Office Supplies. They Matter.

My office recently switched to a new toilet paper, and it's pretty innovative.  The manufacturer has, it seems, discovered a way to make toilet paper that is just one molecule thick. 

This really makes peeing a thought-provoking experience.  Your tentative, gentle grasp punches your fingers through the tissue, simultaneously make one feel like the Hulk with a china teacup and driving home the fragility of human life.

And then there's the adventure of it:

There's only half a roll left--will this be enough to cover my needs?

And coping with menstruation under these circumstances becomes fraught with all the anxiety of the apocalypse.

It does make for great calisthenics, though.  I stretch my arm all the way out, as far as I can without tipping over, and then foldfoldfoldfold (haha, fourfold) to achieve something akin to the bare (lol) minimum of adequacy.

But don't blow your nose in it.  If there are no Kleenex to be had, I'd recommend using sandpaper before our new toilet paper.  It's softer, and you're infinitely less likely to shoot your snot right through it and onto your hands, desk, and any passers-by.

A sneeze would be catastrophic.

Bugs and Bubbles

That sounds like the title to a childrens "edutainment" program, doesn't it?

It's not.  It's my workplace.  Though it is pretty juvenile.

Yesterday, because our office is oh-so-pretty and pristine, a dead bug flew out of the air vent and onto my head.  Laughter ensued--but not mine.

Today we're popping bubble wrap.  Not just any bubble wrap, though, the big, industrial-sized-bubbles bubble wrap.  Our boss said we have to.

I'm not sure whether we just crack up easily, or if we're just cracked.


(True:  I never cared for that magazing, but Spy vs. Spy was pretty awesome...)

Oh For Pete's Sake

You know that song "High School Never Ends"?  Yeah, it's terrible.

It's also a lie.  I honestly believe that once we reach fifth grade, we just stop maturing.  Sure, there's some boob-growing and lexicon-building after that, but nothing fundamentally changes.

Several grown-ass men in my office are daring each other to eat a beetle found on someone's desk.

Order Matters

Not the Good Housekeeping/Martha Stewart-approved kind of order, obviously.  Anyone who has seen my apartment, or my car, or my purse can attest to that.  (Though I maintain that I'm visually organized--if I can see it, I can find it.  So it's not clutter.  It's visually available.)

No, what I mean is the sequential kind of order.  Specifically, the order in which one's thoughts leaves one's mouth.

So, when I was talking with a work friend about what a bummer is was that his band had missed the cut-off for entry in an industry battle of the bands event, I probably should have put my sentences in an orderly sequence, instead of blurting them out in the order I thought them.

Compare what I meant versus what I said:

True:  I am an accidental asshole.

A First-Person Narrative

I'm eating hummus for lunch and I just stumbled across the terrifying words "Honey Boo Boo."

So there went my idea for today's post.  It must not have been very important.

So, here are some thoughts on my day:

Someone has been sitting on my chair.  Someone adjusted my chair.  My feet don't touch the floor!  Who has been sitting in my chair???  Jerk.

Someone once told me the hydraulics in swivel chairs are powerful enough that a malfunction could shoot the base all the way through your butt. 

If this is a promotion, why am I sitting at the short bus desk?  I had a bigger desk in third grade, and that had a flip top for storage.  This one just has a cartoon that says, "Weenie Hut Jr's."

At what point is it reasonable to ask for my borrowed pen back?  It's been twenty minutes.  And that pen is perfectly broken in.  Is the borrower at lunch?  Maybe I could steal it back.  Crap.  It's not in plain sight and there are too many people around for me to rifle through drawers.



(True:  No, this is not a real post.  I'd sell my left foot--that's my ass-kicking foot--for a nap.  And I'd be open to negotiation.)

In a Surprise Twist, I Actually Survived

And mostly intact!  WhirlyBall was pretty much more fun than ought to be legal, although I did end up with some bruising on the insides of my legs that might raise some eyebrows if I decide to sport my Daisy Dukes this weekend.  You know, if I had any.  Or thought that was a good look for me anyone me.

But what can I say?  A center steering column in a bumper car leads to suspicious bruising.

In other news, overnight my voice has subsided to a subauditory squeak.  I went to lunch with some friends, and they spent the entire meal pretending (sort of pretending) they couldn't hear me, and the entire ride back mocking me.

I'd write up a proper post, but I have Frutti di Bosco gelato to eat, so you're out of luck.


(True:  I am wearing a ponytail today.  One of our salespeople came up behind me and pulled it.  To be perfectly clear, my ponytail is not an invitation to touch me, no matter how often we talk on the phone.  Especially from behind, without announcing your presence.  Geez, people!  Haven't we moved past this yet?)

This is the main difference between me and the rest of the world.

I came around the corner by my cubicle to overhear a co-worker mention a "Lucius."

"Are you talking about Harry Potter?" I asked excitedly.

"No.  Basketball."

Well, I'm sorry, but people aren't allowed to be named Lucius outside of Harry Potter.  It's not nice to raise my hopes like that.

In unrelated news, I think it's time for a good old-fashioned HP marathon.


(True:  These co-workers are now debating the best way to drag a water-logged mattress out of a public pool.  I'm starting to worry.)

Life-Threateners

Yesterday I scored two Lifesavers from HR.  Having a bit of a sweet-tooth as I do, I was a bit excited.  And so, when I ran into coworker M, I waved the candies in his direction.  And okay, maybe I was kind of exuberant about it.

But I swear I never meant for one of the candies to be hurled toward M's face, narrowly missing and exploding against the wall, scattering shard of the sweetest shrapnel all over the hallway.

The worst part is, the one that didn't explode/nearly brain my coworker?  Yeah, it was watermelon-flavored.  And if that isn't the saddest story you've ever heard, I just don't want to live in this world anymore.


(True:  The best Lifesaver flavor is, without a doubt, Butter Rum.  More candy should be booze-flavored and workplace-friendly.  But I guess pineapple is pretty good, too.)

Quick! I Need an Icepick!

I had a really clever idea for what to blog about today, but then the guys in my department started talking about the etymology of the Brazilian wax and I had to perform an emergency auto-lobotomy.


(True:  The word "I" comes from the Latin idem, which means "the same."  Because I'm unique.  Just like everyone else.)

Define "Normal."

Well, I was going to blog today, but I ate too much Thai food instead.

In unrelated news, I dropped my hairbrush in the toilet this morning.  But hey, at least it wasn't my toothbrush.  The comb I use for backup probably wouldn't have worked as well on my teeth.


(True:  My coworker, who says she does not find puns funny, just responded to, "Are you quoting an Audi dealership?" with, "No, but I Audi be."  This was promptly followed by another coworker asking if anyone had an Audi.  The response?  "No, my belly button's an innie."  God, I love my office.)