Along the lines of ‘Go Climb a Rock.’ Or ‘Camping Is My Bag.’

Going through a dusty, ancient file cabinet in my office yesterday, Co-Worker QB came across THIS little piece of marketing history.

I sat at my desk and worked. She worked herself into a lather.

QB: OMG! We should totally put this on a shirt!

ME: That’s awesome.

QB: We could use the old logo too. We could ALL wear it!

ME: Totally retro.

QB: Retro, yeah! ProForma has these new shirts, they’re made out of bamboo … we could order those …

ME: Wait. What? BamBOO?

QB: Oh yeah, you can totally make anything out of bamboo.

ME: Bamboo?

QB: Yeah. I’d totally wear one.

ME: BamBOO.

QB: Dude. They make a crapton of stuff out of bamboo.

So I looked it up. And they DO make a crapton of stuff out of bamboo. There’s even a blog about it — 1,000 Things Made Out of Bamboo. It has a crapton of photos. One thousand, to be exact. There were more than a few I found interesting, however, the site is almost entirely in German, which … I do not speak. I can’t be sure about the descriptions, but I’ll give it my best shot.

First one’s a toss up. Nose Picker for the fingerless. Or one of the legs from that stupid spider at the end of the Stephen King TV Movie, IT.

Harnessing the power of old people with the Giant Hamster Wheel.

Some kind of musical instrument.

Or more likely, a bong.

Pod People Casings discovered after washing ashore following Hurricane Katrina. Hume Cronin is expected to emerge any day now. All shiny and new with magical powers.

Portable Periscopes. For Portable Bamboo Submarines.

Or bongs.

This one I’m sure of. Really bad beer.

And this newly discovered flotilla land mass. Huck Finn, eat your heart out.

So yeah. I totally want the Good Nature shirt.

Bamboo images borrowed from these guys.

Thankfully, I’ll be the one with the camera.

In the morning, I’m hitting the road, heading to an annual overnight “retreat” at a mountain resort with our Board of Directors. Loosely translated, “work all day and watch grown men and women act like total idiots at the bar all night.” This is the one guaranteed night each year MP has a sleepover at Grammy and Poppy’s — they have fun, I have fun, it’s all good. The resort is about an hour away though, and thinking about it makes me miss her already. I know, I know …

So, I’m charging the camera as I type. If I’m lucky I’ll come home with some blog-worthy photos. I’d post some from last year to give you an idea of what’s in store but I swore to delete anything incriminating. Which means … I got nothin’. This year, who knows. Back in the 90s, I saw Glenn Close in the restaurant. She looked remarkably like a regular person. Which totally didn’t stop me from telling everyone I knew I rubbed elbows (literally) with the Fatal Attraction chick. What I wouldn’t give to have gotten a picture of her eating a rabbit dinner …

Oh, and did you notice how I’ve already blown the NaBloPoMo thing? That was quick. Now I just have to break the news to the Teletubbies. Po will be devastated. I however, will not.

Okay, I’m exhausted. I’m taking a chance and leaving the packing ’til morning. Which is probably a really bad idea, but the lids, they are heavy ma Doogs.

See you in a few days!

Troop 3447 gets crafty. Or an old lady loses her mind. Both involve diapers.

Suzette is an older woman that works in the office upstairs. She’s a bit … off. The two offices share a kitchen. At any given moment, chances are usually good Suzette can be found talking to herself, rumaging around in the fridge or cleaning out drawers. Who knows. She likes the kitchen. We also have a large meeting space that’s available for rent, so people come and go quite frequently.

Yesterday morning, ACW (Another Co-Worker) came into my office.

ACW: Dude, there’s a DIAPER on top of the fridge.

ME: What? Is it dirty?

ACW: No …

MP: Uhhh…

ACW: An ADULT diaper.

ME: WTF?

ACW: I know.

ME: Are you SURE it’s not dirty?

ACW: It’s not dirty.

ME: Is Suzette losin’ it?

ACW: She’s GOTTA be.

ME: ‘Cause she’s the only one I can think of …

ACW: I KNOW.

ME: Wait, who was here yesterday? Didn’t QB come back at six? Was there a meeting?

ACW: Yeah, she had a Girl Scout thing. [QB is a Troop Leader]

ME: Maybe it was from the meeting?

ACW: Why would Girl Scouts involve adult diapers?

(pause)

ME: Maybe it was a … craft?

Hey, wanna play church?

Or Hobag Rock Chicks?

I would so rock the Girl Scout diaper crafts. Maybe QB will let me loose on her girls.

I totally want a badge.

Image borrowed from these guys and these guys.

Can’t we all just get along?

Things in my office have been a little tense lately. I work with five women and one man, Conservaboss. (I think it’s about time for more BO bumper stickers …) I’ve worked with TONS of women before and NEVER experienced the catty, nosy, jealous, backstabbing BS that goes on in my office nearly every day. Seriously. Women are absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know how lesbians do it.

In all honesty, it really comes down to just a few bad apples who get off on trading negativity almost as much as two hormonal teenagers swapping spit. And I’ve learned the best way to avoid being peppered with the BS is to stay buried in my office.

Until Monday.

Remember my Social Media Presentation last week? On Monday, one of the Apples (who takes great joy in finding fault with me, my ideas, my work, etc.) rolled into my office, sat down, and gave a backhanded compliment before tearing it apart.

And I lost my shit.

Just thinking about it exhausts me. Needless to say, when the smoke cleared and all was said and done, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I was completely honest. And it was completely harsh. But 100% deserved.

What it comes down to is this. I would love nothing more than to spend each day with MP. Being the sole bread-earner, that’s not a possibility right now. But if I can’t be with her, I damn well better like the people I DO spend time with. Because thinking that I spend more hours each day with a few downright nasty beyotches than I do with my daughter makes me angry.

So tomorrow, the entire staff will be going on our annual day-long “retreat.” Which really just means we go somewhere, recap the past year and talk about plans for the next. AWESOME timing. Should be a BLAST.

I’ve decided to take the high road however, and attempt to be a uniter.

I’ll be passing out Pop Rocks and Diet Pepsi. If THAT doesn’t get a laugh, I’ll be throwing in the proverbial towel and heading to an ashram somewhere in India.

In some circles I’m considered an expert. Which is frightening.

Yesterday, my boss came into my office and started asking me about Social Media. Which he’s NEVER done. Convinced I’m totally busted, I’m waiting for “Mommypie” to trip off his tongue any second. He’s been known to snoop on employee’s computers and truth be told, I’m not always the stealthiest. Like the folder titled BLOG. Seriously, it’s just a matter of time.

I steadied myself while the Blog Hog in my head chanted Dooced! Dooced! Dooced! Dooced!

Thankfully, BH was wrong. Conservaboss actually wanted some insight for an upcoming conference, which, pretty much meant the kiss of death for me. Mention anything I’m passionate about and I literally cannot. Shut. Up.

I blabbed about blogging. I even suggested we add a President’s Blog to our web site. He could write it, and I’d set it up for him. I blabbed about Facebook and LinkedIn and Twitter. Dear God, I blabbed about Twitter. I even walked him through setting up an account. I showed him how he could follow his guy, McCain.

I momentarily lost my freakin’ mind.

The result of which was me agreeing to give an HOUR LONG PRESENTATION at aforementioned conference. In two weeks. Me. The one who loathes public speaking of any sort.

End result? Not only did I commit the cardinal sin of farking with the blog/work balance by introducing my BOSS to my sacred, secret realm … I must now educate a legion of internet-challenged businessmen and women about the awesomeness of my After 5 World. And yes, by After 5 World, I most certainly DID mean the tuxedo rental place, thanks.

This blows goats.

My only saving grace? I managed to actually keep my mouth shut about MY blog and MY Twitter account. Sometimes the Blog Hog comes through.

Gettin’ busy in the afterlife.

As part of my job, once a month (for nine months) I spend the day in a “leadership program.” Yesterday, the theme of the September session was “History Day.” Which meant we spent the day learning the history of our town. Way cool.

We took a walking tour of downtown and learned the history of the buildings. When I pointed out a former turn-of-the-century brewery that served as my college apartment and told the tour guide (apart from the group) it was most definitely haunted, she was so clearly not impressed. I’ll save the ghost story for another post.

We went to two museums and learned about pioneer life from a HIGHLY enthusiastic lady in period attire. Holy crap. There’s a reason people are never smiling in old photographs. Life was HARD. Just LIVING was a job.

We visited a famous turn-of-the-century mansion that, until just a few years ago served as a fraternity house. It’s safe to say I could’ve sat this one out. I toured it plenty in the late ’80s.

And best of all …

We went on a cemetery tour given by a quirky little man in a bow tie and top hat. He had just identified the headstone of an infamous madam when I happened to looked down.

What?!? Can I help it if the blog gods dropped this at my feet?

Oh yeah. THIS was directly behind these two.

It’s Swingtown. For dead people.

It’s raining men. And I want to crawl under my desk.

I don’t know WHAT the hell’s goin’ on but the past few weeks there’s been a run on fix-ups in Pie Town. Apparently, someone designated it Mommypie Needs A Date month.

Which has led me to declare it Mommypie Is A Stress Case month.

Because Mommypie doesn’t really WANT a date. At least not at this juncture. And you better believe that KILLS my mother.

The first guy is a local attorney, 10 years my senior. I’ve met him a few times before at work functions. Nice enough. He ran for a judge seat last year, and lost. His chosen political party is … not mine. And being older and pickier (meaning that “they like me” is no longer a good enough reason to date someone), all the above could easily be enough to rule him out.

But ACW (Another Co-Worker) mentioned she saw a large tattoo on his lower leg at our recent golf tourney, so, I agreed to meet him for lunch Tuesday. Or Wednesday. I can’t remember, but I wrote it down. And I’m DREADING it. Because, while I don’t want to rule anything out, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time either. I’m going to try to go into it with an open mind. It’s just lunch right? RIGHT??

The other guy is a baseball scout, also about 10 years older than me. Definitely scoring higher on the cool job scale, if that counts for anything. He doesn’t live in this state, but travels here frequently. I have NO idea what he looks like. He’s sent two emails. I sent one, somewhat terse, “nice to meet you” email. He wants to get together later this month when he’s in town. I haven’t answered.

Argh. I AM totally grateful for such wonderful friends who care so much about my happiness. I find it funny that in this case, the two doing the setting up were two GUYS. And I know I’m a little unconventional. But I love the life MP and I have. Just the two of us.

And now, I want to hide. I want to crawl under my desk and hide. Which I’ve actually done on more than one occasion. Just out of college, I was working two jobs to make ends meet — a 9 to 5 job all day while waiting tables all night. I was exhausted. For awhile there, I’d actually crawl under my desk, lie down and sleep when my bosses were at lunch. I kept a pillow in my office and everything. Okay, a seat cushion, but still. Remember the Seinfeld episode where George slept under his desk at work? That was totally me.

Which sounds so much better than a lunch date small talk torture session. Hep me Rhonda.

Beer cans, biplanes and the intricacies of networking

Last night was my once a month, sometimes excruciatingly tiresome, obligatory networking cocktail-y work thing. This month’s outdoor event was okay — made fun primarily because my best guy friend in town (we’ll call him News Guy — I love him to bits) showed up. His timing couldn’t have been better. I needed someone to tell me if I had BBQ ribs stuck in my teeth. I did not.

So, I’m standing there, talking to News Guy and someone else we’ll call Manorexic, and this crazy woman comes up to me, addressing me by my first name, which she’s clearly just learned from my NAME TAG. She has her 14ish-year-old son in tow. They are obsessed with the Bud Light in my hand. That I’m so obviously DRINKING.

Turns out her elderly father makes model biplanes out of Bud Light cans. I learned it takes 18 cans to make one airplane. I also learned her father doesn’t drink, which poses a dilemma. Because the money he earns from the sale of these planes — apparently there’s a market for things of this nature — goes to his grandson’s music lessons. Which, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh, PLEASE let them be COUNTRY music lessons, or I’ll be crushed.’ The irony of the whole story is lost without the Country.

I told her when I was done, the can was hers. She thanked me, and she and her son — the music lesson grandson — backed away a good … three feet. Waiting. Watching. Chicken Hawks to my field mouse.

I tried to ignore my Beer Can Stalkers. It must have been around this time that conversation turned to seafood and my intense dislike of all things fishy. I distinctly remember saying I didn’t think I’d make a very good lesbian.

Note to self: In work-related social situations, best to remember the difference between INSIDE voice and OUTSIDE voice. Probably a good rule of thumb in any situation.

I almost forgot all about them.

Half an hour later, as the party was winding down, we moved to a completely different location. The Chicken Hawks chased me down, planted themselves in front of me and just stood there. Smiling. Holding a bag of cans. Not really a TRUE bag — more like a plastic toilet paper wrapper fashioned into a bag. Which only paints a better picture.

“Take your time. No rush!” Mama Stalker said, standing WAY too close, popping the Personal Space Bubble.

Rather than go off on the woman, News Guy took a step back and looked away. I stood there like an idiot, trying to chug the remainder of my Bud Light. I suggested she check out the trash for more cans.

She remained. Inside my Personal Space Bubble. Smiling.

I was so annoyed and freaked out I finally handed her my half full beer telling her I’d get another. “Are you sure?” she said, taking the can. Still smiling. Still completely socially inept.

The thing was, it wasn’t like she was some random person crashing the event. She had a name tag. She was invited. Apparently the nuances of “networking” had her confused.

Perhaps she’ll leave the beer can fetish at home next month. I shall be drinking wine.

Hunchback of a Dame

Yes, I know I have poor posture.

Blame it on the height.

Or the nightly bath routine of a rambunctious preschooler.

So thank you, my anonymous friend, for pointedly placing this in my inbox (and my inbox alone!), and reminding me that a back is a terrible thing to waste. Were it not for you, I may have forgotten to drink my milk at dinner tonight.

It’s good to be loved.

Who Left Porn On The Printer?

Someone left porn on the printer at work today. I have five female co-workers. My boss is male. Between a few of us, I think we were able to narrow it down to a likely suspect. (You make the call.)

I actually have nothing against *most* porn. It has it’s place. But, now I know a certain unnamed someone is “looking for a fug buddy,” (and doing it at work, no less – eeww) and …. I just threw up a little in my mouth.

This is Fug.

The Profanity Pug.