Sunday, March 31, 2013

The Facebook Papers: Spicy Hot

Suggested Topic #1: "Spicy Hot Co-workers. Spicy Hot to deal with smart a**es"

I work with some great people, but don't find any of them especially spicy. (No offense, smart a**es, but only Senior fans my flame.) However, as my female peers can attest, "hot" has a whole new connotation for those of us of a certain age. In fact, there was a time when I could go from room temperature to spicy hot in about four seconds flat, usually followed by a lot of arm flapping and the removal of outer layers. Add in a relative increase in the ambient air temperature and the power of suggestion, and before you knew it my cubicle coworker was doing the caliente conga right along with me. This was getting to be exhausting until the day we found a treasure. 

A burly sports-obsessed finance nerd who sat near us left the company unexpectedly. We mourned his departure in the usual manner, by pilfering all the stuff left in his caddy. (To clarify, typical companies give you a desk with a few drawers, but I don't work for a typical company. We have tables with little side carts, known as caddies.) Tucked away behind his stapler, some obsolete files and an AFC championship glass was the golden prize - a small tabletop oscillating desk fan!  The most surprising thing was the color; a peachy-pink plastic that certainly didn't match his manly-man persona. We were not sure why he had this fan, as we had never seen him use it, but frankly we didn't care. We plugged it in and spent the entire summer basking in the cool breeze as it bobbed back and forth between our seats.  

We've shuffled cubes a few times since then, and I lost track of that pink fan. The passage of time combined with good meds have pretty much alleviated my spicy hot days. But I like to think that Pinky lives on, helping others in the sweaty sisterhood make it through the day.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

These truths I hold to be self-evident

It doesn't matter what locker I choose at the gym. The Swedish Olympic women's volleyball team will choose the locker right next to me. The intensity of their blond gloriousness will be in direct proportion to the amount of difficulty I have getting out of my sweaty sports bra.

It doesn't matter what table I choose at my favorite "seat yourself" restaurant. Before my food comes, and regardless of how many other tables are unoccupied, the table next to me will be chosen by either a family with a disgruntled child or someone shouting into their cellphone.

It doesn't matter which hands-free sink I choose in a public restroom. It's a crap shoot whether the soap or water dispenser will work, and the faucet will only extend an eighth of an inch over the bowl, no matter how big the sink is.

It doesn't matter which lane I choose at the toll booths or how many times the fare is posted. The person in front of me will spend several minutes hunting for change. They will wait to do this until we are far enough into the chute that I can't change lanes.

It doesn't matter what color dress pants I put on in the morning. If I choose a dark-colored pair, the white cat will rub up against my legs. If I choose a light-colored pair, the black dog will do it.

It doesn't matter what the calendar says. In Michigan, it snows in March. And April. And sometimes May.

It doesn't matter if things go wrong from time to time. Life is a wonderful and precious gift.