Feelin' lucky, punk?

Growing up with two older brothers, I’ve always been exposed to various interpretations of bathroom etiquette. Unfortunately, as the youngest of three and the only girl, ‘majority ruled.’  More often than not, my half-hazed, mid-dream runs to the bathroom usually resulted in my butt touching the bottom of the bowl, soon followed by a muffled yelp and immediate plotting of revenge.  For them, the decorative sign my mother hung on the wall that read, “If we were meant to sit in cold water, we would have been born with webbed feet,” was clearly placed there as easy reading material while they did their business.  But for me, that poor cartoon duck sitting in the toilet with a red and white lifesaver hugging its torso served as a warning; one which I often needed refreshed.

As far as using public lavatories (on road trips to Syracuse, at baseball games, malls, etc), I learned some very specific rules when my mom and I would head to the ladies room, including, but not limited to:

- Always flush with your foot
- Always put paper on the seat before sitting
       - Always carry paper with you in case there’s none in the stall.
- Always breathe through your mouth
- Always wash your hands
- Get in and out as fast as you possibly can

Now, in addition to whatever rules people practice on their own, when it comes to the sort of ‘public’ facility used on a regular basis, such as at work or school, there’s definitely an unspoken etiquette that most seem to understand. 

For instance, my office is on the 8th floor (penthouse.. “Had to be the top, right?…” “It’s the best!”).  There are 6 elevators in the middle of the building with a long hallway stretching on either side, company doors branching out as necessary.  To use the restrooms, we must exit our office, a door just outside the elevator landing, and head down either hallway to find the bathroom at the end of each wing.

Working here almost 5 years, I’ve learned what times are appropriate for #1 and #2 and what times to avoid going altogether. The office across the hall has been vacant for some time so I’ve gotten used to the 10 women I share a bathroom with throughout the course of a day. Sadly, as of April, some new neighbors moved in (15 or more additional ‘ladies’) who apparently don’t know the rules, which I assumed were universal. I don’t think it needs to be said that what’s acceptable at home isn’t necessarily going to fly with your bathroom mates at work. 

It is a widely known fact that whoever gets to an empty bathroom first, trumps whomever enters afterwards. In other words, if you find the time in your day to escape to the bathroom for upwards of 5 minutes, and someone enters 30 seconds in, you have the authority to wait until your ‘competition’ (for lack of a better word) is finished and departs before you continue your business.  Conversely, if you enter to find an occupied stall, you must concede, going as fast as you can, ignoring the subtle shuffling of feet to distract from what’s actually going on a mere foot and a half away, and exit so that your predecessor may complete her ‘transaction’ in peace.

Nothing irks me more than a competitor who enters a silent bathroom while I’m waiting for my ‘turn’ and initiates The Showdown.  Don’t you know the rules? I was here first, Miss Kitten Heels.  I WILL make the first move, and you don’t want to meet my version of Dirty Harry when the occasion arises. Again, with two older brothers, 50% of my shame (for gas and other unpleasantries) went out the window at age 5, but since a half-inch thick wall separates me from a potential co-worker, I like to keep my business private, as in, in an empty bathroom (or my very own cubicle, with a spray of perfume immediately following). But if you make me, I will be happy to throw my remaining shame out the window to get you to finish your business and come back later. Just remember- everyone loves their own scent. 

Secondly, for those who find it absolutely necessary to brush your teeth after EVERY bite of food you consume, I’d like to kindly remind you to please run some water over that half chewed piece of popcorn stuck to the side of the sink; yes, the one you spit out with that huge glob of fluorescent green toothpaste.  Clearly, we see your oral hygiene is intact, but that doesn’t excuse you from leaving your left-overs all over our otherwise spotless facilities.  I’d hate to see what your bathroom looks like …ick.

Talking on your cell phone while sitting on the bowl? Don’t tell me they can’t hear the echo off the tile walls.  Again, at home, when done with skill and precision, you may even get a flush in without the other end being any wiser.  But at work? With other people in the room? Honestly, what is so pressing you can't wait another 90 seconds?!

Similarly, striking up conversation while doing your business… this is touch and go, especially if we’re combining it with the showdown from above.  #1) You’re distracting me from the mission at hand.  #2) See #1. #3) ANY conversation should be kept to the niceties. i.e. – “Wish this day would end already…” … “God I hate meetings this long…” … “It’s supposed to be sunny all weekend… should be nice.”  Try to avoid questions requiring developed responses. Remember: this is ME time.  Shutting up is preferable, at least until I’m at the sink.

Lord only knows what the men’s room etiquette is like, but I will say I know WAY too much about a certain co-worker’s BMs as he brings the daily newspaper and/or work documents to the bathroom each morning at exactly 0800.  Honestly, did you think we didn’t notice your hands were full? And… more importantly, do you think I want to review that document after you’ve smoked it in your latest creation?  I think not.

I guess in closing, I’d like to say that even after growing up with two 6’4”, pube-ridden animals, I still managed to retain some sort of public decency when it comes to using the facilities. Even now, living alone, I clean up after myself to avoid scraping week-old encrusted toothpaste from the sink in the off chance someone decides to stop over unexpectedly. How is it that I’ve managed to become a well-mannered member of Generation Y while women from the era of books entitled ‘How to be a Lady’ and articles like ‘The Good Wife’s Guide’ think leaving their spittle all over a public restroom (with marble counter tops, I might add) is anywhere NEAR acceptable?

Perhaps I should print out that article and leave it anonymously in the bathroom as a reminder… although I’m sure some sweet lady in kitten heels with toothpaste in the corners of her mouth will bring it in the stall with her and delay me from completing my mission. Whomp. 

Leave those umbrellas at home.

I’ve always been one to go a little over the top when a good tune comes on, whether it be in the car, in the elevator, on the metro, in the dentist’s chair (ouch!), at a bar, or any other social scenario that involves music of any kind. At parties / locales with live or recorded music, my first mission is make friends with the performers and / or DJs to ensure my requests will be played at the wink of an eye (or flailing of a drunken arm… not that I’ve ever done that). If it’s a juke box, I make sure to get prime placement no greater than 10 steps away and always ask the bartender for my change in quarters (no.. they don’t appreciate that on $1 beer nights when they have to break a $20. Trust me, sir. You’ll thank me later).

Depending on the mood, it could be the Rolling Stone’s sprinkling me with a little Brown Sugar that gets the hips moving, or perhaps I’ll Express Myself with some classy, old-school Madonna: “C’mon girls… do you believe in love?! ‘cause I got somethin’ to say about it… and it goes somethin’ like this….” My taste of dance music truly runs the gamut. Clearly, by no means am I saying I’m a skilled dancer; in fact, my skills would be most comparable to that of poor Elaine Benes. But in the words of Gloria Estefan, “The rhythm is gonna get ya…”

Now, we’ve all had our bad days… when that jackass marine keeps talking about his ‘hot date tonight with a young hispanica’ when all I wanna do is close this action and pitch myself out a window eight stories high… or when you get ready for work with no idea that it’s supposed to downpour later and decide to wear your brand new suede boots … only to get called to the navy yard (.5 miles away) for a meeting that’s canceled before you even get there. On these crap-tastic days, very little can cure me of the blues. However, there is ONE song that will get me up, ass-shaking and bootylicious. Someone could steal my ice cream cone (or my car… as it’s been known to happen), cut me off on my commute home sans blinker just to stop short and double park (since apparently hazard lights are the terrible driver’s invisibility cloak), it wouldn’t matter. This song comes on, and I’m READY to go.

A close second would obviously be Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody, but they don’t play that nearly as often as the following amazing, ridiculous, timeless masterpiece by the Weathergirls. That’s right, ladies. It’s raining men. So get ready all you lonely girls, and leave those umbrellas at home.

(Please note: This video was sent to me by my office manager with a picture of an otherwise mortifying dance move yours truly displayed at a company Christmas Party in 2008 at Mt. Vernon, Virginia. 10-bucks says George Washington was kickin’ it in his grave. “Hallelujiah!!”)

(Editor's Note: Another $10 says every man in this video is gay.... Typical.)

Happy Friday!

Best. T-Shirt. Ever.

So, during the work day, gchat stays up.  Busy, or not, I will have up to 3 or 4 main conversations going, with random 'Hey, what's up?'s throughout the day.  Staple convos include, my mom, a female friend I've known for 13 years who can pretty much make me laugh at anything (hereinafter referred to as Cheeks), and a few others, to be mentioned as necessary.

I've been known to have a dirty mouth, dirty mind and a dirty ability to drink my face off.  This isn't a fluke.  I've learned these exceptional talents from the two people who made me, whom I must say, have gotten extremely witty with age. As much as I hate forwards, the only two people I will accept them from are Ma and Pa Dukes.  If they're really good, I'll send them to Cheeks for a good laugh.

Today was no exception.

It's about 10:18am when I receive the following IM:
Mom: morning, I just found an icon on desktop, dad must have gotten it from one of his cronies........gross,
but I know you'll laugh at it and may know another 'sick' friend that may laugh [Cheeks]....just be careful when you open...it's only a pic, but not for all eyes to see......ok if I send?
me:  yes ma'am! send to gmail! :)

Subject: A MANSHIRT

Body: I can't believe that there's a shirt like this!!!!!!!  Could you just imagine

meeting a guy in a saloon wearing this!?!?!?!?! 

I don't believe any further comment is necessary, except to say I sent it to as many appreciative friends as possible.  Good work, mom.

Maybe he meant P-H-A-T....

Ok, with the random assortment of backhanded comments (some unintentional, I understand), at least I can safely say I never bit anyone who verbally 'wronged' me...eegads!

Can you just imagine? In the heat of rage, I've definitely had the urge to smack someone, maybe punch, push, whatever... but I've never done it.  I usually put in my two cents of wit (which tend to be rather unladylike) and move on.  I may take boxing 4 times a week, but that doesn't mean I'm a violent person.  I get all my frustration out on the bag.  The bag who can't fight back.

No comment in the world would make me attack someone.... with my TEETH.  I just picture that scene in mean girls, when she hallucinates everyone turning into jungle animals, attacking at will. Apparently 21-year-old Anna Godfrey of Lincoln, Nebraska's animagus (total harry potter reference... what a nerd) is a Hyena.

Lesson learned: Keep the 'fat' talk to a minimum at parties, people. Especially in the Great Plains of Nebraska.

ADDENDUM: "Get some rest, Pam. You look tired."

After yesterday's comment, I may or may not have spruced up extra nice today, if only to prove to Mr. Jim (... and maybe myself) and the rest of the 300+ people at this afternoon's meeting that I'm FAR from weathered. 

Outfit as follows:
Black Pencil Skirt, thin faux-snake patent leather black belt
White collared short sleeve shirt tucked in, accentuating my new Famaican tan (faux-Jamaican....oops!)
Kelly Green Cardigan
Leopard print flats, black pumps for meeting later

This morning's comment from Office Manager: I love your shoes. They look so... comfortable.

HA. I'm 0-2 people. Or perhaps just need a couple dozen chill pills.  Blame it on the full moon.

"Get some rest, Pam. You look tired."

Yes, that is a quote from the Bourne Ultimatum, the final installment of the best modern trilogy known to man (dramatic, I know).  Suspense, action, little bit of romance / love, and of course, Matt Damon.  This particular quote is said to Joan Allen's character as Jason Bourne chats with her on the phone, looking on secretively from another building.  It is in this circumstance, and no other, that I will let the 'You look tired,' statement slide.

As a government contractor, there are moments of high stress / panic in my day-to-day...and there are also moments of extreme boredom. Nevertheless, there will always be people that are more tired, more stressed, more mentally exhausted than the likes of me, I assure you. Regardless of how tired / busy I am, when it comes to clients, I will always put on a 'happy face' and act my most professional-self until I can slouch back down at my desk and stare at the SE (south-east) DC construction out my enormous cube window (not bragging, just a fact).

This particular afternoon, I had to find the effort to produce and drop off a binder at a building half a mile away, which entailed hoofing it down the street in heels (I'm a lady...) and climbing two flights of stairs (rinse and repeat for the trip back).  I'm not complaining, either; I love getting out into the fresh air when possible; cube life is excruciating if sitting all.day.long. Now, to accommodate the client, this had to be done under a time crunch.

Upon arrival...

Me: Hey, Jim. How are you.
Jim: Hey! How ya doin'!
Me: Good, just dropping off [blah].
Jim: Oh great. So really, how are you? You're looking.... weathered. You ok?
Me: [amazement]..... oh yeah, you know. It's congressional season. Makes everyone weathered, I guess....
Jim: Yeah... I guess....
---further awkward conversation ensues about his wife and the turmoil with her business trip.. because that's relevant---

Really? Really, Jim?  Weathered?!  I'm sure Mrs. Jim would appreciate it if you called her weathered after a long day of doing work for YOUR boss and catering to YOUR schedule.... I bet you kick puppies for fun, too, don't you. Son of a ...

Lesson learned for all readers, male, female, shims: telling people they look tired, weathered, etc., is another way of telling them they look like shit.  Unless your name is Matt Damon and you're trying to escape the confines of an FBI operative program that has you listed under 'people to shoot on sight,' DON'T tell me I look tired.  Unless you want a left hook to the soul.  That's all.

Now... on to some food porn.  More on that later...

Shaken, Not Stirred.

Yes, it's Friday, and a spring Friday in DC can only mean one thing: Happy Hour / Drinks / Debauchery.  I feel like I'm 17 with a month left of High School.  There's nothing I want to do more than... nothing (of importance, that is). Sadly, I actually remember riding by bars with outdoor seating on the Friday late bus thinking, 'I cannot WAIT to be that age. No homework, no tests to study for... Just fun!'  I will say, aside from the unfortunate addition of bills, budgets, work, the gym (as metabolism has a nasty, indirect relationship to age), and other miscellaneous responsibilities, it kind of ... is.. all that it was cracked up to be. 

Nothing makes me happier than sidewalk seating and hours of cocktails while people-watching and feeling the sun set with a cool spring breeze in the air. The young teen in me still gets giddy at the fact that I have no one from whom I must seek permission... I can continue as short or long as I desire. No one to answer to, no one to check in with, no one's mouth to feed, no one's self-esteem to boost (other than my own... with that next vodka gimlet...).

So.. as Happy Hour quickly approaches.. just wanted to cheers the interwebbings with a little cocktail hour mix of music.  Slainté !

How Did You Know?

Happy Friday.  As I'm sure many of you can relate, mornings are for my gmail account to be bogged down with deals, recommendations, recipes and the like for various sites... Like today, for example....

NYGiants Pro Shop - 50% OFF Entire Store
Live Nation - DC Concert Update
The Washingtonian - Homemade Brunch, Plume Review, a Coffee Obsession, and More!

Then, I received my daily 'Amazon.com recommends....'  Now, as I've mentioned, I'm a late-20-something... single, living alone, own my own car, fairly active social life.  Nothing more needs to really be said that isn't already implied.  But, as far as Amazon knows, I'm a late-20-something with a diverse taste in literature and .. sometimes electronics and gifts around the holidays.  How in the name of all internet marketing did they have these to recommend?

A TROJAN SUPRA Lubricated 36-Pack of Condoms.  I admit, I certainly utilize one or two from time to time... but Amazon has nothing to do with that.  I don't know whether to be slightly miffed or extremely appreciative.  Why, thank you, Amazon.  Have you been talking to Susan Miller? Should I be expecting a plethora of gentleman callers in the coming months?

Flashback to 1990

Yes, talking about Mrs. Fiorello's first grade class got me on an old music kick as well..... check out this beauty. Eesh!



I remember playing this song over and over... AND OVER... with an assortment of brushes as microphones depending on my mood... and outfit.  No doubt, I did it on my 7th birthday... wearing this classy ensemble.