Thursday, September 27, 2007

There is nothing funny about sexual harassment.

I could never work in Human Resources, and it doesn't even have anything to do with my intense dislike of people. It has to do with all the stupid things they have to do in order to make sure the company doesn't get sued. take for example their latest project: sexual harassment training for every division of the company. Yep, two years have passed and once again they have to make sure that no one thinks playing grab ass in the office is appropriate. If this were my responsibility the training might go something like this: "if you don't want it cut off don't touch your co-workers with it." I actually think that's how they do it in Iran.

Due to the fact that I was not in charge of the training (big sigh of relief from everyone who works with me) we were instead all subjected to an hour lecture and video about what is and what is not sexual harassment. Then we got to fill out a form evaluating our own behavior in case we need to make any changes. I kept my sheet...

Q. Do you ever touch a co-worker and let your hand linger?
A. No. And if they touch me I start screaming like a spider monkey.
Q. Do you date co-workers?
A. Well, I'm married. But really, have you seen my co-workers? Not tempting.
Q. Do you ever make statements or tell stories that demean people based on their sexual
orientation?
A. I like to demean people on the basis of their character and how much they annoy me.

I think you get the idea.

As I was sitting there, biting my tongue, repressing every sarcastic urge I had, and generally counting the minutes until it was over I had an epiphany: sexual harassment should not be the only behavior not tolerated in an office. There are several other things more annoying and more (dare I say it) detrimental to my productivity than someone telling me I have a nice rack. Take for instance the people who forward you every piece of slightly humorous e-mail that comes their way. No means no. Take me off your list, I don't car how cute the puppy looks when he falls off the table. Or what about religious discussions? I know this may not be a common problem outside of Utah, but I get really tired of people talking about their missions, their wards and so on. That also goes for the Catholics who come into work each year with a smudge on their forehead on Ash Wednesday just daring someone to tell them their face is dirty. If the office is a sexually neutral place, it should be religiously neutral as well. After all, sex has started fewer wars than religion. I also think all bridal, baby, and birthday celebrations should be relegated to outside of the office. I am happy to bring a gift, I am happy to bring food, but going to a celebration in the middle of the day just disrupts my flow. It's kind of like floating down the Colorado River and having to stop for a Tupperware party.

Finally, the mother of all concentration killers: the unnecessary meeting. Every person, in every part of the organization should have to go through a series of steps before they call a meeting. Just as all employees should ask "would I say this to my grandma" before making a sexual comment, all meeting planners should ask " will this meeting accomplish anything besides boring the shit out of people?" before they reserve a conference room.

I think that if HR asked people, the four things above steal more hours and cause more sick days than any raunchy joke about a nun and a penguin. Those are some training sessions I would smile to be a part of. But, then again, that would just make more work for HR, and I think their jobs are already touch enough.

Maybe I should thank them for all they do by sending them a cookie basket... from the erotic bakery in Sugar House.

The duality of good and evil

Today I took Luke to the grocery store, which of course means he got a treat. At first he picked out a Darth Vader mask, but then saw the full Spiderman costume and exclaimed he had wanted one "all of his life." However, he wasn't willing to give up the dark side of the force. This is what we ended up with...

I don't know why he's holding a fork, but he thought it was a very important part of the outfit...

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Know your inner Libby

I don't know why, but lately I have been besieged by e-mail questionnaires sent to me by friends to "get to know me better." They are always forwards from someone else they know, and they include questions about nicknames, first pets, favorite foods and so on. I filled out the first few just because it seemed kitschy, but I refuse to fill out any more, and I am certainly not forwarding them on to other friends. I mean, if I wanted to know my friends better I would stay sober around them. Also, I don't think knowing the favorite childhood story of any of my friends bonds us closer. However, I have thought up some questions that, if answered, would actually be interesting to me. Answer them if you dare...

1. Do you prefer "bite me" or "shut it"?

2. What kind of underwear do you wear? If you don't wear any, what does it feel like when you're wearing jeans?

3. Describe one instance where you really thought you were going insane.

4. Name two people you would kill if you knew you wouldn't get caught.

5. Have you ever eaten anything out of the trash? What was it?

6. Name two people you've slept with you really wish you hadn't.

7. What is your favorite insulting name to use?

8. Have you ever pooped your pants? Was it in public?

9. If you could wipe one animal or insect off the planet, what would it be?

10. What should you have been doing while you were taking this quiz?

Okay, there you go. Send it to ten friends and a golden pony with rainbow hair will show up at your front door. If you don't evil dwarves will come to your house and knock stuff off your counters.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

This blog is really not all about pets...

But this post is...

Tonight I was in the bathroom waxing my upper lip (beauty like this doesn't come easy) when Maggie came in to get a drink of water and a little attention. I petted her, turned on the tap, and gritted my teeth for the pain ahead. I think you know where this is going. I set an open wax strip on the counter which Maggie stepped upon. She then began to freak out. I tried to chase her to help her, but she took that as an effort to stick more horrible traps onto her body and disappeared under the bed. So, there I was lying on the floor reaching under the bed to reach her foot. Of course, the commotion had brought Sally into the room, so she was sticking her nose under the bed as well. Oh, and I still had a wax strip on my lip.

Finally I was able to grab a hold of the wax strip and pull it off her foot. She looked at me as if to say "Oh, that's what you wanted to do? Thanks."

Next time I'm going to the salon.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Heart like a wheel...

I have already mentioned that the Utah State Fair has been going on in town, and I have already expressed my disdain for pretty much everything fair related. But I haven't mentioned my dirty little secret. My gas soaked, emissions failing, cut off t-shirt wearing, mulleted, Coors drinking secret. I love the demolition derby.

The obsession started last year. As a joke Ryan asked everyone in our group of friends to go see the derby. He promised me we could go in, drink two cheap beers, ridicule the crowd and leave. Now, I think we all know how much I love the combination of beer AND ridicule, but I was in a snit. I had my pouty face all ready to go the second we entered the arena. I didn't think it would be fun. But it was more than fun, it was uproarious.


There is something just so appealing about watching beat up cars smash into each other. I don't know if it was a bumper car flashback, the fact I drove a junker in high school, or the thrill of the drivers taking their lives so callously into their own hands, but
something just clicked. I oohed and ahhed at every collision. I screamed by lungs out for my chosen car in each heat. And I think I actually cheered when a driver got back into his car to keep driving just moments after jumping out of it on fire. I figured if the announcer wasn't concerned, why should I be, and his only comment was "he done got singed."

For two weeks after the derby I read everything I could about it. I even searched classified ads looking for a jalopy when Ryan and Ben began talking about competing on the circuit. Of course, like all life's passions it got pushed to the back burner by the dog chewing things, housework, friends, family, work, and shopping to replace the things chewed by the dog. But then about a month ago I heard a ringing in my head. It was time for the derby, and my alarm was going off.

I sent out notice to everyone to leave the night of the 16th clear. Unfortunately very few of my friends have the fire in the belly about the derby the way that I do so it looked like it was just going to be me, Ryan and Jason. Even Ben wasn't going to go. He had some 90th birthday party for his great aunt in Pittsburgh. I thought he had his priorities straight, but I guessed wrong.

The smell of the crowd...

Sunday was filled with anticipation. Would there be rolls? Would there be flips? Would there be fire? It was like Christmas Eve in a trailer park. Finally it was time to go and we headed to the fair park, only to find we weren't the only ones anxious for the mayhem to begin. The stands were absolutely packed. There were people sitting on every inch of the stairs, standing along every walkway and hanging on every fence. The cop
s actually had to come in and do crowd control before the matches could go on. Many people gave up and headed for other attractions, but not us. Jason, Ryan and I began cruising the seats like sharks, just waiting for an empty.

Most exit like this...

The derby gods were kind to us that day, giving us four seats on the second row when a mother decided this probably wasn't the safest or quietest place for her three toddlers. It was the best parenting I had seen during my two trips to the fair. I didn't know what we were going to do with the fourth seat when Ben called. He had gotten back from Pittsburgh, was on the way from the airport, and derby bound. My faith in humanity was restored.

For the next two hours cars crashed, fortunes were won and lost and men in acid washed jeans ruled the world. Two cars were upended, three caught on fire and one man left with his arm bloodied just to return in the next round. It was just as good as I remembered, maybe even better. I mean, this time we were close enough to get sprayed with dirt clods. Ben was disappointed that none of the drivers "got singed." but I reminded him that there is always next year. Or next month if we want to go to Ogden. But I think I might have to bedazzle something to fit in with that crowd... Maybe Ben can help.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Fairly obvious...

The Utah State Fair is going on right now. Now, I know that you are all expecting me to write something snarky, but I feel the fair is such an easy target that it would be a waste of my talents. Instead I am just going to take some pictures I took when we took Luke last Sunday. Snark away.

Ass hat.


I got Tara's Christmas present at this booth.

Cate. Not that one.

Ryan and Luke bond over meat.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Old Lady

I called in sick to work today, but I probably should have called in old.

On Monday night Ryan I went to see Modest Mouse and Rilo Kiley (young people bands) on the campus of UVSC. For those of you who have never been there the entire school is built in that early 1980's concrete construction known best as "bomb shelter." Even the grassy areas are surrounded by high cement curbs, one of which I tripped and fell over as we were walking back to our car. From what Ryan tells me it was a pretty spectacular fall. I went straight down, not even stumbling or bending my knees, like I was doing some kind of super push up. Then I just laid there. Ryan thought I was dead, but I was really just hoping I would melt into the grass so I wouldn't have to get up and explain myself to the people we were with. Eventually though, I got up, and tried to shake it off. That turned out to be not as easy as I would have liked.

The next day my toes and my neck hurt. Not like anything was broken, but just shocked. I took some Motrin and soldiered on. Then on Wednesday my lower back and arms decided they really weren't getting enough attention and began aching as well. By last night I was walking like I'm ninety, and groaning every time I had to move. Oh, and as if all that wasn't bad enough my period started as if to remind me no cramp tops those from my uterus. So, I took what was most likely a toxic level of Motrin and Midol, called work to tell them not to expect me, and went to bed.

What happened to the days of bouncing back? Of falling down seven flights of stairs only to jump up and yell "ta dah"? Of staying out until three in the morning and going to work at seven feeling fine? Now if I don't sleep at least six hours a night I have the personality of a wounded shrew. I can't drink coffee any more without it hurting my stomach. I used to drink ten cups a day. Spicy food gives me heart burn. So does greasy food. However, there used to be days when I didn't eat anything that wasn't deep fried and covered in salsa. I worry about fiber now. That's how old I've gotten.

Tara says I'm not old and that I should just shut up. But she has to say that. She's older than I am. I think she even wears support hose, but you didn't hear that from me.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

What's pissing me off today

Depression is boring. I spent all day yesterday being weepy and bemoaning my life, picking apart everything that could possibly be considered sub-par and blaming myself for all of it. And you know what I had at the end? Absolutely nothing but a headache and red eyes. What a fucking waste of time. So, today I am channeling the energy that could go towards a more worthwhile pursuit: pointless anger. Yes, others suggested channeling it towards yoga, or charity work, or beating the dog, but I think this is a much better idea. And what will come of it? Well, you're reading this, aren't you?

With no further ado, here are my rants for the month of September...
  • Musical performers need to realize fans do not want to hear an extended, jam session version of every one of their songs when they perform in concert. Ryan Adams I am looking at you. The Grateful Dead did it, now it's done. Move on. One is the limit. If you play more than that you should pay me for putting up with it.
  • NBC sucks. I know, I work for an affiliate, but thing with iTunes pisses me off. They wanted people to pay $4.99 a show? Are they kidding? Have they seen their shows? I mean, I love "Law & Order" so much I have Jerry Orbach's face tattooed on my ass, but let's be reasonable.
  • Vagasil is now selling a "do it yourself" screening kit for yeast infections and other gynecological problems. Sorry, my idea of fun does not include swabbing my nether regions and then matching the result to a chart like I'm trying to find the right color of paint. And if there is something wrong I'm going to have to see a doctor anyway. Know what she's going to do? The same damn test, only more reliable.
  • While I'm on the whole feminine hygiene thing, why aren't there ads telling men their business needs to smell better? There are dozens of products out there to supposedly help with "freshness." Are women the only ones who go stale? I've been in locker rooms, and I would have to say no. I think it's about time for "Dick Fresh." After all, if shame about bodily odors is good for women, it's good for men too.
  • Britney Spears. Enough said. No one covered Tiffany think much when her career was going down the tubes in the '80s. And I think she and Emmanuel Lewis killed a hooker. Let's just go retro and let Britney slip into obscurity without a fuss. She can do "Celebrity Fat Club" in ten years. Or maybe five.
  • People who write about Britney and other celebs need to start checking their zingers with each other before going to print. If I had to read one more story titled "Don't call it a comeback" following the VMAs I was going to go slap LL Cool J's mama. You get paid to be creative -- please earn your money.
I feel so much better. Lighter, somehow. I think I'm going to take a walk, and maybe steal candy from a child. Just kidding. I'll have Sally do it for me.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Call me Eeyore

Today I am throwing myself a pity party. There are a number of reasons, most of them way too dull to be discussed her, but let's just leave it at the fact that none of you probably want to read anything I would write today. Think Sylvia Plath, but whinier and not as literary. I mean, none of her books mentioned she was upset because her fat girl jeans didn't fit.

I have a lot to write about... tune in tomorrow.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Sally strikes again.

I get dressed in the dark. Every morning I carefully choose clothing from my closet by feel so that I don't disturb my sleeping husband and dog. This morning I plucked from the closet a yellow shirt and a pair of jeans.

I should have looked closer.

I was in the ladies room just about fifteen minutes ago when I noticed my jeans were ventilated. Now, it isn't noticeable unless you are laying on the floor looking directly up at my crotch, but it's still a pretty good size hole. So, now I'm sitting here with my legs crossed as tightly as possible, hoping no one slithers underneath my desk to try and sneak a peak at my goodies.

This is getting ridiculous.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

Luke in the box

Luke has more toys than any child I have ever met in my life. Not only does he have enough to fill his room and a good part of his mother's living room, but he also has a pretty full playroom at my parents house. Oh, and that doesn't count all of the outside toys and the giant pirate ship playhouse in their backyard. I readily admit that I have been the source of at least an eighth of these toys, and have opened a money market account for the purchases I plan to make for him in the future. However, no one can be topped when it comes to Grandma.

This weekend my mother decided something was missing in Luke's life. Driving. So, off we went to Toys R Us in search of a suitable vehicle. You know, something safe, fun and encrusted with diamonds. No, that would
be too much, at least before he turns 16. Luke finally picked out a bright green John Deere hauler. $339. My first car wasn't worth that much, but at least it went more than two miles an hour.

Because Luke would have had to wait 24 hours if we had the store put it together, we decided to take it home and let my Dad assemble it. I love my Dad, but he is not Handyman Negri. When he works on anything, be it the snow blower or a pair of glasses he does it with a cigar clamped between his lips, multiple obscenities being muttered under his breath, and a glare that just screams "go away." So, I thought it would be best to keep Luke out from under foot. Unfortunately Luke was not to be budged. Promises of candy, running
through the sprinklers and chasing the dog fell on deaf ears. He was going to "help Grandpa," even if it meant making Grandpa's head explode.

Finally, I did the only thing I could think of. I pick up Luke and dropped him the large box the truck had come in. He was trapped -- and suddenly very happy.

We started out playing the game "earthquake." It's very complicated. He sat inside the box -- and I shook it. However, soon that wasn't enough for Luke, he wanted real adventure. So, I started pushing the box over. The first time I did it he laughed so hard I thought for sure he had wet the box. Then the cry came from inside "again, again." I was actually very pleased with how well the box held up considering I pushed it around the lawn for about 15 minutes. Only one of the glued down bottom flaps came undone, and that gave us a golden opportunity to play restaurant -- using the opening and closing flap as a drive-up window.

Of course, because Luke and I had to trade off playing customer, I had to get inside the box. And let me tell you, cardboard holds heat surprisingly well. It was like a sauna in there, only no naked middle-aged women who are "proud of their bodies."

Of course, a box can only the attention of a four year old for so long when his new toy is being put together in the garage. I mean, I could have kept him there, but I think taping him in would have been considered cruel. Funny, but cruel.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the closet...

Sally has started chewing again in earnest. I don't know what brought it on, if she was nervous about starting school, or is mad that we went away for a weekend, or if cleaning her teeth made everything that much more delicious, but she went back to chewing as much as she was when we first got her. My mother is convinced it's because we don't say to her "don't chew" before we leave her alone. However, if that worked my instructions to "vacuum the carpet" would lead to me coming home to a very clean house.

Her new favorite target is my shoes. Last Saturday we came home to find what appeared to be the aftermath of a shoe snuff film. My Crocs, my clogs, and my sandals were all in pieces around the couch. All I had left were running shoes (which I would have paid her to eat), a pair of flip flops and my fancy dress shoes that are all in boxes (thank God she doesn't have x-ray vision). I now needed to restock my entire shoe collection -- or else become a Hare Krishna. I think we all know I don't like people enough to be a Hare Krishna, although I would be very good at doing their dances.

When we first got Sally I tied my closet shut every time we left the house, and I have started doing it again. However, this time it is not as successful, because she has an accomplice. Maggie the cat. Maggie likes to sleep on the floor of my closet. She is also obsessive. The combination of these two things means she won't stop until she gets into the closet, even if it means tunneling under. After the first night of shoe carnage I began tying the closet doors closed with the belt of my robe, and every night I came home to find the doors open. I don't know how she did it, but Maggie got the doors open. I think Sally must have promised her a share of the shoes.

When all was said and done, I was down five pairs of shoes by Tuesday.

There are few things in the world I really hate doing. One, as you now know, is going to amusement parks. Ranking a close second though is shoe shopping. It's just too confusing. All the colors, the heel sizes, the designers, the qualities, the real or faux leather -- I just get overwhelmed. I start sweating and end up buying loafers just to be able to leave. I hate loafers. Thank God for the Internet.

Tuesday morning I got on the Internet, while wearing my flip flops, and began perusing shoes on line. Within minutes I had picked out seven pairs to replace the ones chewed, plus two for pairs I had been meaning to replace. I also, for some reason, ended up with a pair of loafers. I guess some habits die hard.

Then something strange happened. I began to enjoy looking for shoes. They all looked like pretty pieces of candy, and I wanted to taste them . I began to venture away from my normal colors of black and brown and began looking at pink ones and blue ones and even (gasp) some with multiple colors. I suddenly understood Imelda Marcos -- and my sisters. I wanted more shoes, some for every day of the week. A pair for every outfit. Or, if I didn't have an outfit, I could go buy one. The shoes were that important. I didn't even have to wear them, I could use them as decoration around the house.

Ryan was the one that finally snapped me out of it. He did it with four simple words: "Sally will eat those." I couldn't let that happen to these wonderful, beautiful shoes. Crocs? Sure. But not the shoes in my world of fantasy.

His words echoed in my head tonight when I opened the door to the house to find the flip flops Sally had previously spared chewed into tiny pieces of rubber. She had decided to branch out too, destroying a pair of underpants and a baseball hat.

Well, at least I don't really wear baseball hats. And there aren't that many kinds of underpants out there. Are there?