disgruntled and dangerous

The office is getting to be a strange place.

At one end of the office is a lady named Pat who, while being an extremely nice lady, is really quite a redneck. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing...on the contrary, some of her stories can be quite amusing.

Of course, some are quite frightening too. Today she was talking about her ten year old daughter who recently got a BB gun. It seems that one night over dinner, her daughter announced to the family that she wanted a silencer for her BB gun. Automatically I was thinking that this was clearly some type of redneck mafia thing, but that proved to be inaccurate.

It turned out that the cops drove up to Pat's house the other day because a neighbor had been complaining about all of the loud 'pings' that were being created whenever her daughter would shoot his aluminum tool shed with her BB gun.

She told Pat that she really needed this silencer to 'silence' the sound of these 'pings' so that the neighbor wouldn't know that his tool shed was being shot up. Pat has said before that she thinks her daughter will either grow up to be President or a criminal mastermind. I have a pretty good guess as to which of these she's going to be.

At the other end of the office you will find Eric, one of our IT guys. Eric, it has been discovered, has been downloading an awful lot of porn onto the company's server. So much, in fact, that he had maxed out our bandwidth...which explains, why our internet connection has been so slow for the last several months.

His fellow IT worker caught on today, reported him to the boss, and we now have one less employee in the office. Upon leaving, I was told, that he claimed to have knowledge of illegally licensed software on our office computers and that he was planning on blowing the whistle on the old twit that owns the place.

It's safe to say that he now falls into the 'disgruntled employee' category. And being that my new cubicle just happens to be right across from the door, if he comes back one day carrying one of these BB guns with a silencer, it's likely that I'll be getting the first round of buckshot in the butt.

car maintenance made easy

So today I was driving home and that little light on my dashboard suddenly lit up that says 'service engine soon'. Frankly, I've never been real sure what this means. Does this light mean, 'just a friendly reminder that you've driven quite a few miles and it would be very kind of you to service your engine soon so as to keep your car functioning at its top performance.' Or does this light mean, 'SERVICE ENGINE SOON OR YOU WILL DIE A FIERY DEATH WHEN YOUR CAR BLOWS UP!' I've never been certain as to which end of the spectrum this light is pointing toward. But still, I'm willing to risk it.

This isn't to say that I have a death wish, however. It's more because this stinking little light also came on a few weeks ago. I was just as confused about it then, but I figured that I'd let my car try to work out its own problems. The light turned itself off one day while I was driving down the highway, so I figured that things were once again back to normal. Obviously, I reasoned, my car was experiencing some inner turmoil. A mid-life crisis perhaps, or some 'car-issues' that it needed time to work through. The light disappeared, my car was healthy, and all was right in the world. Now the light is back.

Once again, my first instinct is to let my car fix itself. Once it realizes that I'm not going to do anything about this little light, I'm quite sure that it'll get bored and simply turn it off all by itself. This theory fits in perfectly with my overall sense of car maintenance. Any strange noise, ping, or scrape that I hear coming from my car is easily fixed by turning up the radio. The louder the noises which my car is emitting, the higher the volume goes on the radio. And instantly, the problem is solved. Dents are easily taken care of by carefully placed bumper stickers, which people mistakenly assume belong only on the 'bumper'. This, however, is not true at all. Take my car, for instance. I feel that the bumper stickers which I have on my passenger side door, hood, and over my cracked tail light look very fashionable.

And if my car decides to be stubborn and refuses to shut this little light off, then I'll use my mechanical aptitude to once again solve this car dilemma of mine. Namely, by a piece of duct tape and some black permanent marker. So you see, the light on my dashboard will eventually go off, despite whether my engine gets serviced or not.

nothing but face

There are thousands of reasons why I would hate being extremely overweight. The health issues. The decreased sex appeal. The name-calling and disgusted stares from people on the street. And the knowledge that the terms 'plus-sized' and 'husky' refer to clothes that I have to wear.

But the thing that would bother me the most would be my high school picture in the yearbook. Without exception, yearbook photographers always seem to zoom in real tight on the fat kids' faces, leaving a row of normal sized teenager heads and then one where the whole picture is nothing but face...making the obese kids look even larger by giving them these humongous pumpkin heads, and leaving them with a permanent record of their fatness.

If I were really fat, it would be this type of thing that would make it hard to ever enjoy eating a Twinkie again.

beauty or brains?

I was out with a couple of friends the other night when one of those questions that seem much more 'deep and insightful' after a few drinks than they would normally otherwise seem, was asked. "Would you rather be really smart or really attractive?" was what Jen wanted to know.

Her and Ginger automatically answered that they would much prefer to be 'hot'. So they looked at me, and I asked, "just how dumb are we talking about, here?"

"You over analyze everything!" Jen told me...in quite an exasperated tone too, I might add.

But I don't think it was an over-analysis at all. With intelligence comes unlimited potential. The ability to craft a story or poem, weaving prose in such a way to bring a tear to someone's eye. To think about abstract concepts and twist them around so as to reveal new solutions and secrets that otherwise would be missed. To analyze and appreciate the world in ways that are unimaginable, and to use this gift to further mankind and bring about sweeping changes to improve our quality of life. To add to our understanding of the sciences and arts is simply invaluable.

"You'd have normal intelligence," Jen said. "You wouldn't have such a low I.Q. that you'd be drooling and peeing your pants."

The answer became clear to me. "Oh, well that's easy then...I'd much rather be really attractive."

I just wanted to make sure that I'd be smart enough to enjoy being that good looking.

phoning it in

I was hired to do background checks, and I actually enjoyed the work. But my boss, the old twit, has decided that three of us in the office, me included, will have a new function to perform. This new 'job' she refers to as 'quality assurance'. What this really means, though, is 'telemarketing'. I hate telemarketers, and now I have become one. So basically, rather than prying around in people's past, which was quite interesting, I'm now calling on mostly ex-clients to ask, 'and how did you like our service? would you like to try our service again?' And being that most of these are 'ex-clients' I think that the answer is quite obvious as to how much they liked our service and whether they want more of our service.

Today, the old twit sidles up to my cube today and says, in a tone of voice that implies I'm the kindergartener who has been eating Elmer's glue by the coat rack, "you know, it's very strange but you are the only one that hasn't had a client request additional information ...that's very unusual isn't it?"

But it really isn't unusual at all. I have become one of those magazine subscription re-newers that continually call your house. "So are you pleased with our magazine? How do you like our magazine? Are you getting our magazine on time? Do you like the little smelly perfume and cologne ads that we have been inserting for your pleasure? Would you like a change of address to take place at this time? If you renew now for another five year period at our special low price, we will send you a delightful little coaster with Julia Robert's face on it, all free of charge, just as our way of saying 'thank you!'"

Personally, I always answer 'no'. I don't want to re-subscribe right now, nor do I want to place any beverages atop Julia Roberts face.

So when I read through the part of my script that says, 'would you like us to send you additional information about our latest upgrades?' and they say 'no' I don't push it. Why bother? Truthfully, I don't blame them at all. I certainly wouldn't want all this extra crap coming in the mail, and why would they? But now, apparently, I'm doing a 'poor' job because people are telling me, "no, don't send us any crap in the mail".

A quick fix to this dilemma is that I'm just going to have to start deciding for people that they want these mailers. I'll send out a bunch of mail, and instantly I'll be a 'solid performer' again. So if you get a call on the phone asking if you want pamphlets about 'special offers' and 'exciting new deals', don't bother saying 'no'. Because if it's me that you're talking to, you'll be getting our crap anyway. Use it to make paper airplanes or origami or something...I really don't care. But you can bet that your mailbox will soon be stuffed.

'references' don't mean 'relatives'

I've only been doing background checks for a couple of months now, but I'm still amazed by the references that people list. Today I got a chance to call on one of Doug's references, whose name was 'Mary'...no last name, only a phone number. I called and asked for Mary...

Mary: "This is Mary"

Me: "Hello Mary, you were listed as a reference by Doug Bender and I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk to me about how you know him."

Mary: "Doug isn't here right now...is this one of his friends?"

Me: "No, Mary...he listed you as a reference, on a job application, I was calling to ask you some questions about him"

Mary: "Oh sure, you can ask me about Doug, I'm his mother."

Me: "Hmm, well, you see Mary, that's a problem. I can't take a reference from you because you're related to Doug. It's not really going to be an impartial opinion of him."

Mary: "Oh, well his sister is here, you can talk to her and she'll tell you about Doug."

Me: "No Mary, she's related to Doug too...so that won't work either...I'm just going to let you go, okay? You have a nice day."

Mary: "Well you too, and listen, when you see Doug, tell him that he needs to call me more often because I miss him and he hasn't come to see me in over a month."

I can see his rejection letter now:

"Dear Sir, while your credentials are impressive, you have neglected to phone your mother for quite some time now. We have decided to choose an applicant who better appreciates the woman who raised him, worked her fingers to the bone, and changed his dirty diapers. Thank you for your interest in our company, and please call home. Your mom said that she misses you. Best of luck in your search for employment."

15 minutes and counting

By my calculations, I've got about 14 minutes and 30 seconds of fame left to spend. When I was about one, my dad was interviewed coming out of the mall for the local news. I have no idea what he was asked, but because he was holding me, I ended up being on television for twenty seconds. And later as a teacher, I ended up in the newspaper for a 'charity' event that I made one of my classes do, against their will of course. Because this was only crummy little local paper, though, I'm only counting it as 10 seconds of fame time. This leaves me with my promised 14 minutes and 30 seconds.

So I've been giving a lot of thought as to how I want to burn these up. No murdering spree...too much negative press, and no reality show appearance due to the fact that I don't want to become a pop cultural joke and end up as the answer to a Trivial Pursuit 2000's edition. Sports is out because I don't want some creepy bobble head doll being made in my likeness, and while it would be great to be in the Guinness Book of World Records for something like 'Most Marshmallows Stuffed In A Mouth At Once', there's bound to be some little Chinese guy that will eventually beat my world record and then I'll be wiped from the pages of history. No, I need fourteen minutes that will outlive my time on Earth.

This is why I've so carefully plotted my remaining minutes of fame...in between Jennifer Lopez's third and fifth husband (I'm really only giving her and Marc Anthony a few more months) during a drunken weekend in Vegas, I want to meet her, become husband number four, and then get divorced two days later once she sobers up, but still have left enough of an impression that I get a one sentence liner note on one of her CDs. I'll also settle for Britney Spears, but because she's already had one 'under a week' marriage, I think that Jennifer is a more realistic choice. But my own liner note in an album! Damn that would be cool!

bird anatomy 101

Driving around today, I noticed a flash and loud bang occur across the road from where I was stopped at a stop sign. It seems that two power lines had blown together and touched, resulting in a completed circuit and nice little fireworks display.

This reminded me of my high school science teacher. My brother had the same lady a few years after I did, and told me that someone in his class once asked her why when birds sit on a telephone wire that they don't get electrocuted and have a heart attack. Her answer to this question was, "birds can't have heart attacks because I'm pretty sure that they don't have hearts." Apparently birds, unlike many other living things, run on batteries or something.

And these are the people that we have educating kids in our public schools. The future of America is going to be a scary place.

my smoldering ear

I've been having trouble with my cell phone lately, and finally got around to visiting my local Verizon store to sort the problem out. For awhile now, whenever I'm on the phone, the battery gets extremely hot, and while this worked well in the winter as an instant ear and hand warmer, now that it's summer I find this once useful 'quirk' to be annoying. Plus, while the battery burns in my hand, the amount of battery strength rapidly decreases...which usually results in a fully charged phone providing me about seven minutes of conversation time...or third degree burns, whichever comes first.

To make matters worse, my phone is no longer recharging at all. I plug the thing into its little adapter, and it charges for about five seconds then abruptly stops. So once that battery is dead, it pretty much stays that way...unless I sit nearby and jiggle the adapter every few seconds.

I was worried that the overheating may soon progress to exploding, and I figured that this warranted my attention...and a replacement phone. Call me vain, but I'm rather fond of my ears and would hate to think of losing one in a freak phone explosion accident.

So phone in hand, I made my way to the nearest Verizon store, patiently waited my turn in line, and finally made my way up to speak to Fran, my friendly 'Phone Specialist'.

I asked her about the recall on the Kyocera phones and Fran said, "I haven't heard about any recalls and I would certainly know if there was one."

I told her all about my phone woes...the overheating, the reluctance to charge, the impending explosions, and Fran tells me that she just needs to 'check the computer'.

This is never a good sign, because computers rarely tell me what I want to hear.

"Well," my lovely Phone Specialist named Fran told me, "my computer says that you're eligible for a new phone in about a month."

"Yes, well you see Fran," I explained, "my phone has been overheating and won't keep a charge and, when you consider the fact that it won't recharge anymore, this makes it pretty tough to talk on the phone."

Fran looked up from her screen and said, "well why don't you come back on July 12 and we can discuss your problem at that time."

"Fran, I can't even use my phone anymore...let me explain the problem again..."

She cut me off by saying, "sir, you can purchase a phone now, but it will cost you $250. Otherwise, I'll see you in July. Now goodbye."

I scooped up my phone, stormed off, and tried my best to slam the automatic door on my way out. Apparently the old saying, 'the customer is always right' only applies at Verizon one month each year.

self diagnosed

I was never labeled as a kid, but that may just have been that the technology wasn't up to date back in the seventies. I did well enough in school, so there was really never any reason to check any further. I could read, spell my name, didn't wet the bed or have night terrors...and I guess having taught elementary and middle school for the last few years, my disabilities continued to be masked. Because really, it doesn't take a genius to teach kids that are under the age of 12...trust me on this one. But now that I'm pretty much staring at numbers all day, dialing the phone constantly, I realize that I've developed dyslexia. For the life of me, I can't keep these little numbers in order!

212 gets punched in as 221, and god help me when I get a number like 867-5309, which ends up getting incredibly twisted around. And if I see you stuck in a burning car on the side of the highway, straining against the heat and twisted metal, screaming for someone to please call 9-1-1, I'll probably end up punching it in as 1-9-9 over and over, and you'll end up as a crispy little strip...probably closely resembling a large piece of bacon...on the shoulder of the road. I'll choke under the pressure to come up with the correct three digits in the correct order. Which means no 'hero' status, and no 'Today Show' interview...which means no chance to sit in Katie Couric's presence.

And why? All because of my fickung boj! I just might have to quit simply to regain a few lost I.Q. points.

one spilled beer, one ruined evening

Lindsay and I had planned on having dinner and shooting some pool tonight, and rather than the pleasant evening that I was expecting, I entered into the Twilight Zone. Things started innocently enough with a game of pool and some beer. This was at a bar she frequents often, and she knew some of the guys that were there. To give her credit, the girl can shoot some pool. Me, on the other hand, cannot...a fact that I freely admit.

Her and the guys were talking some trash, and she was taking some liberal pot shots at my game too...but being all in the name of the 'trash talk' spirit, I didn't mind. I didn't partake in it, however, because when your game sucks, you tend not to brag too much. So as the evening wore on and we were winding down and getting ready to head off to dinner, it so happened that 1) I was standing somewhat close to her and 2) she was talking with her hands, and 3) we were both feeling buzzed, me from two and a half beers and her from three beers and a shot, and this combination resulted in her bumping my glass as I was holding it, the glass falling to the floor, and my beer going along for the trip, hence my two and a half, rather than three, beers being consumed.

Afterward, Lindsay stormed out the door and onto the street. Once out of the bar myself, she let's loose on the sidewalk..."you didn't support me once during the pool game! I was rooting for you and you were doing nothing but talking smack against me! And just look at you! You are so incredibly drunk! You had two beers and look at you! I drink and can hold my liquor, but you obviously can't! I have never seen this side of you before! You can forget dinner! Though I think you should get some food before you try driving home, because D.U.I.'s are not cool!"

Like the stupid man that I am, I apologized..."look Lindsay," I told her, "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be talking 'smack' against you. We both know that I completely stink at pool, and I never thought that you'd take it so seriously...I would never do anything to put you down, and I'm sorry if you felt that way."

Naturally, this wasn't good enough. "No!", she told me, "you're completely drunk and I have never seen you this way before! How could you have dropped your beer! That never would have happened if you weren't all up in my face! You're always in my face!"

Which isn't completely untrue. Though, when you like someone, you tend to want to be near them...or, to quote her, 'in their face'.

She sped off in her car. I started off home, only to get a call from her a minute later. "Call me when you get home, because you are very drunk and I want to know you got there safe."

So I said sure, I'd call. By this time, the buzz I had was pretty well gone, and as for being 'very' drunk...well, actually, I was wishing that I was.

I got home fine and called to let her know. Naturally, she didn't pick up her phone...and all I could do was to simply shake my head at how fast things went downhill. I've always had the suspicion that she was a tad unstable...and this clearly didn't help change my mind.

Do I choose girls that I know will reject me because I'm subconsciously afraid of commitment? I really don't know. I never thought that I was afraid to commit, but to be honest, I don't really know about anything anymore.

Except for the fact, that I'm alone once again.

puddles

Upon entering work this morning, I was greeted with the announcement, "all men please report to the conference room!"

And while my suspicions were raised, I was pretty much expecting the annual 'sexual harassment' training that every company seems required to hold. The basic gist of these are, don't touch suggestively, look at suggestively, talk to suggestively, or do anything that could even remotely suggest anything.

So Alex, one of our supervisors, stands up and says, "Ralph, the guy who owns the building, has approached me and he's extremely upset...he seems to think that someone in our office has been intentionally peeing all over the floor."

Now just last week, Ralph, got upset because someone closed the lunch room door during lunch. Apparently, he made a 'rule' that the lunch room door must stay open at all times because closing it disrupts the 'air flow'. Now where this air wants to flow to, and where it's flowing from, I really have no idea. But Ralph obviously feels that this disruption of air will cause the walls of the building to implode or something. Anyway, a few days after this new 'rule' was stated, somebody shut the door. As a result, Ralph took the door off the hinges. We haven't seen it since.

"I told Ralph that there are other guys besides just us in this building," Alex continued, "but Ralph insisted that it's someone in our office. He threatened to lock the men's room door if it continues, and while I don't think he can legally lock the bathroom, if you've been peeing on the floor, please stop."

My thoughts that this job is secretly kindergarten all over again have been confirmed. But I'll tell you this right now, the minute we have to start raising our hands to be excused from our cubicles, I'm going to quit...and I plan on taking my crayons and Play-Doh home with me when I do!

it's all about finding the loopholes

Most of my glorious Sunday has been spent typing up the final paper for my international business class. On the up side, the class will soon be over, which means no more of Satan's little Professor. Lately, I've taken to counting the number of times she says 'okay' simply to stay awake. She's been averaging about 180 'okays' per 2 hour class. I would think that as a woman, and women as I'm sure you know are supposed to be the more articulate of the sexes, she would have a wider ranging supply of words than to have to use 'okay' once every minute. But as for the paper, I had 10-15 pages to fill, and generally my resources of knowledge are tapped by page 7 or 8. So here begins the page layout lotto.

Everyone is well aware of your standard 'space fillers' when doing a report...you have your manipulation of the margins...always a classic, your font size readjustment, your single verse double spacing fillers...but these have all become targets for homogenization by professors and teachers. Standardization of margins, and font size, and font type, and spacing have all been instituted. One result of this is that you now find much lengthier words, ones which are never used in normal, everyday speech, appearing in increased frequency...such as 'therefores' and 'henceforths' instead of 'so' or 'thus'. And when quoting someone (which, coincidentally is a great way to fill up space) they never just 'said' something...now, to increase page length, everyone is 'pointing out' or 'making mention of the fact that'. But there is a limit to how many experts you can quote. And unlike my professor, using the same word over and over is bound to get noticed once in print. With this said, new methods are needed.

Now, you have to realize that I take great pride in my 'cutting corner' techniques and I devote a good amount of time to them. And here, I will share with you a little known secret...kerning. With this amazing little tool, words are instantly stretched out simply by changing the little space in between each letter...and it was through kerning, that my barely eight page paper became eleven pages. But even if noticed, and I'm doubtful that it will be, I've got the built in loophole that no specifications were outlined detailing the use of kerning. I'm completely in the clear!

Of course, if I spent as much time working as I do thinking of ways not to work, I'd probably have had eleven pages anyway...but where's the sense of achievement in that?

dreaming in three minute installments

There are people who have dreams of epic proportions. Excitement, romance, intrigue, and comedy all going on inside their head while they sleep. I, personally, am not one of those people. For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to recall a dream. Maybe this is just a result of growing up with MTV (when it used to actually show music videos). Any dream over three and a half minutes just isn't going to hold my interest.

Sometimes, though, little snippets will still be fresh in my mind when I wake up. I'll remember dreaming about meeting someone from high school while wandering through the woods. Why I was in the woods I really can't explain, and why someone that I haven't thought of in several years was also in the woods is a mystery too. Or I might recall eating a hotdog at the mall. I don't care for hotdogs or malls, so I can't imagine what I was doing there.

And while these odd little scenes are harmless enough, there are snippets that I really don't appreciate. For example, there have been occasions when I've dreamt of winning a whole lot of money...and the dreaming me is overjoyed...until I realize that none of this really happened, and I think to myself, 'aw crap!'. So I start the day off by cursing my subconscious self, who is clearly a traitor!

Last night's sliver of dream that I remember was of me being pulled over and getting a speeding ticket. I know that it sort of sucks when you consider that other people are having historic love affairs, or flying, or performing super-human feats of strength in their dreams, and then you have mine...which are really very boring, and may explain why I don't remember them in the first place...but still, I woke up this morning, and when I realized that it was all a dream and that there wasn't any speeding ticket that needed to be paid, the day just started off great!

While living in Washington D.C. for a couple of years, my driving barometer became set to the D.C. way of driving. Rush hour traffic not included, the beltway around D.C. is like an extended Indy 500 lap. 75 miles per hour is the standard flow of traffic, and you can zip around doing 90 and still have some people blow right by you. It's quite exhilarating.

The streets of Pittsburgh, however, are like Amish country compared to D.C. If you can imagine what it would be like to be driving in a Porsche while everyone else on the road is in a golf cart, you've got a pretty good idea of what it's like to drive around in this area. And I've been finding it very difficult to readjust...granted, I'm not really trying all that hard, but that's really not the point. The point here is, is that people need to start speeding up, because I'm getting tired of constantly switching lanes to get around all of these people who seem to think that 55 miles an hour is like a law or something!

welcome back to kindergarten

Paranoia has now swept through the office. The owner of the place is, in a word, unstable...and the rumor mill is ripe with whispers of mass firings and lay-offs.

She has developed this little 'point' system, by which she determines how much work everyone has accomplished for the day...which would be be fine, except that her 'points' don't truly reflect how much work, has been done.

Along with making everybody in the office 'point-crazy', she has implemented a few other rules. One of which being mandatory attendance at her daily 'point' meetings. This is where all the employees sit around for 20 minutes everyday as she reviews everyone's point totals from the day before. We then have to clap for the highest point earners. Yes, that's right, we all have to clap. As a result, several people are now voluntarily skipping their lunch to continue working. Not that they want applause, but because they're worried this lack of points will be used as ammunition to get rid of them.

Another new rule, that our wonderful boss has put into effect, is a 'no more food at your desk' policy. The new rule limits food to special occasions such as birthdays, when usually a cake or something will be brought in. On these days, we now must all meet in the lunch room at 10am, sing happy birthday to the birthday person, (yes, we all have to sing) and then we will are given five minutes to eat some cake before we must be seated back at our desk.

All of this has given me the feeling of being back in kindergarten. Our boss used to be a teacher, and her sense of business management is to run her company like she ran her elementary classroom.

So everybody is waiting for the worst, and the more neurotic employees are about ready to have a heart attack...which would actually reduce the need to get rid of anybody, so this might not be too bad a thing.

Which just confirms my belief that self-employment is really the way to go..

being fate's punch-line

So after the brief experience with Nancy, who I thought was the 'right' type of girl for me, went so terribly awry, I've decided that perhaps this is a sign that the 'right' type of girl is not 'right' at all, but is instead quite wrong. With this being said, I asked Lindsay out to dinner.

We met, had a wonderful dinner, and spent most of the evening together. Twice now, I've had an incredible time with this girl...yet my gut keeps telling me to 'watch out'. Not that my gut is really all that intelligent.

But it would appear that fate has made my 'Lindsay or Nancy' choice that much easier. Although usually when I let fate make my choices for me, I find that it's really just having a good laugh at my expense.

And, for awhile at least, it looks like I'll be giving fate quite a bit to laugh about.

one final thought on hypochondria

Not to harp on my whole recent bout with hypochondria, but technology has proven to be an incredible source of additional worry. And I'm not just talking about the random satellite which could, at any given minute, come hurtling down from the upper layers of the atmosphere and land squarely atop my head.

You've got your cell phones that may cause brain damage...which has now started creating an itchy and warming sensation on the 'phone' side of my head every time I call someone. And those wonderful microwaves...which have lately been causing me to instinctively reach down to cup my crotch each time I pass one, for fear that I'll end up with fried and dried out balls in the very near future if I don't.

Some day when procreation becomes the aim of the whole sex thing, I'd like to think that my boys will be able to get the job done. But I can't help but think that after so many microwave walk-bys, my sperm will closely resemble a huge three stooges convention taking place in some woman's uterus...complete with all the eye-pokes, face slapping, and n'yuk n'yuks.

Which is actually quite a shame because I find those Hot Pockets to be very tasty, and now because of my new microwave illness fears, I might have to give them up. I've heard women complain about not getting paid as much as men, and the whole patriarchal society thing, but damn it, when us guys have to give up Hot Pockets, well, I think we all know which gender is getting the raw end of the deal.

healthy and fit...sort of

I'm a reasonably healthy guy, yet I fear that I may suffer from slight bouts of potentially terminal illnesses. Yes, I may be a hypochondriac.
It may have started back in college during a biology class that I took. In discussing the human eyeball, the professor stated how we have thousands of little capillaries in the eye, most of which are less thick than a strand of hair, and how if just one of those would suddenly snap, BOOM! we'd be blind!
This freaked me out quite a bit, and during the rest of the class I alternated covering my left eye and then my right just to make sure that I hadn't suddenly lost my ability to see. Luckily, those little capillaries of mine all held firm.

Just recently, a friend of mine was talking about how he always seems to be tired, going on several years now, and was just recently diagnosed with apnea. Apnea being where your brain basically forgets to tell your body to breathe while you're sleeping and you wake up throughout the night pretty much gasping for air.

After he mentioned this, I started thinking that I've been pretty tired lately too! And I bet that I have the same disorder! Forget the fact that my allergies have been bad and that I haven't had clear nasal passages since February, I was positive that I had apnea! So to prove this, I started only sort of half-sleeping through the night in the hopes of catching myself in the process of not breathing, thus proving that my fears were correct. And while this hasn't happened yet, for some odd reason I'm still pretty tired in the morning.

And really, when you think about it, isn't thinking that I'm a hypochondriac sort of like having a disease? Maybe thinking I'm a hypochondriac and that I've got all these other illnesses, is an illness in and of itself.

This is all just getting too confusing...and illness or no illness, if there's one thing I know it's that I'm lazy. Too much thinking is involved in this hypochondriac business, so I'm just going to forget about it, declare myself healthy, and get back to the business of loafing around.

But, you know, my leg has been pretty itchy lately, and I'm wondering if some mosquito didn't give me that West Nile Virus...I'd better keep an eye on it, just to be safe.

what's on your pizza?

Perhaps it's just me and, granted, I do tend to read too much into things, but I find those Pizza Hut commercials with the Muppets and Jessica Simpson to be disturbing on several different levels. I've got no real complaint with Animal or Gonzo. Nor Kermit. Jessica...well, there are several complaints about her, but that's not the point here. My real question is why Miss Piggy has allowed her so called 'friends' to order a pizza with pepperoni and sausage on it. I would like to think she would object simply on the basis that it may be one of her relatives adorning that steamy slice of pie. If I was with a group of female friends and they ordered a pizza topped with penises, I do believe that I'd be quite uncomfortable with where the meal was heading, and would most likely make a hasty retreat. Of course, if what they really wanted was a plain pizza and my penis...well, different story completely.

huh?

With Nancy's decision fresh in my mind, I decided on a nice solo lunch today.

So I return from lunch, sit down behind my desk, and who should appear right in front of me shortly thereafter? None other than Nancy.

"Why did you skip out on me for lunch today?" She asked. Which led to many different thoughts...the first, and foremost being, "Huh?". The second, closely following the first, was, "you've got to be kidding, right?" But she wasn't kidding at all.

So I said, "you made things pretty clear yesterday."

So she said, "I didn't mean that we couldn't go for lunch together."

Which led me to say, "Well, I guess that every now and then it would be alright."

Which led her to say...well, actually, she didn't say anything. Instead she just sort of stormed off. Which, once again, led me to think, "Huh?"

So here's my nearest guess as to the differing thought processes going on here:

Hers:
We won't date, but will go out for lunch almost every day. People at work, upon seeing this, will continue asking her if we're dating and the rumor mill will be in full force around the office, but since we won't be dating, it won't matter that everyone thinks we are, since we're really not. Therefore, eating together everyday is perfectly fine, since they are all wrong.

Mine:
We date outside of work on our own time. Around the office we'll spend very little time together so that people won't think we're dating, even though we are. This way, people won't talk, but we can see what develops outside of the office. This means, cooling it on the lunches, but doing dinner when no co-workers will be around to see us.

I think my way makes more sense. And I think that I'll be taking my future lunches on a non-Nancy basis from here on out. And I can't say that I mind one bit.

lunch boycott

Nancy and I went out for lunch today, and right away the distancing signs began. "I talked to some people over the weekend," she told me, "and they all think this is a bad idea. I really need this job and I'm so afraid that I'll get fired because people have been asking me if we're dating because we eat lunch together so much...and I like eating my lunch at the office sometimes. We can still go to lunch now and then, but not everyday, and I don't think we should do anything outside of work because someone might see us."

Table for one, please.