecca over at Losing It in AZ came up with an awesome idea. We should all share some stories of our past failed relationships. These stories can be about any relationship: a boyfriend, your mom, your cousin, your boss, your cat...you get the picture. Obviously, you're going to want to hop on this train, because I think if we put our heads together, we can come up with a really hilarious collection of our failures.
Failed Relationship: Josh, kindergarten boyfriend
Length of Relationship: Approximately 48 hours
I started kindergarten* at the ripe old age of four. As you can imagine, I was the youngest person in my class. Actually, I was pretty much the youngest person in my class until I graduated from high school. You see, my mom had to work. And, well, she needed me out of her hair. So even though I was three months past the cut-off birth date for admittance into school, she talked them in to taking me off her hands.
I was in class with my cousin Summer, who was a giant trouble maker. I bet she still is. She's the reason I got spanked for talking at nap time. You see, I was big into rule following. I still am, actually. It's just that now I pick and choose instead of following all rules presented to me. Life's more fun this way. Oh, and my mom ALWAYS signed that little piece of paper saying they could spank me at school. Rude.
Anyway, in our class, there was a boy. And this boy would steal my jacket and color on my paper and eat my chapstick and drop the see-saw really hard when I was on the other end. It was love, obviously. Except, of course, that I hated him. Then one day, he gave me a Valentine. Oh, that day was Valentine's Day. I suppose I should clear that up, so you don't think that he was some weirdo kid making Valentines on April 12th or something.
Oh man, I was so excited. I got a Valentine!
From a boy.
Kind of icky.
Well, maybe it could be all right, if he would stop eating my chapstick. Ass.
After that, he held my hand and we played together at recess. Somehow this still involved him stealing my jacket during tag, but I think that's because he would always grab onto it to try to catch me, and I would unzip it and skip out of it (Yes, I totally mean skip. I was always a crappy runner, so I would skip and I could still beat most of the boys. True story.), leaving him holding my jacket and looking puzzled. Worked. Every. Time.
This is about the time I learned an important lesson. Boys are dumb.
Write that down.
About a week later, I found out that he had also given a Valentine to one of our other female classmates. What a jerk! We "broke up" and he stopped eating my chapstick (Yay!) and I refused to play tag and that, my friends, was the end of that.
*Actually, for all I know, all of this could have happened in the first, second, third, or fourth grade. Those memories are all sort of jumbled together in my mind. Except I know that in third or fourth grade I peed on myself and had to wear a borrowed Alf sweatshirt for the rest of the day. Along with borrowed pants, obviously. I didn't manage to just pee on my torso. Wow, that was embarrassing...
10 December 2009
Today is my 30th birthday. WTF? How did this HAPPEN?
Boys? Feel free to skip this one. It's about going to the GYN. (That's gynecologist, for those of you who didn't bother to read the title.)
A little over a year ago, I found a super great awesometastic gynecologist. I'd tell you his name, but I don't remember it.
And therein lies the problem.
I can't remember his name. Which makes it really hard to make an appointment. I do remember where he practiced, so I went online to look him up, just knowing that if I heard the name, it would trigger my memory.
It didn't. Or else he's not there. I'm pretty sure he's disappeared off the face of the earth. So after a small freak out, I set about the business of finding a new GYN. Fun!
This, of course, involved asking all my friends for referrals.
I quickly realized that all gynecologist's offices, if not all doctor's offices, have incredibly long, convoluted answering machine thingamabobbies that make very little sense. Could you at least go in numerical order, guys?
The first lady parts doctor I called wasn't accepting new patients at all. Apparently she has all the business she needs.
The second womanly doctor was accepting new patients, but she didn't have any "new patient appointments" open until March. Thanks, but I'd like to not get pregnant in the next three months.
The third woman didn't have any appointments until June.
The fourth wasn't accepting new patients.
The fifth had retired.
What the HELL, people? I feel like I'm in Hollywood and trying to get an appointment with the latest and greatest waxer or hair stylist or something. You poke around in people's vaginas.
Luckily the woman who retired worked in a group, so I managed to get an appointment with one of the other doctors at the end of the month. Whew.
Now I just have to deal with all my anxiety about having a new lady in my parts. I almost had to resort to Planned Parenthood.
I don't know how many of you have ever used Planned Parenthood for your basic gynecological needs, but...it's not very pleasant. At least, my experience never has been, and I went for years.
I had one doctor tell me that if I was so worried about getting pregnant (after I asked her a simple question about trying a new method of birth control. Something along the lines of, "How effective is this, compared to the pill?"), I should probably just not have sex. Um, dude. You're PLANNED PARENTHOOD. I asked you about BIRTH CONTROL. You should be thrilled that I'm responsible.
Then there was the doctor who acted like I was some sort of sinner and she would have to cast out the demons because I have...SLEPT WITH MORE THAN ONE PERSON.
Then there was the doctor who didn't bother to, ya know, even TRY to be gentle with my girly bits. That one was the worst.
In related news, I hate the gynecologist. I just want my awesome dude back. No, that's a lie. What I want is to be a dude and not have to worry about this crap. What I want is to not be forced to go have my business poked and prodded just because I don't want to get pregnant. I'm being RESPONSIBLE and for that? I'm forced to go have my bits checked out once a year, for which I have to pay, then I have to pay for my prescription for birth control.
What I really want? Is to have my tubes tied, but I'm not allowed to make that decision until I'm 35-years-old. Which, let's face it, is coming at me like a freight train. Now, I love being a girl, and I wouldn't trade it, but let's stop with the inequality where this shit is concerned, mkay?
09 December 2009
You may already realize that my boss is quite the character. If you don't, you can find some stories about it here (and here and here (with MS Paints!) and here).
Now that we've taken care of that, and you can see what I'm working with over here, I'm going to tell you a little bit about what Performance Reviews are like in our office. Basically, think Michael Scott...but older.
These days, I pretty much run the office, so I'm the one who does payroll and all that jazz. Which, ya know, means if you work in my office? You should probably not piss me off. Look, it's not that I don't LIKE archaeology (but I don't really like the kind we do), it's just that it pays better to do what I do now. And it was a full-time gig. I don't know if you've noticed, but the economy's not really doing so hot. Full-time = good idea.
Last year, my boss decided that maybe it would be wise for us to have an employee handbook. He decided this because a coworker and I pretty much beat him down until he came up with the idea all by himself. Unfortunately, this meant that I had to write an employee handbook. I had no earthly idea how to go about that, so I gathered a few examples and set about writing it up. This also meant that I had to pick my boss's brain on every subject from lunch breaks to vacation time to pay increases to attendance. Trust me, my boss's brain is not really a pretty place to be.
It turns out that my boss does not believe in giving his employees "cost of living" raises. He went on and on about how he didn't believe in just giving someone an increase in pay for doing the exact same amount of work, and so, if anyone wanted a raise from him, they'd have to come talk to him about it.
Yes, I tried to explain that cost of living raises are designed to keep employees' salaries in line with inflation and that not giving them essentially means that he's making it more difficult for the employees to live, while they're still doing the same amount of work, etc. He didn't buy it.
I argued and argued, but to no avail. And alas, it says in our employee handbook that no cost of living raises should be expected and that if an employee feels he deserves a raise, he is required to discuss the matter with the boss. Of course, no one but me will actually do that.
Every year, at the end of the year, we're supposed to have a "Performance Review." Last year, I think mine went something like this:
Boss walks up to my desk. "Shine, go ahead and give yourself a such-and-such cost of living raise. Oh, and here's the list for everyone else."
After an employee has been here for three months, he is also entitled to a "Performance Review" from the boss. This review should determine the employee's future status with the company and his rate of pay for the coming year. About six months ago, we hired a new guy. He was only supposed to be here for a month. But, after three months, when he was still here, it was time for a Performance Review with the boss!
This is how that went down:
Boss calls me into his office. "Shine, what do you think of New Employee?"
Me: "Well, I think he works hard. He's not scared to ask questions. I've read some of his stuff and he seems to have a really good grip on the English language.
Boss: "Anything else? Do you think we should keep him around?"
Me: "I think NE is a pretty good asset. He's a little flaky, but I think he more than makes up for that with his writing. I don't know how he is in the field, though."
Boss: "Oh, he does just fine in the field. Let me ask you this, though. Would you date him?"
Boss: "Would you, you know...date him?"
Me: "........Ummmm, well, uh, considering that he works here and that he HAS a girlfriend and that he's nearly five years younger than me...no. I really don't think I would. Why do you ask?"
Boss: "Oh, I was just curious. He has a girlfriend? What's she like?"
Me: "Honestly, Boss, I have no idea. None. I've never met the girl."
And now NE has a full-time position with our company. I can't say I'm sure whether the correct answer was "Yeah, I'd date him" or "Um, Hell no," nor do I see what in the FUCK that has to do with his employment status at our firm, but there you have it. A Performance Review by Boss.
posted by shine at 7:37 AM
08 December 2009
Guess what people...I JUST DON'T CARE that he slept with a bunch of women who weren't his wife.
Not even a tiny bit.
Less than you're thinking even.
And yet here I am talking about it because it's all I hear about on the damn radio.
Let me ask you this: Did Tiger Woods ever sign up to be anything but a really good golfer? Nope. So he cheated on his wife. He can still probably swing a golf club and that's all I expect of him. Whatever else he wants to do in his spare time is really none of my business.
Please tell the media to get it together. There MUST be something else to talk about, right? Anything? Hell, I'd even listen to more TO talk if it means I don't have to listen to everyone act like Tiger Woods has raped and murdered a small child or something.
posted by shine at 9:37 AM