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I graduated from college on Saturday. Hurray! Now I'm legit in the professional workforce or somesuch thing and it only took me 13 years and a shitload of money from the time I began!

Seriously though, I'm excited and thrilled to be done. It's awesome to finally put a degree on my resumé and table the conversation where education is concerned (um, for now...hehe) so I can figure out how to be a parent who is present instead of a parent who is constantly stressing over when and how to write the next paper. No longer an issue.

Graduation was interesting. Most of my class wasn't there since not all of them had completed degree requirements, but one person was there and I was super honored to get to sit next to her: Skeleton Face. She complained about everything. So did I, but that's beside the point since I rarely complain about anything unless I'm safely within the private confines of the blogosphere. But Skeleton Face, she complains willy-nilly-- about the temperature in the classroom, posting homework online, homework concepts themselves, the books used in class, having to stay in class past a certain point in the evening, the director of the program whom she's never met-- you get the idea. So, true to form, Skeleton Face complained about our graduation gowns, getting the funny cap to stay on her head, why she wasn't wearing a Magna Cum Laude stole, how she couldn't understand the speaker, why it was taking so long, and how air horns shouldn't be allowed at graduation and that people should be searched before entering the auditorium. I, in turn, complained about the audience screaming out people's names during what was obviously Quiet Time after the ceremony began, and also about Skeleton Face herself to the Hubs via text. He responded by sending me screenshots of Skeletor from He-Man. TRUE LOVE, people.

As I walked across the stage, the Hubs and the In-Laws and the Pops screamed their heads off and it was humbling and pleasing and kind of cute. I heard some hollering behind me too-- turns out two friends of ours who play professional brass were playing at this graduation, which was a nice surprise. I'd forgotten the name of their quintet and they'd forgotten I transferred to this school. It was probably the most raucous graduation I've ever attended, high school included. The shouting, catcalls, air horns, and general tomfoolery was second to none. I eventually got over my preconceived notion of how this should be a solemn event and just laughed at it, but Skeleton Face insisted on whispering to me at every opportunity how mortified she was. Personally, the only truly disappointing part was that I'd planned a little surprise for the Hubs and he didn't get to see it, which was sad considering the minor embarrassment I endured to get it done.

I'd picked up my cap and gown at the school on Wednesday last week. One of the things advertised in my bazillion graduation emails was the capability to record a video message of thanks for anyone you wanted, and it would be played in the auditorium before graduation began. I thought it'd be cute to record one for the Hubs for putting up with my five changes of major over 13 years of part-time schooling. I didn't tell him about it-- I just wanted him to suddenly see it and be surprised and maybe feel like all the times I  was forced to quash libidinous overtures in order to finish a paper on which I'd procrastinated for far too long were worth the trouble. So after I picked up my stuff, I asked where to record a shout-out. The lady pointed me in a general direction and I saw a group of students clustered around a table looking animated and video-worthy. I went over there and put down my things, grinned at all of them when they looked at me, and stood there with arms crossed over my giant stomach, waiting expectantly.

Time passed.

(The better part of a minute, maybe.)

I looked at them and they looked at me and I looked at them and they looked at me with odd expressions, and I just smiled and waited in line for them to finish their sh......wait. Wait just a tick. There is no line here. I looked at the table. Standard student stuff: backpacks, laptops, notebooks, pens. No video-recording equipment in sight. Come to think of it, wouldn't there be a background or at least a microphone or something? I cleared my throat.

"Hey uh, are you guys recording shout-outs here, or am I just standing here being creepy?"

A boy scowled at me and replied, "You're just standing there being creepy."

I burst out laughing. They all stared, not in the least bit amused.

"Right! Okay, so do you know where that's taking place?" He pointed to a room directly beyond them WITH A FREAKING SIGN ON IT. I thanked him, picked up my things and left, chuckling all the while. I looked back as I got to the door and they were still staring. And they were still not laughing. PEOPLE. How is that not funny?? Not to mention, my degree is in Investigations and I'm basically counted upon to be more observant than the average bear but I didn't notice there wasn't any recording equipment or the sign on the door just past this group of students. Uh, you don't want me to investigate your murder or child abduction case, apparently.

So after all that, I snorted and smirked my way through recording the message and the Hubs didn't even see it that day because they played it five minutes after opening the doors to the auditorium. Fail. Luckily, it's archived online so I captured it for him as a mini-surprise. But no, you can't see it because then you'd know who I am and then I'd have to kill you. Watching my awkwardness was practically painful, and I was reminded of why I consciously pitch my voice higher when I'm on the phone-- homegirl sounds like a nasally boy.

But you know what? This nasally boy is done with school now. So I'm going to go read a book now. A fiction one!!

Happy Meal?

A friend of mine published a truly entertaining post about the follies of McDonald's tonight, and it made me shake my head and think of grossness. Just grossness. And, I suppose, gratitude that I haven't chosen to visit that establishment in a few years.

I detest McDonald's. I shudder at the happy-faced creepster clown whose seated plastic visage with outstretched arms entices innocent children to sit on his lap. I despise the oddly crunchy-yet-old french fry smell that wafts from its doors, reminding me of late nights worked at Walgreens in close quarters with unwashed, foul-breathed clientele. I loathe the flat, uniform nature of the hockey puck discs of meat. I hate the vastly unhealthy nature of McDonalds' processed offerings, and remember vividly how vile my stomach felt after gorging on a Double Cheeseburger to soak up a blotto Saturday night into Sunday morning. And in reminiscing, I invariably stray from my staunch disapproval and shame myself in thinking how good the preservatives in those hot, salty fries tasted, and have to remind myself that I abhor the abomination that is my hated and revered Chicken McNugget. Oh, how I have flagellated myself over my long-time love of those revoltingly processed nuggets. Year after year, I think the burning memory of those crispy, tasty little chunks of crack will fade, and year after year, I can still be tempted to run to the nearest McD's at the mere whiff of a co-worker's lunch. I hate you, McDonald's. You sicken me.

(I do like these Ronalds, however.)

Actually, if I remember correctly, the last time I went to McD's was in March of 2009 when I failed my Series 4 exam for work (spectacularly-- I got a 33%; I think I wasn't including the calculations of the fourth leg of the more complicated options orders) and, after beating my head against the steering wheel repeatedly and calling my boss in a distinctly not right state of mind, I plummeted to my own personal rock bottom. Sobbing during my very unsafe drive/swerve home, I veered into a McDonald's out of sheer, desperate need to recapture some semblance of feeling good. I took the drive-thru in near wails and ordered my precious nugget meal with a strawberry shake in a voice hardly recognizable as my own. Thankfully, the soothing scent of the squeeze-tube nuggets calmed me enough to complete the drive home in mere tears instead of hysterics, promising I'd feel happy again soon and that not all was lost. I selfishly cradled my pathetic stash with a paranoid eye as I stumbled into my thankfully empty living room and flicked on the TV. There, with Steve Wilkos breaking up screeching midget fights in the background, I slowly crammed nugget after nugget into my sniveling mouth, partially-chewed crumbs and strawberry shake dripping with my tears onto my gleaming hardwood floor.

Mister Beer Keg

Today's tall tale comes to you courtesy of office creepers. There will be at least one more of these, but this guy's tale of grossness will be enough for one day. 

When I first started at my job, I worked on a phone team. I was a temp and didn't really ever plan to stay, but I grew to like the characters on my team so much (and the pay was GREAT) that I just kept hangin out. One person on my team with whom I was not really friends was Mister Beer Keg (MBK), so-named because he chose that for his Yahoo! chat screen name (which he shared with me along with a host of other undesirable information) and also because he resembled a beer keg. Which may be why he chose it along with the fact that he loved beer. He was hugely overweight, sarcastic, unpleasant and generally downcast. I didn't have any interest in him for these reasons and ALSO because he was an ogler and extremely obvious about it-- like, did not EVER, AT ALL, disguise that he was ogling a woman. He would flagrantly stare at every part of your body under clothes, and he would do this both while talking and while listening to you talk. Rarely made eye contact. It was really unnerving and shifty and I started to hate being around him. At some point the team went out for beers one night and you know how sometimes there is a lull in talking to people you actually like and that provides the perfect opportunity for a less-than-savory character to swoop in and monopolize your time? Yeah, that happened with MBK. It was discovered during this time monopolization that we shared a mutual love of Guinness. And that is the one and only thing I think we ever had in common. It was the birth of a beautiful friendship. *sarcasm font*

So, I am way too fucking nice. Or was, anyway. When I moved to a new team, MBK began IMing me now and again to chat. And because I like to slack (hello, blogging at work) and because I at least didn't have to talk to him face-to-face, I chatted. Whatever. I didn't care. We sort of became friends, except for the part where I didn't really like him because he was a jerk to people and lazy to boot, OH AND HE OGLED, and so I made it a rule with myself that I never initiated the chatting. I would just answer his chats. Pretty soon he started telling me about the problems in his marriage, and I thought maybe that explained his general attitude, so I gave advice if I thought it would be helpful, and sometimes he followed it. Mostly not. 

And then one day...THEN! He started telling me, in chat, at work, about their problems in the bedroom. IN DETAIL. Here are some examples:

"Isn't the point of being a wife to let her husband finger her hot hole?"

"I exfoliated my balls just for that night and the woman didn't even have the decency to lick them."

"Then after the bitch got me hard and ready she said she didn't want to get pregnant and made me jerk off by myself and sleep on the couch."

"I was hoping she'd get drunk at the wedding and pass out so I could bang her in peace, but she refused to drink anything." 

AT WORK!!!!

I was thoroughly disgusted and tried to deflect the comments and talk about other things, but he would always bring it up. I started to avoid answering his chats specifically so I could avoid his bedroom talk. And because I was a freaking PANSY, I had such a hard time confronting people or saying anything that might hurt their feelings, even at a cost to myself. Even if I didn't like them. I've gotten much better but before, oh, it was bad for awhile. There was more than one person I barely knew dumping personal shit on me at that time, and I was so pathetic. How fucking hard can it be to say "Don't talk to me about this at work. Or ever." ??? One day I raged on MBK about someone else who was telling me detailed crap I had no interest in hearing (hoping he'd get the message-- he didn't), and he told me it was because I was approachable and kind, and I really listened and cared, and it showed. BAH! HA! HA!

Once in a great while, we went to lunch. I tried super hard to avoid it since I hated the way he looked at me, but it did happen once or three times because we were in the same building. One day we were mercifully finishing up and he blurted out that he was pretty sure he hated his wife and that for the first time, he really, truly wanted to cheat on her with someone else. Then before I could say anything, he flushed a deep, flaming red and said his ideal person was someone at work to whom he talked frequently. Oh, swoon, right? I babbled something along the lines of "Don't cheat, that's not cool, look at the time, gotta go." And I never had lunch with him again.

So this IM thing went on for nearly a year-- I remember that because my team got a new manager, and on his third day on the job, I flew into his cubicle and begged him to discreetly help me with this problem. Because that morning, the moment I logged into my work computer, MBK IMed me with this:

"So I got her to do it last night and I know she got off bc there was a huge wet spot on the bed."

IT WASN'T EVEN 8 O'CLOCK YET. Not that it's ever appropriate to say such a thing at work, as we have already discussed, but to start so early in the morning? For SERIOUS?! It was finally more than I could handle.

So my new manager helped me stop it. I knew this was a fireable offense, especially if I divulged how long it had been going on, and I didn't want that to happen-- MBK's wife was a bum and had no job, and they had a new baby, and I knew his paycheck was the only one coming into that household. I told Manager such. And he....he fibbed for me. I felt really awful about it, but he said if I didn't want the guy fired, it was probably the only way to go about it. He told MBK's manager that he had intercepted that morning's chat and I confessed that it made me really uncomfortable but that I was afraid to say so (truth) and that I tried to avoid talking to him at every opportunity. That manager gave MBK a verbal warning that he would be monitoring his chats from then on. And I assume there was more to the warning, given the content of his disgusting message, but I never bothered to find out.
 

MBK also still chatted me now and again, but since he couldn't talk to me about his marital or bedroom problems, there was nothing to chat about. He got laid off last month and I know I should feel sorry for that, but all I can muster is a deep sense of relief that he will never be chatting with me again. I don't give a crap about anything in his life, and I'm pretty sure he only pretended to care about mine so he could eventually (somehow? did he seriously ever think this would be a consideration?) lie on me with his huge beer-keg-shaped stomach.

If I could turn back time....

Today I was laughing over those awesome de-motivational poster emails people so frequently forward, and this one spurred a memory:

Have I ever told you that I went into one of those "free hugs" tunnels? Like super deep inside. No, of course I haven't. Well, I did. I didn't get a hug out of it. But on the up side, I didn't get raped or murdelized either. 

I was walking home from middle school with my best friend, and every day we walked over a huge sewage drain/tunnel thing like this. It was at least ten feet high. Once in awhile we'd stop into the entrance and just hang out and talk or whatever, because it was kind of a novelty. You know kids and their fascination with little buildings with privacy like box forts and tree houses. And it was always daytime so it wasn't scary. We'd stop and gossip (as if we weren't doing that walking together anyway) and dawdle and make plans. One day as we were talking, I heard a faint voice from deep inside the tunnel. "Heeey! Hey you! Come back here. I got something cool!" 

"Is that Matt So-and-so?" I asked my friend. "What's he doing in there?" 

"I don't know. It's creepy though, don't go in."

"Whatever. That's totally his voice. I want to see what he has. Let's go!"

"Seriously?? I am not going in there, I don't want to die!"

"Fine, hang out here then. You can call for help when I die seeing the cool thing. Scaredy!"

And in I went. 

And in and in and in and in and in. Every time I ventured a little farther, Matt's voice beckoned me farther still. "You're not close enough yet! I'm back here!"

"Matt, is that you? I'm getting bored."

"Yeah, sure. It's cool, it glows in the dark! Come on!"

After ten minutes of this, I started to figure out that the closer I got, the farther into the tunnel Matt retreated. I looked back and could only see a little pen cap of light, and I couldn't even see my friend's silhouette anymore. That scared me. Which, good thing?? Because apparently I was too dumbass to be scared of the obvious. I called out to her. No answer.

"HEY, you're almost here!" I jumped and turned, and behind a curve in the tunnel, I could see a face. And that face was definitely not Matt's. 

I turned and ran my stupid ass back to the entrance, ignoring the curses and protests of the mystery man-- not mystery middle-schooler-- behind me. My friend was waiting at the entrance and said she hadn't heard me yell for her. I was that far in. What, like half a mile? Maybe a little less? Jeebus.

I was relating this for co-workers and the looks on their faces were horrified. I hadn't really thought about the incident since, honestly, and thought it would be kind of a funny story. Uh, apparently not. One advised me never to tell my mother, which sparked a conversation about the stupid shit we did as kids, which had us speculating over whether we as kids would actually listen if we as adults could go back in time and warn ourselves. Which led me to make the following list of things I would warn against if indeed I could go back in time. WHICH was actually the original subject of this post but I have a rambly mind. 

-Be nice to Seester. She's so cool and interesting and later you will be good friends. If you have a suspicion her finger's in the door, don't close the door to find out. Forgive the womb-juice incident.

-Your cousin's going to tell your dad you spit on her when really you just blew a raspberry. And you will get the belt. Don't hang around for that one, run the fuck away!

-Pretending to be Vanna White and showing that a razor "works" doesn't exempt you from bleeding.

-Keith A. will turn out to be gay, don't cry over him and his stupid surfer shorts.

-You will never be able to hold a match to your finger long enough to see what the bone looks like. Quit trying!

-Don't swallow your barf because you didn't want to make the school bus stink. No one else was that considerate.

-Dr. Pepper doesn't actually taste like pepper.

-Drowning actually feels good, try not to do it anyway.

-Sadly, 4th grade penmanship just can't emulate a parent's signature very well. 

-Whippets are so not worth the money you paid for the can.

-Just let your friend play Nintendo at her turn instead of "helping her" pass the level.

-Throwing sand in a boy's face will make him cry and he will not man up, regardless of the fact that it was obviously Evilyn from He-Man who did that, not Gini.

-Do not hang off the hallway banister and let go just to see if you break a bone.

-DON'T GO INTO THE TUNNEL!

-Don't go out with that pedophile. The fact that he is 20 and still sexually attracted to your 15-year-old flatness is a big red flag.

-Start sharing, bitch. You should have learned by this 19 already.


Yeah, so I'll probably update this list now and again because I did lots of stupid shit.

Why couldn't you have been a Jew?

Last night Husband and I went to get a new package of canning jars, because I am a nerd who likes to can and I have a bumper crop of bush pickles and tomatoes. And of course I ran out of jars in the middle of a canning sessions. ANNOYING. So we went to the store and as we were checking out, the cashier said "It's not often I see young people come through here with canning supplies!" I love talking about canning and stuff because once again, nerd, so I started to talk with her when the woman in front of us turned around and exclaimed in a too-loud, too-cheery voice "WELL, GOOD FOR YOU! WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO CAN??" 

I wish I had just kept talking with the cashier, because she was really sweet and I think I might bring her a jam sometime. Or at least let Husband handle the chatty-mouth customer woman. But Chatty Mouth was kind of insistent and being nice to Office Loony has me being nice to pretty much everyone, and she was so enthusiastic about my pickles and it was impossible to talk to them both at the same time and so somehow we ended up walking out of the store with Chatty Mouth and talking with her in the parking lot for like 30 friggin minutes.

At first it was canning tips and make-sure-you-only-freeze-asparagus and did-you-know-you-could-can-meat, BUT THEN it turned into her interrogating me with beady eyes on how exactly I wash my vegetables, why I use that particular ratio of vinegar to water instead of buying vegetable wash, AND THEN she was telling us about her business that is 12 or 17 or 27 fruits and vegetables in a single capsule or something and I was like "oh neat, an entrepreneur, I'll listen to her invention, whatever. She told me not to can asparagus, I owe her one." So I listened patiently, totally believing that she had invented this product.....until I realized she wasn't very familiar with her bottom line, and that she was randomly spewing "facts" about this capsule that sounded scripted and choppy and she wasn't really sure how many nutrients were in the capsule but it did only cost $1.38 per day. At which point I figured out that she was one of those fucking pyramid schemers and was trying to sell us her product.  I should note that Husband (who was carrying my heavy canning jars, by the way) had all this figured out way before me because his head is on earth instead of floating around the stratosphere thinking about what lychee sangria might taste like, and had been shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot in an attempt to get a subtle message to me.

Chatty Mouth was also one of those lonely people who talks and talks and talks because their cats and walls don't talk back so when they're in public and ensnare you, you are one fucking ensnared dumbass and find it nearly impossible to get away. So while Husband is shifting around with my heavy jars, she and I have exchanged business cards and she's chitty chat chatting about how I'm so smart to grill bok choy and could she have that Filipino recipe from me because a Filipino exchange student lived with her family when she was in high school and then she went on a mission trip to the Philippines much later in life and one time when she called Qwest or Cox or whoever about her service she recognized the distinctive accent of her Filipino client service person and got to talking about her mission trip to the Philippines, and then the Filipino lady was like "Oh! What church was it??" and Chatty Mouth said "The born-again church!" and the Filipino lady said "Me too!!!!" and I was screaming in my head BORN-AGAIN???? FAAAACCKKK!! WHY COULDN'T YOU HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE BAZILLION JEWISH PEOPLE WHO GO TO THIS STORE?!?! BACK AWAY GINI, BACK AWAY!!

Because I? am a MAGNET for the people who live to convert others. And I've been a sucker more than once. In junior high, an extremely strange girl name Rose convinced me I was a chosen child to help save the world before the apocalypse came on the eve of the year 2000 (I spent that eve drinking Two Dogs and champagne and calling my brand-new boyfriend by his friend's name), and we used to "speak with the wind" together and use our magical stones to help us find answers and do weird shit. (I still have that rose quartz-- omg, ROSE quartz??-- and it actually did help me find a shit ton of lost things so go figure? And one time I was completely unprepared for a French test but I was sitting near the window and had my stone, so I asked the wind for answers and got a 100%.) 

Throughout my twenties I've unhappily fielded many unsuccessful attempts by my super-religious uncle to talk about the deep spiritual meanings behind the Bible (ironically, he was never interested in the actual historical, political or sociological meanings), not to mention the door-to-door Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses who hate to leave you alone and who apparently like to walk around the Old Market and accost people on the weekends. Another time, I was training a guy at work who asked me about my religious preferences and against my better judgment I answered him, and he was like "I'd like to talk to you some more about that, I'm born-again and I really think you're headed in the wrong direction with this 'live and let live' ideal you got goin on..." and then I was like "Hey, we are totally working right now and being born once was just fine for me and SURPRISE, I'm pressing the button so you get another call." And in between calls he would try to engage me again, insisting that I needed to go to his church and see the Lord, and you know, he didn't really make it in my department. Or at my workplace. I should google that fool and see where he ended up.

Obviously none of these proselytizers are bad people-- they are trying so, so hard to be great people and great citizens and great for their Lord. That's lovely. I simply do not care for it and do not care to be roped into even talking about such silliness, and the easiest way to avoid it is to avoid those people. Call me closeminded, I really don't care, but I think organized religion in general is a bunch of hooha and believing the Rapture is really going to take place is tantamount to believing in magic. I believe in science and proof and that religion simply fulfills a psychological need for direction and structure in many people, and you know, maybe there is an omniscient deity who turns his glaring eye on this blog post and is like "GINI'S GONNA FUCKIN BURN FOR THIS ONE" (or is that every day?), but maybe there isn't. Maybe I really don't care. Because I don't believe in magic, no matter how many times I insist on having a serious discussion with Husband about what we need to do to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse.

Maybe the answer for me lies in combining Jesus-magic with the Zombie Apocalypse? Then the born-agains AND I would all be happy in Heaven (which is like a Resident Evil game, yessss) together! Oh, except Husband. He thinks all of it is silly. Crap.

Of Waxes and Wankers

I got my monthly bikini wax yesterday. Oh yes, I get it done every month and oh yes, it hurts. But that little bit of quick pain is nothing, NOTHING compared to the agonizing itch of a shaved kitty growing out. No thanks. Right around the three week mark, I start craaaving my wax. There is nothing quite like the compact, aerodynamic smoothness of a perfect bikini wax. (Note I did not say Brazilian-- I don't look like a toddler, thankyouverymuch.)

My aesthetician is awesome. I love her because she's super hippy-dippy and you can totally tell. She has the stoner lilt in her voice and wears the signature flowy hippy threads, and I can SO see her with dreads as a younger woman. She's super fast with the wax, a perfectionist about my symmetry and we chat the whole time so not only is the appointment always fun for me, it rarely goes past twenty minutes no matter what I'm having done. And yesterday, she regaled me with one of the funniest stories I have ever heard.

I had asked her if men ever came in to get their bits waxed, and how that worked. I was just curious. I'd caught Husband manscaping that morning and teased him about how I was going to get my stuff yanked that day and maybe he should think about that. Not that I would EVER ask him or even want him to do it, I just like to see him squirm sometimes, like people do to their spouses! His reaction was so funny that I remembered it while in my appointment, so I asked her. I will tell you her answer in her own words:

"Oh yeahh, I have some guys who come in to see me fairly regularly. I'm the only one here who'll wax men; the other girls are too squeamish because the skin actually comes off quite a bit. Cause you know, the ball skin is so stretchy? You have to stretch it out and hold it really super tight or else it's so delicate it'll come off with the hair. Yeah, had that happen a time or two. Now I just do their regular bikini lines down through the taint area and their little bumholes and encourage them to shave their balls if they want that. OMG Gini! One of my regular guys, he's a cancer doctor, and he likes his shit aaaaallll the way off. Insists that I wax his junk. Okay fine. Well he was in last week and okay, this is kind of a common reaction to the warm wax and you know, my huge rack because I AM seven months preg and my tits? are super bouncy and YUM. (Insert laughter here. Actually, wherever you laughed throughout all this is where I laughed because this is why I love my aesthetician.) But anyway, this doctor was toootally getting a boner and I just ignored it and kept chatting because, you know, it happens. What does NOT happen though, is what he did NEXT. He started strokin it, right in front of me! And I was like 'whoa, hey, hey man! Not cool!' And he just goes 'wha? Oh, sorry,' like he didn't even know what he was doing! Whatever! I totally know he was fondling his woody to see if I'd be fine with it! Like he thought I was soo preg and soo hormonal and horny and seeing him get fresh was gonna make me lose control and jump him or something! And theeeennnnn, the bastard didn't even tip me more than usual. He always tips $20. I mean, if he was really sorry, which he wasn't, wouldn't he at least be like, 'dude, I tried to beat off in front of you, sorry, here's $40 or $50?' because YEAH. I still only got $20. "

By this point she was pretty much done with my wax and I hadn't even felt it because I was cracking up and interjecting my opinion the whole time. So we moved on to eyebrows and she talked some more:

"Some of our massage therapists have gotten propositioned before. And you know, this is a nice place, a nice salon, it's not like we're a massage parlor or anything. But the guys totally don't relax, they get boners and wait for the girls to notice and then they're like 'hey baby, want a nice tip?' One of the girls told me she was offered $500 to 'just graze it.' Like with her arm. You know, it's probably a good thing I'm not one of the massage therapists because, I dunno. If we're at like the week before Christmas or something....I just might graze it. $500! What would I get for like, touching the tip or 'accidentally' sticking my finger up his ass? It would be like, a prostate massage. Yeah."

One of the best appointments I've ever had. My face seriously ached from laughing by the time we started up the stairs to the receptionist. And then!!! I reached the top step and turned the corner, and who should I see waiting for her in an armchair but the Office Loony! For transparency's sake, I should note that while we were friends, Office Loony actually did refer me to this aesthetician I love so much. But I know she's not a regular client because when she started working in my department, I asked my aesthetician if this gal ever came in and she said only like once or twice a year, which confirmed my suspicion. Office Loony only comes to see her when she's met a guy who will actually fuck her, so I was surprised to see her since she usually scares guys off pretty much within hours of her deciding she likes him. So I saw her as she looked up from her magazine and our eyes locked-- and since the laughs had already been flowing from me so easily, and since I know Office Loony's history of coming to the aesthetician, and since we see each other frequently at work and I know she hates it when I so cheerfully smile at her, AND since I knew that SHE knew she would be lying on the same bed in the same room, breathing the same air and being waxed by the same hands, ALL of which TOTALLY pissed her off, you will of course understand and forgive that I simply couldn't stop a sharp, staccato "HA!" from absconding from my wide and grinning mouth.

And I walked past her, belatedly answering a question posed by my lovely and pregnant friend, paid, and left. Still laughing.

Look at this stuff, isn't it neat?

I was in one of our break rooms just now heating up my awesome lunch of leftover chicken fried rice from Dragon Café Express (Omahans, check this out. Seriously, so awesome), and my hair was snaggy, so I combed it with a plastic fork. But maybe I should back up a minute.

I had been in the restroom trying frantically to dry my hands before the Office Loony came out of her stall so I could run my fingers through my hair and "comb" it that way, but I heard her unlocking the door so I high-tailed it out of there. (Underlying story: we used to be friends except she's a neurotic freak and I broke up with her and now she glares at me as I sunnily smile back at her because now, ever so conveniently, she works literally right next to me and I kind of have to be civil. I have taken to peering through the crack at the edge of the stall door whenever someone comes in the restroom to see if her color cardigan and messy hair bun pass by.) GOD her voice is so annoying.

I digress. Another story, another time.

THEN I went to the break room to heat up my super awesome chicken fried rice, and as I was dragging my fingers through my snaggy hair, I decided to replenish my desk drawer spoon supply. And then I thought I should take a couple forks, which immediately made me remember this:

So I slowly picked picked one up, looked around furtively, and swiped it through. You know, just as an experiment. It sort of hurt. But my hair stopped being tangled, so WIN. Then a lady came in and I was all "lalalalala, putting this fork in my lunch bag...." But when she left, I finished combing my hair and now it looks awesome! All shiny and sleek! 

All these years and I am still obsessed with mermaids. I FUH-REAKED OUT when The Little Mermaid first became available for public purchase. I remember it was right before school let out for the summer in my third grade year. And I of course got grounded so I couldn't watch it until school started again! 

Picture it: Subic Bay, Philippines, the sweltering summer of 1989. The scene, a small classroom of fidgety third-graders and a harridan of a teacher named Mrs. Eckert, discussing whether the pronunciation of "Illinois" did or did not include the "s." I was having my own little discussion with my neighbor Sammy because SO MANY students were insisting that it included the "s" and the teacher kept saying "no" that obviously it didn't include the friggin "s." I don't remember if Sammy disagreed or not, because Mrs. Eckert called my name very sharply and then wrote it on the board. It appeared I was in trouble for talking. Name on the board was a warning. Transgress again and you got a checkmark next to your name, which meant you had to take a note home for your parents to sign. Inevitably, I got the checkmark less than an hour later.

My mom was pissed. She said if I dared to bring home another of these, I wouldn't be watching The Little Mermaid all summer and she'd already bought it, so I resolved immediately to get ahold of myself and behave.

Which lasted less than 24 hours, because the very next afternoon, I was riding the schoolbus home with dread in my stomach and another stupid note for her to sign.

I decided there was pretty much no way I could ask her to sign it. The stakes were way too high-- I would NEVER survive an entire summer without watching The Little Mermaid. I couldn't ask my dad or my aunts to sign, because they would tell my mom, and I couldn't ask an older kid in the neighborhood because Mrs. Eckert had already seen an example of my mom's signature. So I did the logical thing: I grabbed a pen and paper, practiced for about 30 minutes, and signed it myself. 

Needless to say, I got caught. My mom would tell you at this point that it's because I signed the paper in green crayon or green marker or something like that-- but seriously, I couldn't have been THAT retarded, could I?? I've been devious since I was little. I totally would have known that signing it in anything other than a regular ballpoint pen would be the death of me. Yeah! I totally signed it in ballpoint pen. BLACK.  :)

So for this reason alone, I should have decided that mermaids are nothing but trouble. But hey look! One of them helped me comb my hair today! That's handy!