Three things you should never, ever do while in the bathroom

                             
Eat. Gross. End of story.  

    

Read a book. Magazine... okay. Newspaper... probably not a good idea. Book... it's not a library, folks! What the hell are you doing in the bathroom where you have time to read a book. I, for one, cannot start reading a book and then just stop anywhere, willy nilly. I have to stop at a chapter or a sub-section. And I certainly don't take so much time on the toilet that I can read an entire chapter. If you're spending this much time on the toilet, go see a doctor. Or drink more water. Something. (this rant was brought to you as a direct result of the influence of my step-father, who could always be heard telling my mother, "The bathroom isn't a library.")

(My biggest use of the bathroom faux pas/pet peeve after this picture of the coolest toilet ever. I'm assuming it's nonfunctional)

(Source)

Talk on the phone. Please, don't ever, ever, ever think it is okay to have a phone conversation with me when you are on the pot. Who does this? Okay, my mom for one, and my dad, and I'm sure a plethora of other nasty people in my life, but I don't. I don't even bring my phone into the bathroom with me. Ew. Why? Yuck. Bathroom time is my time and not to be shared with some poor, unsuspecting fool on the other end of the phone. There's nothing worse than having this conversation take place:

Me: Well, why does he always have to go up there?
Other Person: I don't know. You would think he would want to meet people like him and who would enjoy his... hold on a sec... [swoosh... slup, slup... gurg...wish]
Me: (in shock in disbelief) ARE YOU IN THE BATHROOM?
Other Person: Uh, yeah.
Me: WHY WOULD YOU ANSWER THE PHONE WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BATHROOM?
Other Person: Uh, I do it all the time. Sometimes I have conversations with clients while I'm in the bathroom.
Me: (in total disgust) I am not impressed.

Gross. Gross. Gross. Gross.

And for the record, I'm compiling a list of all the people I know who use their phones while in the loo. I will never, ever, ever ask to use your phone. Ever.

I like change

        
I'm one of those people who has to have things changing ALL THE TIME in order to happy. The routine and the static bore me. I could never be happy working in an office, day-in and day-out, stuck behind a desk all day. I need to constantly be moving. I need to be working on 101 things at a time. I think this is why teaching art appeals to me. Not only do my students and classes change every year, but they also change every week, every day, every hour. It's great!

As a child, I was constantly rearranging my room. I mean, ALL THE TIME. Usually late at night. I still do this. I can't help myself. I also change my work space, my closets, my cabinets and my underwear drawer (I don't actually have an underwear drawer, just a basket, but if I did, I'm sure I would rearrange that as well). And, of course, my blog page, A LOT. I'm constantly working out new layouts, rearranging my elements and experimenting with new widgets. I really can't help myself.

Maybe someday I'll stop fidgeting, cease my quest for the different, the better and the more exciting. Or maybe not. It keeps life exciting, right?

Can you feel the love?

Uh... nope! I don't do Valentine's Day. Call it what you will, maybe I'm bitter (in fact, you can check that version of me out over here. Please forgive the lack of content, it's new.), but I just don't like this day. It makes me uncomfortable. I think there's a lot of unfair pressure put on this day. For one, someone (usually the man) has to find a way to accurately sum up his feelings for his woman by magically finding the correct combination of overpriced, purchased crap (for more of my thoughts on overpriced crap, click here). Talk about pressure! If he doesn't do enough, his lady is going to think he doesn't care. If he does too much, his true love may think he's trying too hard, maybe attempting to make up for some un-confessed past misdeed... On the other hand, females feel some pressure on this day too (or at least I do). We are obligated to react to our counter-part's half-assed attempt at expressing their inner most feelings towards us through heart-shaped boxes and glittery Hallmark cards. Bleck.

I'm not sure when my contempt for this "holiday" began. Maybe it was in the fifth grade when I clearly remember having my heart crushed. My object of affection du jour hadn't even acknowledged me or the very thoughtful valentine (it was extra special because I had covered it in kisses before recess by the lockers) I secretly slipped into his shoebox "mailbox." (I was never the type of girl to make the first move. My mom had ingrained it into my head that good girls don't do that.) I was devastated.

Or maybe it was in high school. One year there was a Valentine's Day in which I was being pursued by two fellers (I'm not bragging. This isn't as fantastic as it sounds, trust me). These two gents took it upon themselves to use this day o' love as an opportunity to outdo each other with ridiculously useless gifts. I was swamped by roses (which I hate) and stuffed teddy bears too big to fit in my locker (gee, thanks, now what the hell do I do with this?), forcing me to haul them around to every class. I hate attention, and I blush very easily. I was mortified.

I insist every year that I don't want anything (which apparently means in girl-talk that I do in fact want something for V-day, at which point I have to once again mention that I am not your typical girl). No, really, I don't want anything. Please, don't even wish me a Happy Valentine's Day, because once you do I'll be obligated to say it back to you, therefore acknowledging the existence of this day that I loathe. If I want to tell you how I feel, I'll tell you how I feel (but most likely I won't). I don't need a special day to do it (or not do it).

To date, my most memorable Valentine's Days (above examples excluded) include the one where we took a trip to the McDonald's drive-thru, hit-up the corner store and rented a few movies (we were in college. This means of celebration may or may not have been influenced by an illicet substance). My other favorite V-day was the one in which I received this simple note, "Wanna be my valentine? Despite my lack of effort and spent money." Well, gee, when you put it that way, how can I resist?

I'm infected

          
I feel dirty. I feel violated, and I feel used.

How did this happen? I've always been so careful. When did this happen? If only I could retrace my steps. I can't believe this is happening to me. You hear about this sort of thing happening to other people, but I never thought it would happen to me. I guess most active people will become infected at least once during their lives,* but I never imagined that would include me.

I'm so ashamed and embarrassed. What it I've passed this on to someone else? What's going to happen when other people find out? How will I face them knowing that they know that I have...

A COMPUTER VIRUS {gasp!}

It's true. I found out this morning.** I was working on my computer when all these little alerts began popping up, announcing that my computer has been infected, a virus has been detected, blah, blah, blah. Do you want to run your antivirus software now?

Wait. What?

Now, by nature, I'm a Mac girl. I love my Mac, but it's a desktop, and for convenience sake I switched to a (borrowed) Windows laptop while I'm in grad school. I know very little about Windows, but I do know that my laptop doesn't have antivirus software on it. How do I know this? Well, about 9 or 10 months ago Norton antivirus kindly informed me that my subscription had expired. Would I like to renew now? At this point I turned to the man of the house (who will from here on out be referred to as the MOH) and inquired about this notification. Don't worry about it, he says. IT'S NOT IMPORTANT. I DON'T NEED IT. (Which, I have come to learn actually means I don't feel like dealing with it right now).

Back to my present dilemma. I happen to be smart enough to know that something isn't right here, but I'm not smart enough to know what that something is. So, I call the one person I know who is, the former MOH, who happens to work with computers FOR A LIVING.

The phone rings... and rings... and rings. No answer. Okay, it's 12:30, maybe he's in the shower. I'll try back later. Meanwhile, all these little messages keep popping up and dinging and beeping, and I enter panic mode. "Later" ends up being about two minutes. Still no answer. I hang up and and try again. Still no answer. I try again (in my crazed-female state-of-mind I truly believe he didn't hear the phone ringing before, but THIS TIME he will). I probably call about ten times in the span of 15 minutes, all the time becoming more and more hysterical. (I'm livid at this point. If he's ignoring my calls because he's involved in some stupid Call of Duty match...)

Finally, my phone rings just as I was about to dial for the umpteenth time. Sorry, he says, I was outside shoveling snow. I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR STUPID LITTLE SNOW! I HAVE A CRISIS HERE! So I explain the situation, at which point he informs me he can't help me. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T HELP ME!?! Maybe you should take it to Best Buy, he says, and see if they can help you. WHAT!? (at this point I am literally in tears and terrified that the last two years of my life, all my blood, sweat and tears is about to disappear into oblivion) I can't help you over the phone, he tells me. Can I call you back? I'm soaking wet and want to finish snow blowing. The snow is so wet, and heavy, and deep... CLICK

Yeah, I hung up on him. I'd like to note that he has a degree in psychology, and he should know that in the state I was in, it was not the time to brush me off because of a little snow (Okay, it just so happens they're getting hit with the biggest snowstorm ever in recorded history, but this is TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE!!).

I calm down, he calls me back and after some not-so-nice poking and prodding on my end, I finally get some useful information out of him, including the fact that as long as I don't mind the constant pop-ups, it's okay to use the computer, which is all I really needed to know in the first place. After suffering through his lectures about clicking on attachments in emails (which I know better than to do) and surfing for hockey porn (I don't even know what this means. He's a hockey player, maybe this is his idea of a joke), he informs me that he can probably fix it. In fact, he just fixed a few computers at work with the same problem (I'm taking really big, deep breaths at this point because I want to be nice. I NEED him to fix this). He informs me that if I take the hard drive out and mail it to him, he can take a look at it (to me, this sounds like he's just asked me to remove one of my lungs and FedEx it to him). Forget it, I tell him, I'll deal with it for now.

In conclusion, while my computer is under the influence of this virus, my presence will be sporadic.

* I totally made this tidbit up for the sake of this story. Sorry.

**This post was actually (hand)written on 2/6/10. My computer seems to be fine right now {knock on wood} which is why I am able to post this today.

I submit to you, Exhibit A... my ass.

True story. I was taking some pictures of myself wearing the new shoes I bought today. Why? Because that's what I do. Not really. I was taking them to show my sis who lives about 6 hours away. She likes shoes and shoe shopping and all sorts of other girly stuff that I am no good at (I like to think that along with my right eye, she also stole my half of the girliness during gestation, but that's neither here nor there). I'm convinced I have some sort of condition that makes it impossible for me to find shoes that fit me. They fit fine in the store, but the moment I take them home they're either too loose and fall right off my feet or so tight my toes scream bloody murder every time I try to put them on. My closet is full of shoes I've worn once, but I digress.

I thought my sister would be proud of my recent purchases because, not only did I buy pointy-toed shoes, I bought pointy-toed boots. (I have to admit, this is only the 2nd time I've photographed my shoes for my sis to see, but after she was flabbergasted by my purchase of T-strap sandals! I felt I needed to show off my boots too.) So, there I was, standing in front of the mirror, snapping away at my feet when I was struck with a moment of brilliance. OMG, I wonder if my butt really looks the way I think it does when I look in the mirror!?

We've all been there at some point in time, right? You're in the fitting room, trying on the perfect pair of jeans, and your butt looks fabulous! and you just HAVE to buy them, right? Only to get them home and realize that your butt looks nothing at all like you thought it did? (I believe dressing rooms are secretly equipped with magic mirrors that make your ass look good in everything. On the flip side, they make your thighs look hideous in every single bathing suit you try one. I think it's all part of some man's conspiracy to keep normal women out of bikinis. There. The secrets out. You're welcome.) My perfect jeans are from H&M and have back pockets with flaps that make my butt look cute and high and round and perfectly grabbable. And the best part, they continued to look that way once I brought them home. Score! (Let me just add that nothing ever looks good in an H&M dressing room, so I felt like I had literally struck gold here.)

So, in typical What Not to Wear secret footage style (you know, that awful video footage they show to the women, who up until this point thought they looked good in what they were wearing until they saw themselves on film? From behind.) I photographed my butt. I submit for your consideration, my ass, or as I now like to refer to it, the-ass-that-never-was.

(sigh) I can just hear Stacey and Clinton now...

Clinton: Where's your tushie? There's no tushie here.

Stacey (as she waves her hand in circles over my butt):  Look at how flat this is. These are not flattering.

(SIGH) and the quest for the perfect pair of jeans continues. I'm sure hitting the stairmaster couldn't hurt either.

Trash Talkin'

I loathe those so-called tall kitchen garbage bags. You know the ones, right? The 13-gallon white bags with the fabulous tie-handles? Despite their claim, they’re never quite tall enough to sit securely over the rim of the waste can. These tall kitchen bags could never live up to their name, something that’s quite obvious the first time you try to use one. Sure, you can get the bag to sit around the rim, but you’re going to notice a good six inches of space between the bottom of the bag and the bottom of the can. Never fails, the first armload of McDonald’s trash causes that darn garbage bag to slip off the rim and right down the inside of the can. Try to get that bag around the rim again and you’ll involve yourself in a never ending battle between person and plastic.

I’ve lived in many different kitchens, with many different housemates, and while I’m not sure what kind of trash goes into the waste can of the genius who came up with these bags, I guarantee it’s nothing like the trash that has gone into mine over the years. From pizza boxes and leftover containers to milk jugs and beer cans, my kitchen waste can has seen a variety of occupants (yes, we recycle here in the mountains of NY, but that’s a battle I temporarily gave up on while I lived with four male housemates). And if you’ve ever had housemates like mine, then you know that nine times out of ten you’ll find that darn bag sitting underneath a pile of refuse, swimming around like a lost little sock in the toes of your favorite winter boot.

I once had a housemate suggest we put a rubber band around the rim of the can to hold the garbage bag securely in place. Yeah, it worked, but only until the weight of the trash pulled on the bag so much that it created rips, thus making it impossible to tie up the darn thing. My solution? Buy those clear bags made for recycling or yard clippings. Their size is excessive, but hey, at least you no longer have to waste your time trying to shove pizza boxes into sandwich bags. And those leftover tall kitchen bags you have lying around? Banish them to the home office, or better yet, the bathroom and give those grocery bags a rest- you should have switched to reusable by now anyway.