tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69238947042167349282024-03-06T00:02:49.965-08:00Another Day at the OfficePrincessPissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348185934545131026noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-25733733685617083042012-09-20T07:58:00.000-07:002012-09-20T07:58:09.319-07:00To Mom&Dad, or at least Dad, the only person left still subscribed, albeit anonymously, to PP-ADATOHey Dad! Guess what? I've moved! <br />
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But this time, I won't need your Volvo to load up all my crap!<br />
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No, you don't even have to budge from your seat; come check out me (and all my squandered promise and wasted opportunity) right here at . . .<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_396627682"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></a>
<a href="http://princesspissant.wordpress.com/2012/09/20/princess-pissant-and-other-american-icons/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">http://princesspissant.wordpress.com/2012/09/20/princess-pissant-and-other-american-icons/</span></a><br />
<br />Princess Pissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12084069964418111654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-85858896727907510882012-02-22T11:51:00.000-08:002012-02-22T22:14:48.455-08:00Princess Pissant Interviews Zombie Author Katrina Von Kessel!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">It may surprise some of you to learn that Princess Pissant, contrary to popular opinion, has NOT been resting on her laurels for the past, oh, say, four months. No, in fact, PP has no idea what her laurels are, or where she would find them, were she so inclined to take a rest, upon them.<br /><br />Alas, there is no rest whatsoever for PP.<br /><br />In fact, PP - in addition to fretting over the current lack of contracts to hang over her head - has been . . . educating America's youth. Yes, that's right, PP has been teaching! Well, substitute-teaching, to be precise . . . at a very tony private school, which evidently does zero-to-none background investigation on its potential substitute teachers. But all that is a story for another time.<br /><br />With her short-lived tenure as the annoyingly righteous dude played by Robin Williams in "Dead Poets' Society" a thing of the past, PP now finds herself with all the time in the world. And so also finds herself back at the Office.<br /><br />But today is not just an <i>ordinary</i> day at said Office, which PP might hasten to remind readers is, in fact, a Starbucks.<br /><br />Today, PP has the rare honor of interviewing up-and-coming authoress Katrina Von Kessel, whose debut novel <i>Blue Bloodbath</i>, Princess Pissant has just wisely used a small fraction of all-the-time-in-the-world to read. And, about that, all Princess Pissant can say is: eat your heart out, Stephanie Meyer! (Or maybe your brains.) You lame gazillionaire with your hackneyed vampire-and-werewolf-meet-cute series . . .<br /><br />Anyway, please join me in welcoming Katrina Von Kessel, author of <i>Blue Bloodbath</i>, to <i>Another Day At The Office</i>:<br /><br />PP: Okay, full disclosure - Princess Pissant thought Katrina Von Kessel was the name of a porn star.<br /><br />KVK:<br /><br />PP: Are you not a porn star?<br /><br />KVK: It is true that my face is known in certain port towns on the Crimea. But no. I am Dutch. Which is, of course, a distinction without a difference. Actually, I’m only half-Dutch. The bottom half. My mother is American.<br /><br />PP: Can PP call you KVK?<br /><br />KVK: Bien sûr que oui.<br /><br />PP: Okay then, KVK is <i>not</i> a well-known porn star, or so she claims; then are you also not that woman who Jesse James cheated on Sandra Bullock with? (PP cannot think of a way to avoid ending that question with a preposition.)<br /><br />KVK: I only mingle with film stars when performing in film. Jesse James? Let’s just say, Jesse James wishes.<br /><br />PP: Because - and here again, I have to be totally honest - while reading <i>Blue Bloodbath</i>, I was thinking, "This broad is one helluva writer . . . especially for a porn star . . . who may or may not be the woman with whom Jesse James cheated on Sandra Bullock." (There we go.) Okay so Blue Bloodbath is an amazing book, and this is coming from someone who's not even that <i>into</i> zombie fiction . . . Can you tell us where you got the idea of evil Blueblooded Bostonians turning people into zombies?</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />KVK: That’s very high praise coming from you, PP. Thank you. As to the idea, if you’ve ever eaten at the Ritz Grill, it’s really not too much of a stretch. All these hushed Brahmin types, intently focused on their bloody cuts of prime rib. The sound of their mastication – the chewing, ripping, churning and clicking of dentures as reddish blood splatters over the white china and buttery mashed potatoes. This was my first inspiration for the book. They used to have a harpist who played the Ritz Grill. She was a stunning & lively blonde as I recall – and I got the sense that all these Brahmin Undead wanted to feast upon her. My working title of the novel was actually called:<i>Devouring the Harpist.</i><br /><br /><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">PP: Thank you for defining "mastication"; I was always told that was something that made you go blind. Anyway, are you a Blueblood yourself?<br /><br /><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">KVK: Actually, my granny – my father’s mother – has claims to some minor nobility. My father is a scientist who was in Paris in ’68. That’s where he met my mother, a Californian who was, well, in Paris in ’68. You get the picture. So, no. I’m European. And an anarchist. And a feminist. As well as being a woman of science. Not a blueblood by any stretch of the imagination. Plus, I live in London, where the idea of being a toff is utterly unbearable.<br /><br /><br />PP: A toff? Okay, never mind. PP will look that up later. Are you, perchance, a zombie?<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">KVK: I’m hungry for brains, it is true. I like to moan. I’m cold to the touch. And I was made in a test tube. So, in essence, yes.<br /><br /><br />PP: Blue Bloodbath takes an erotic and noir-ish - that's a word, right? - twist on the age-old topic of class warfare; where do you think you fit into the brutally-stratified socioeconomic paradigm described in the book?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Thankfully, I’m nowhere: I was writing about a very specific sort of social segregation that I saw when I was in the States. And writing as well the very specific sorts of sex that you Americans are so fond of. Although I am a zombie, aren’t I? PP, please pass the brains.<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">PP: You are starting to creep me out, but okay: your biography describes you as a biophysicist and geneticist. Is the nefarious Dr. Shaw - who unleashes maleficent mayhem through a chemical formula intended to ensure the Bluebloods eternal youth and vitality - based on anyone you know professionally? If so, who is THAT asshole?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Sadly, my field is littered with righteously creative but complete dickwad misogynists. They are utterly brilliant men capable of the most porcine beliefs and actions. It’s a shame, really. Men of science get a pass, mostly, because they are so “important.” Yes, I was venting a bit of frustration on poor Dr. Shaw.<br /><br /><br />PP: Where did you come up with the idea for that crazy masturbatory machine? (PP is pretty sure that she would have seen something like that on Katie Morgan's late night HBO program, Pornucopia, if PP ever watched anything like that, which she doesn't.)<br /><br /><br />KVK: Necessity is the mother of invention. Just ask Catherine the Great (or her horse).<br /><br /><br />PP: PP could not help but notice that KVK writes her male characters VERY well - with a lot of realism and insight; is that because, as a scientist, you operate in a male-dominated profession?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Yes. Men. Well, they are fascinating specimens. Two notches above unspayed lab rats. I think women are naturally more curious about the psychology of men than vice versa. I also think testoserone is easier to capture without use of metaphor than estrogen: in other words, perfect for genre fiction. Enough said. I don’t want to go to PC prison for making inappropriate remarks.<br /><br /><br />PP: Anybody who reads PP is likely <i>not</i> PC. Further, very few people actually read PP. So consider yourself in a safe environment here at <i>Another Day At The Office</i>. Anyhoo,<i>Blue Bloodbath</i> is, on the one hand, a page-turner but, on the other, highly literary. Who are your literary influences?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Isak Dinesen, for one, who was an adventurer and brilliant writer: <i>7 Gothic Tales</i>is my fave. Colette, of course. Jane Austen for telling men where they might well put it. Edith Wharton, the first feminist novelist. And, most of all, my heroine and the most famous of all Zombie porn stars – Maggie Thatcher.<br /><br /><br />PP: Is this your first book?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Yes.<br /><br /><br />PP: Really? . . . Bitch. Okay, how long did it take you to write <i>Blue Bloodbath</i>?<br /><br /><br />KVK: I did it on a challenge from a male colleague. A zombie novel in six weeks. The rewrite took much longer when the publisher got a hold of it. Their nit-picking drove me crazy. It’s a bloody zombie novel, I wanted to yell. Eventually, I ate their brains.<br /><br /><br />PP: KVK also writes Boston very well. Have you ever lived in Boston?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Yes, I have. Beacon Hill is beautiful in the fall and Cambridge is beautiful in the spring. It was a formative time of my life. The Seven’s Pub on Charles Street was sort of my Cheers you could say.<br /><br /><br />PP: So, there are a lot of rugby players in your novel. Do you think there's any correlation between ruggers and zombies? (Because I do.) Have you ever dated a rugby player? (I have.) Don't you just hate their asinine misogynistic songs? How many times did you have to listen to your rugby-playing boyfriend sing those stupid-ass songs to get them just exactly right for <i>Blue Bloodbath</i>? (BTW, You have those guys NAILED.)<br /><br /><br />KVK: PP, you’re a better woman than I. I was related to a rugger by blood. Rugby players drink pee from a boot and zombies eat brain tissue from a cranium…they are really not so different.<br /><br /><br />PP: There's a great deal of high quality literotica in <i>Blue Bloodbath</i> . . . PP LOVES that stuff . . . but it's uncomfortable to read at, well, the Office. There should be some kind of warning. Just for future ref.<br /><br /><br />KVK: This is why BBB is on Kindle for now. No tawdry covers. Although I love a good bodice ripper Fabio style cover myself. My publishers were prudes. Next time I want to be published by a Crimean gangster or a Frenchman.<br /><br /><br /><br />PP: Speaking of the future, will there be a sequel to <i>Blue Bloodbath</i>? PP can totally see this as a series.<br /><br /><br />KVK: There is. My roomful of lab monkeys is working on it right now! The title is…<br /><br /><br />PP: What's next for KVK?<br /><br /><br />KVK: I’m preparing a monograph in a new discipline: Erotic-Artifactual Archeology. That and having a serious re-think on my current romantic entanglements.<br /><br /><br />PP: Have the movie rights been optioned yet? Who do you see playing Bizzy Dalton? (I love that name, BTW, and she's a great character.) What about Trevor and Buzz? Dr. Edward Shaw? I, for one, can't wait to see the scene where (SPOILER ALERT!!!) socialite Macie Shaw kills a zombie with a fire poker.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br />KVK: Bizzy Dalton? Who else but Meryl Streep, who just played my favorite zombie, Maggie Thatcher. Trevor and Buzz can only be Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, two nice-looking, bi-sexual boys from Brookline. And Dr. Shaw: Christopher Plummer, of course, the Nazi from THE SOUND OF MUSIC. Oh, wait: Is he dead? If so, all the better!<br /><br /><br />PP: Is there anything KVK would like her readers to know about her, or her characters?<br /><br /><br />KVK: <i>Blue Bloodbath</i> is like the Beatles’ WHITE ALBUM. If you read the novel back to front, they’re really all nice people.<br /><br /><br />PP: Do you have a day job? If so, you should quit it.<br /><br /><br />KVK: I’m a professional student, unless of course I’m visiting a port town in the Crimea. Then I’m working.<br /><br /><br />PP: Do you ever work out of a Starbucks?<br /><br /><br />KVK: Once I accidentally went into a Starbucks. I assure you it never happened again. I certainly never composed “literature” there.<br /><br /><br />PP: Didn't think so; just curious. Katrina Von Kessel, you rock; thank you for indulging your fan Princess Pissant with this interview. I, for one, cannot wait for your next book.<br /><br /><br />KVK: Thank you, PP: I am thoroughly charmed.<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">PP: Well, that's it, for now, everyone. Everyone? Everyone?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Anyone? Anyone?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">PP is glad to be back in the saddle; and she cannot recommend Katrina Von Kessel's brilliant novel <i>Blue Bloodbath</i> highly enough. She can provide you the link to check it out on Kindle . . .</span></div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blue-Bloodbath-ebook/dp/B006ODLVAK">http://www.amazon.com/Blue-Bloodbath-ebook/dp/B006ODLVAK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1329887980&sr=8-1</a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">And, while you're at it, also check out . . . </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Shamelessly Smokin' Katrina Von Kessel</span></div></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFNRGqwrlNACf4vNRkbMXlpHjKKNRDtWdidMx_97JUkFdcsVr4Fp6xy8QCM-kcglNZJThe1BdpkD-91S5nHlNjbpfGgUoW3LOZ2rgK3j88wEjZebnRKBeL7lMwNePXr4DuZuuHol_mCY/s1600/KVK.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFNRGqwrlNACf4vNRkbMXlpHjKKNRDtWdidMx_97JUkFdcsVr4Fp6xy8QCM-kcglNZJThe1BdpkD-91S5nHlNjbpfGgUoW3LOZ2rgK3j88wEjZebnRKBeL7lMwNePXr4DuZuuHol_mCY/s320/KVK.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712165461545562418" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div>Princess Pissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12084069964418111654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-83653207128577621202011-10-27T07:41:00.000-07:002011-10-28T12:55:03.997-07:00On Friendship, Madness and Free Samples<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:180%;"><br /></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Some will be pleasantly surprised, as was Princess Pissant, to discover that the old saying – <i>There’s a sucker born every minute</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> – is, in fact, entirely true.<span> </span>What exactly do I mean by that, you ask, somewhat defensively?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Well, get this: unexpectedly – and yes, inexplicably – Princess Pissant has been awarded yet <i>another</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> contract to hang over her head!<span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Yep, that’s right.<span> </span>I’ve got <i>work</i><span style="font-style: normal; ">.<span> </span>To do.<span> </span>And you and I both know what </span><i>that</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> means.<span> </span>Back.<span> </span>To.<span> </span>The. <span></span>Office.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">But before you go whooping and hollering in delight and thereby disrupting your own place of employment – where probably<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal; ">you should GET BACK TO WORK! – let me further explicate: to our collective misfortune, this </span><i>new</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> contract I’ve got hanging over my head is even more confounding than those that previously have hung over my head.<span> </span>Indeed, this particular project is going to require me to get my thinking cap on.<span> </span>So, sorry to report, I’ll have to make today’s entry shorter than usual . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The <i>good</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> news is that I’ve got no sick kids nor dying relatives nor any Athleta catalogs to otherwise distract me, so I can just update y’all in a jiffy, and then attend to that contract-thingamajig.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">First: a few changes of note here at the Office:<span> </span>it is absolutely and totally . . . empty.<span> </span>Eerily empty, even.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Okay, that’s not entirely true.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I am here.<span> </span>And if I continue to talk about myself in the third person, Princess Pissant is here.<span> </span>So that makes two of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">And of course the baristas.<span> </span>(For those new to PrincessPissant-AnotherDayattheOffice, the Office is, in fact, a Starbucks.)<span> </span>But TMABITW – The Most Awesome Barista in the World – is<i>not </i><span style="font-style: normal; ">here, and neither are any of my regular officemates.<span> </span>FSGA (Former Secret Government Agency) Guy is not here; nor is Mommy-blogger, nor any of the failed writers or World of Warcraft Geeks.<span> </span>The Homeless Lady is also out, as is the cheapskate with her colicky newborn who’s forever interviewing prospective nannies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I’ve got to be honest with you.<span> </span>It is downright lonely.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">And I’m a little hurt.<span> </span>Do you think that everyone just moved on, in my absence?<span> </span>Up and got real jobs and <i>left</i><span style="font-style: normal; ">, without even a proper good-bye?<span> </span>It’s hard to imagine, but I’ve got to accept that it might be true.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Without the camaraderie of my colleagues, it’s a little difficult to get anything done.<span> </span>I just keep staring at the creamer bar, depressingly undisturbed, and waiting for that gust of wind each time the door opens.<span> </span>But whenever it does, it’s just someone I’ve never seen before, who gets his cup of coffee and then leaves.<span> </span>Insensitive jerks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">What’s more, the Office is all got-up for Halloween – pumpkins and gourds on the conference table and faux spider webs stretched across the wall – which adds an element of pathos to the emptiness.<span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">And the silence!<span> </span>Gone is the hustle and bustle of the Office, once so vibrant with the click-clack of fingernails on keyboards, friendly banter over the availability of electrical outlets, and deafening roar of industrial toilets being flushed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Okay, I’m going to get to that damn contract, before I make myself cry.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">[Insert long pause during which Princess Pissant completes entirety of new project to near perfection.<span> </span>Or maybe just insert long pause.]<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Well, I obviously spoke to soon.<span> </span>Just when I thought that neither I nor my circumstances nor my mood could possibly sink any lower . . . in comes a <i>new</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> addition to the Office:<span> </span>Guy Who Is Either Psychotic Or Has Tourette Syndrome (GWIEPOHTS).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Yup, just as I resign myself to actually working, this fellow (mid-20s, not bad looking) for some reason foregoes the multitude of otherwise empty seats scattered about the Office, and plops himself down right next to me, wherein he commences twitching and muttering obscenities . . . at distinct 60-second intervals.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I am not entirely sure – and no need to ask GWIEPOHTS to repeat himself, since invariably he<i>will</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> –<span> </span>but I think he just called me the C-word.<span> </span>(And I’m not talking about Cancer.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">By utterly pure coincidence, earlier this week, Princess Pissant was informed that an old friend of hers has succumbed to, for lack of a better word, <i>madness</i><span style="font-style: normal; ">, and is, for all intents and purposes, homeless and “on the run.”<span> </span>This was stunning and disturbing news for Princess Pissant in that last she checked in with said mad, homeless person, he was young and handsome, potentially brilliant, and basically – full of promise.<span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Now, Princess Pissant has been told that he is aggressive and prone to violence, and that she should be wary and avoid him at all costs.<span> </span>If he reaches out, Princess Pissant is either to ignore or report him to the authorities.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">This goes very much against Princess Pissant’s nature, believe it or not.<span> </span>Notwithstanding her consummate self-absorbedness, Princess Pissant does <i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> turn her back on an old friend.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">In any event, I’ve not heard anything from my old friend, mad, homeless and on the run, but I’ve spent a lot of time this week wondering: how does this happen?<span> </span>How – in this great country of ours – does someone like that fall between the cracks?<span> </span>And yet it must happen every day.<span> </span>If you live in an urban area, and maybe even if you don’t, you see the faces of the mad and the homeless and the on-the-run every day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">But until you know someone to whom <i>that</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> has happened, you probably don’t think that they at one time occupied a whole </span><i>other</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> world – a world like yours, and mine, and Princess Pissant’s – with Moms, and blogs, and fancy coffee beverages, and an endless supply of old friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">GWIEPOHTS just snapped at me again.<span> </span>I am wondering if perhaps he’s the root cause of the mass exodus of Office-mates.<span> </span>And, if so, where did they go?<span> </span>And can I come too?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Here’s the worst part: at this point, I feel slightly threatened by GWIEPOHTS but there’s no way I can possibly get up and leave.<span> </span>My departure will seem obviously linked to him; which of course it would be.<span> </span>And judging by GWIEPOHTS’s actions and words, the poor opinion that I’ve formed of him is surpassed only by his of me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">And maybe, in some small way, GWIEPOHTS has come to symbolize . . . my old friend.<span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">So I’m not going to turn my back and just <i>go</i><span style="font-style: normal; ">.<span> </span>I’ve got no choice but to wait, to ride out this storm . . . staring at the barren creamer bar and waiting for some Angel of Mercy to come my way.<span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Oh wait, here he is, or here he comes . . . The SECOND Most Awesome Barista in the World – TSMABITW! – wielding a tray of free samples: tiny cups of hot cocoa with whipped cream and bites-size chunks of lemon pound cake!<span> </span>What is it with these guys and their ubiquitous trays of free samples?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">But who gives a shit?<span> </span>The free sample tray might as well be a taser gun!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">For, GWIEPOHTS has stopped twitching and cursing and calling me the C-word, and<span> </span>presently, he is <i>100-percent</i><span style="font-style: normal; "> focused on the tray of free samples.<span> </span>He’s reaching for one as I type, and now is my chance!<span> </span>Here is where Princess Pissant will make her escape.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span style="font-style: normal; font-size:130%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">But not before just one of these for myself . . .<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Pray for me now, my followers . . . as I lock eyes with GWIEPOHTS, and raise this tiny free sample of hot cocoa with whipped cream in the name of my old friend. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman';">Forsaken, but not forgotten.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:180%;">REMAINS OF THE DAY</span></p></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTKXdzpIGTh4YUBsgDw69Bi66o0ACZuN8RIvLdkf92jHJ9nAJSbXqWvKBgqUFOe4m1A_bEnwUv1C-UliRMbfcSOW_j-64oc3xT9Qkzr_t-43spJFaB93W5AlI_TE0ufr-qeNOIZFwpYc/s1600/RemainsoftheDay.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTKXdzpIGTh4YUBsgDw69Bi66o0ACZuN8RIvLdkf92jHJ9nAJSbXqWvKBgqUFOe4m1A_bEnwUv1C-UliRMbfcSOW_j-64oc3xT9Qkzr_t-43spJFaB93W5AlI_TE0ufr-qeNOIZFwpYc/s320/RemainsoftheDay.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668182648031219202" /></a><br /><div><div><div><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US;font-family:Times;font-size:12.0pt;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Princess Pissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12084069964418111654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-91713931750282146072011-10-10T08:57:00.000-07:002011-10-10T09:08:05.251-07:00The Link Between Exercise, Deer, Depression and Death<div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>908</o:Words> <o:characters>5181</o:Characters> <o:company>Lindsay Moran</o:Company> <o:lines>43</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>10</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6362</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>10.2006</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Before heading to the Office this morning, Princess Pissant decided to do something she’s not done in several months: EXERCISE.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">All this blogging to the tune of lattes and high-end McMuffins here at the Office have Princess Pissant packing on the ol’ L-Bees; and, yes, while PP fully concurs that every body needs (and deserves) an extra little layer of insulation before the onset of Winter, the fact of the matter is, Princess Pissant can’t fit into her pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And she refuses to let herself become one of those ladies who wears a stretchy muumuu to work.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Back when I worked for the government, I enjoyed a surprisingly well-equipped gym, located in the bowels of the federal building where I worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While not a paradigm of physical fitness, I prided myself on at least being able to fit through the badge turnstile without having to turn sideways and suck in my belly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(Believe me, this was A LOT more than some people could say.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I often would forgo lunch and spend 40 minutes sweating my butt off on – and clinging for dear life to the sides of – a Stairmaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(I’m not even sure if anyone does Stairmaster anymore?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or if that’s something passé, like Aerobics while wearing legwarmers and a terrycloth headband, or even Aerobics at all.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, it was during this time that I unwittingly earned the moniker of “Naked Girl.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know: I was equally as surprised when I found out about <i>that</i><span style="font-style:normal">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But let me explain:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>there was one time, a single solitary occasion really, when – after exercising and showering at the agency’s gym – I suddenly remembered a check that I was supposed to have written, probably for boxes of girl scout cookies that I’d beneficently ordered from a co-worker’s child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Before it slipped my mind, I quickly grabbed my checkbook and a pen from my locker, in the ladies locker room, and scrawled out a check.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Yes, I might have been naked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Well, imagine my surprise when weeks later, a male colleague greeted me with, <i>Hey naked girl!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><i><br /></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">And when I asked him what the hell he was talking about, he told me that rumor had it I “routinely balanced my checkbook naked in the ladies’ locker room.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That’s how vicious those people – government workers! – could be, and all the more reason I can be grateful I’ve moved onto a kinder, gentler place of employment here at the Office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">But, alas, no corporate exercise facility!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(For those of you new to PrincessPissant-AnotherDayattheOffice, the Office is in fact a Starbucks.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, this morning, without access to a company gym, Naked Girl went running!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Not naked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">And not even really running. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">More like jog-slash-stumbling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And panting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A lot of panting.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">I guess I was panting quite loudly in fact – hard to hear over full volume <i>Eye of the Tiger</i><span style="font-style:normal"> – because halfway around the wooded trail, I was suddenly SHUSHED, by two women who had stopped in their tracks and were taking photographs with their cellphones of something in the brush.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Naturally, I stopped, so as not to scare away whatever rare form of wildlife they’d happened upon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Imagine my surprise, as I approached, with both of them still SHUSHING my feet crackling over fallen leaves and twigs, to perceive none other than . . . DRUM ROLL please . . . a deer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Yes, that’s right, these two bitches had the nerve to SHUSH me, causing me to abort my bout of concerted exercise in the form of jog-slash-stumbling because they were photographing . . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>a deer?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">I passed half a dozen deer – some “sleeping” by the side of the road – on my way into the Office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>WTF is wrong with these people?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, the incident totally put me in an even fouler humor than I already am. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Confession time: Princess Pissant has missed a fair amount of work lately, largely because, well, she’s depressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But before you go feeling sorry for me, and recommending all kinds of addictive pharmaceuticals, let me explain that Princess Pissant is depressed for a very good reason.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">You see, my grandmother is dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And, yes, while I know that we are ALL, in a sense, <i>dying</i><span style="font-style:normal">, every day that we’re alive, I mean she is really dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Starting late last week, Nanny has begun the process of “checking out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For good.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">As much as you think you’re ready to say goodbye – it’s not like she’s dying young; Nanny will be 103 if she makes it to Saturday – you never are.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Kid Number 2 (KN2) and His Older Brother (HOB) are greatly concerned that Nanny might <i>not</i><span style="font-style:normal"> make it to her birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s like they think she’s got a shindig planned for her and all her friends at Ultimate Playzone or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Truth is, I want Nanny to make it to Saturday too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I feel like otherwise, her obituary will read, “passed away at age 102,” and there will be almost a whole entire year she doesn’t get credit for . . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Stupid, I know.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">KN2 and, even more so, HOB have handled saying goodbye to their great-grandmother with uncharacteristic grace and maturity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had warned them that she would look similar to the skeletons we just put in the yard for Halloween, and that they shouldn’t be scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Together, they put on a brave face and stood holding hands at her bedside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In unison, they said, “We love you Nanny,” and HOB even leaned over and kissed her sunken cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">I spent much of the weekend sitting at Nanny’s side, while she slipped in and out of the past, the present, and the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am the first to admit that I’ve always had a Woody Allen-esque fear of, and extreme discomfort with, Death.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">But there is something reassuring, almost necessary, about watching someone you love – who is more than ready to go – GO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">While every labored breath seems as if it could be her last, Nanny’s grip is so strong, it can seem as if she’ll never let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">I know one thing: she is one tough old bird.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Nanny loves to tell the story of when my brother and I were young, and our parents went for a two-week vacation to Peru, and she came to watch us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Evidently, we were so horrible, and she was so traumatized, that when my parents returned, she was standing on the curb, her bags packed, ready to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My brother and I, remorseful, wept openly and begged her to stay: <i>We’ll never be bad again!</i><span style="font-style:normal"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">I know Nanny’s bags are packed now; I know she’s ready to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">And I know that no amount of weeping, or begging, or false promises can make her stay.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US;font-family:Times;font-size:180%;">STRONG AS STEEL</span><!--EndFragment--> </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ZTiK_jyniUUHgWXFGCCw6e5AmDVnSvRN_4V4ggm6uJxTmbXubjyXhEmG12yLpleIdLPI4ClOrbuyMG8ep6zTPa6ti7okZVDI6aFirYetYjccYcXmHa12C9FcG3PbXcv0AYcDBC8ax80/s1600/photo-1.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ZTiK_jyniUUHgWXFGCCw6e5AmDVnSvRN_4V4ggm6uJxTmbXubjyXhEmG12yLpleIdLPI4ClOrbuyMG8ep6zTPa6ti7okZVDI6aFirYetYjccYcXmHa12C9FcG3PbXcv0AYcDBC8ax80/s320/photo-1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661893578135207666" /></a>Princess Pissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12084069964418111654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-21998130959971844862011-09-29T05:17:00.000-07:002011-09-29T05:37:03.148-07:00Lab Rats and Other Breakfast Ideas<div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>992</o:Words> <o:characters>5659</o:Characters> <o:company>Lindsay Moran</o:Company> <o:lines>47</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>11</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6949</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>10.2006</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">All-righty then.<span> </span>Well, this morning, Princess Pissant finds herself in the rare and enviable position of NOT having any contract hanging over her head.<span> </span>Workaholic that she is, Princess Pissant nonetheless has arrived at the Office, where she joins several of her office-mates in the state of sanctioned idleness and official unemployment.<span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">All the more reason to splurge on a specialty coffee drink – Pumpkin Chai latte – and gourmet breakfast sandwich – one of those upscale McMuffin thingies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(By way of background, for those new to PrincessPissant-AnotherDayattheOffice, the Office is actually a Starbucks.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Anyway, Princess Pissant is not one to let the grass grow long under her feet; without any contract to hang over her head hovering on the horizon, she’s been perusing online employment resources.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Basically, I registered at the local university to receive email notifications when a position suiting my background and qualifications becomes available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Here’s what I’ve got so far this morning:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Animal technician: Responsible for the care and welfare of laboratory animals used in medical and dental research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While the AT will occasionally have direct involvement in experimental work, daily tasks pertain to the routine and essential care and welfare of the animals, such as: cleaning cages, pens, trays, equipment and fittings; feeding and watering animals; handling and moving animals safely; administering medicines; checking the environment (for example, temperature and humidity); monitoring the condition of animals and recognizing and resolving any behavioral problems; obtaining samples and measurements; collecting and recording data; ensuring animals are kept clean and comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Depending on level of experience, the AT may help breed animals especially for use in research; monitor pregnancies; care for newborn animals and measure weight gain and growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some understanding of the science supporting individual studies is required in such cases.</span></i></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Okay, so let me start with six simple words, at least two of which WERE included in my online application:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i>English Major.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Deathly Afraid of Rats</i><span style="font-style:normal">.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Now, here’s where Princess Pissant’s father might step in to remind her about how he TOLD her that the only jobs available to English majors would be waitressing, panhandling and/or tending to lab rats, and that she SHOULD have studied computer science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well, before you go patting yourself on the back for your wisdom and foresight, Dad, check out the other job notification that this seemingly unemployable English major received today:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;">Senior Program Coordinator II: Will design, develop, test, optimize, maintain, monitor, and back up the web-based databases for the GI and Immunology research process management system for research clinical trials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The SPC II will also design and develop user interface for data manipulation, and act as software developer for a web-based research management system to enable electronic submission, tracking, and review of scientific, regulatory and compliance information.</span></i></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></i></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal">I can’t really figure out how to submit my application for this position online – keep getting pesky error messages – but once I do, I am totally throwing my hat in that ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Who knew there were so many positions that would be deemed well-suited to me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And while I have no idea what anything in that job description means, it sounds – to the laywoman’s ears – like it’s </span><i>got</i><span style="font-style: normal"> to be well-paid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I mean that is a shit-load of responsibility.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style: normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal">Of course, if I were to get a real job, that would severely cut down on my time here at the Office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I guess then I’d be one of the drive-thru folk, and just wave a friendly </span><i>how-do-you-do?</i><span style="font-style:normal"> each morning to my former colleagues like FSGA (Former Secret Government Agency) guy and TMABITW (The Most Awesome Barista in the World).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >Not only would that be a shame, since I’m still just settling in here, but it would mean a premature death to this awesome blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And, little by little, I’ve been researching how to make PP-ADATO even more popular and successful than it already is.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >So the word on the cyber sphere is that to be a successful blogger, you’ve got to follow OTHER blogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know: WTF?, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like I’ve got that kind of time?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >But I get it . . . sort of a let’s-all-support-one-another, Kumbaya spirit type thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m cool with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And while I am not NATURALLY a team player, by any stretch of the imagination, I at least can pretend to be . . . if it’s going to increase readership of my blog.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >One of my friends recently asked me, “Um, and what’s your purpose in doing this . . . blog thing?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal">Well, to begin with, I read this New Yorker article about this woman called Pioneer Woman, who blogs about her life as a cattle rancher’s wife and stay-at-home-mom (SAHM) who home schools her four kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Admittedly, my first thought was: </span><span><i>BO</i></span><span style="font-style:normal">-ring!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But the article went on to explain how this broad has a HUGE following, and has been on </span>Oprah<span style="font-style:normal"> and </span>The View<span style="font-style:normal">, and landed book deals, and thousands of followers converged on New York City when Pioneer Woman came East for a book tour, and they all threw their panties at her, and basically she’s made gazillions of dollars from blogging about her boring-ass life in the middle of nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >And I thought: if Pioneer Woman can do it, why can’t I?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >Well, maybe I should’ve have looked before I leaped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I finally had a chance to check out Pioneer Woman’s blog over the weekend, and, well, I have to say, it’s a little more sophisticated than I had imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To begin with, her photos are nothing short of amazing, and they make Princess Pissant’s efforts with the hipsta-thingamagiggy on her iPhone look, quite frankly, amateurish.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal">What’s more, Pioneer Woman has this brilliant gimmick whereby she peppers her blog with gourmet recipes that are, at one and the same time, inspirational and intimidating: </span>Make Ahead Muffin Melts, Herb Roasted Pork Tenderloin with Preserves, Molten Chocolate Lava Cake<span style="font-style:normal">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(I am not making this shit up.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Each recipe is accompanied by a very professional-looking picture of whatever delectable dish.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >I’ll be the first to admit: it’s hard not to hate Pioneer Woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But that’s the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>People not only don’t hate her; they LOVE her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And they LOVE her blog.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >Herein lies the difference, I think, and it’s something to consider as I plow ahead with PP-ADATO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Pioneer Woman represents an ideal to which ordinary women can aspire, while Princess Pissant (probably) represents a low to which ordinary women hope they never sink?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But isn’t there room – and a purpose – in the blogosphere for both of us?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" >I’ll let you, my current and future followers, be the judge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal;font-size:130%;" ><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style:normal">For the meantime, I am going to follow the lead – if not aim for the standard – of Pioneer Woman and include a few recipes of my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Here’s what </span>my</span><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"> kids had for breakfast.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyText2"><span style="font-style:normal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><i><b>CINNAMON TOAST CRUNCH WITH SOUR MILK</b></i></span><!--EndFragment--> </div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNc63jSsXIswj3eQZ5m1T03Wj3GHWWNHr3aVPWStQymMDMMIsrI9cFuvTs3yOtZ919sTazXTBBSScqR2b0VFUs0gKA_52Z2lyFix_fRXwAdWwBkgeG60hVpaEsXRZdPTM4VjdAw0WrB0M/s1600/cerealwithsourmilk.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNc63jSsXIswj3eQZ5m1T03Wj3GHWWNHr3aVPWStQymMDMMIsrI9cFuvTs3yOtZ919sTazXTBBSScqR2b0VFUs0gKA_52Z2lyFix_fRXwAdWwBkgeG60hVpaEsXRZdPTM4VjdAw0WrB0M/s320/cerealwithsourmilk.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657754704723562354" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><b><i>PRINCESS PISSANT IMPROVISATION: CINNAMON TOAST CRUNCH WITH NO MILK</i></b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5L-mwYV4vcdVWhlm0nSX-0pO4rXZKPvTSjzAWzroTFIEZcf2fXck5EYul_1MQs3KlkOTSponOUwE_3_Ava_o7Dd2BPX9WQZkZXV7rPhUZRHOTC90mAjxEDKGZu21DxD38hAuwAL9DLRk/s1600/cerealnomilk.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5L-mwYV4vcdVWhlm0nSX-0pO4rXZKPvTSjzAWzroTFIEZcf2fXck5EYul_1MQs3KlkOTSponOUwE_3_Ava_o7Dd2BPX9WQZkZXV7rPhUZRHOTC90mAjxEDKGZu21DxD38hAuwAL9DLRk/s320/cerealnomilk.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657756039546642978" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px; " /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Princess Pissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12084069964418111654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-46002611644042682582011-09-14T19:49:00.000-07:002011-09-14T20:36:53.378-07:00Ashton Kutcher and Other Unlikely Heroes<div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>893</o:Words> <o:characters>5095</o:Characters> <o:company>Lindsay Moran</o:Company> <o:lines>42</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>10</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6257</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>10.2006</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>894</o:Words> <o:characters>5096</o:Characters> <o:company>Lindsay Moran</o:Company> <o:lines>42</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>10</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6258</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>10.2006</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">So, before we begin, a couple of admin items:<o:p></o:p></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops:list .5in"><!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span><!--[endif]-->There are 2 persons following Princess Pissant on Twitter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And before you go asking yourself, <i>Who gives a shit?</i><span style="font-style:normal">, as you’re probably doing right now, let me clarify: the two persons following Princess Pissant on Twitter are – in at least fifty percent of the cases – different individuals than those who’ve signed up to follow her blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, yes, while officially this means that Princess Pissant has only 1 <i>new</i><span style="font-style:normal"> follower – and, indeed, 2 is a far cry from the 5,000,002 people who follow Ashton Kutcher on Twitter – it </span><i>is</i><span style="font-style:normal"> a start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">What’s more, the mere fact that I’ve mentioned Ashton Kutcher here suggests that Princess Pissant’s popularity is likely to soar by the end of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now, whenever anyone Googles “Ashton Kutcher,” PrincessPissant-AnotherDayattheOffice is sure to pop up, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Which brings me to admin point 2:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops:list .5in"><!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span><!--[endif]-->Princess Pissant is not what you might call “social media savvy,” and so she has no earthly clue what it <i>means</i><span style="font-style:normal"> that 2 people are following her on Twitter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am picturing these two guys just sitting around all day, waiting for me to tweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When the truth is: Princess Pissant doesn’t know <i>how</i><span style="font-style:normal"> to tweet.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As soon as I pick up KN2 (Kid Number 2) from the Little Darlings Learning Center, in about an hour, I’m going to ask him<i> </i><span style="font-style:normal">about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>KN2, and even more so HOB (His Older Brother), know </span><i>all</i><span style="font-style:normal"> that kind of stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>HOB is able to communicate with online computer hackers and pedophiles from as far away as China on his little DS-thingie, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it because only </span><i>he</i><span style="font-style:normal"> knows how to configure the settings and input the passwords to implement those so-called Parental Controls.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.25in"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, enough about me and those guys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There’s someone to whom I’d like to pay tribute today, while I’m here at the Office doing some work on that new contract I’ve got hanging over my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And that is, drum roll please . . . TMABITW!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Can anyone guess who TMABITW is?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You got it – The Most Awesome Barista in the World!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And just how did TMABITW earn that equally as awesome moniker, you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well let me tell you a little story:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Believe it or not, Princess Pissant was at the Office for a large part of last weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The “weekend warriors,” for lack of a better term, are a whole different breed than the regular Monday-Friday folk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(BTW, for readers new to PP-ADATO: the Office is, in fact, a Starbucks.)<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">No, these guys – and a few gals, like Princess Pissant herself – who, for <i>whatever</i><span style="font-style:normal"> pathetic reason are forced to come to Starbucks with their laptops, on the first football Sunday of the season, and work . . . Well, they are some bitter-ass soldiers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I mean . . . ANGRY.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">No exchange of pleasantries among co-workers; no joshing by the pastry stand or while waiting (interminably, yes maybe) for a –chino drink to materialize; not even any empathetic eye contact that might suggest, <i>Yeah, it sucks to work over the weekend but at least we’re all in this together.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, you can only imagine the reaction of these dickheads when (insert ominous sound effect here): the Internet went down!!!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It started out with exasperated sighs; the throwing up of arms; and then furtive angry whispers among the previously non-communicative worker bees: <i>Do you have Internet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Me either?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>WTF?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was down yesterday too . . .</i><span style="font-style: normal"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This buzz of outrage grew and grew, into a collective deafening roar; and just then TMABITW – with his big friendly smile and adorable little green apron – appeared to say: <i>What Was The Matter</i><span style="font-style:normal">?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I thought the mob was going to descend upon TMABITW right then and there, and rip him apart limb by limb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was like something out of the Salem Witch Trials or Gladiator or maybe Braveheart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i>Where the heck is FSGA (Former Secret Government Agency) guy when you need him?! </i><span style="font-style:normal">, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">(Of course, FSGA guy wasn’t there on a Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He’s nobody’s fool.)<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Okay, so the situation was turning UGLY, fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>People were screaming at TMABITW and shaking their fists, and some even threatening to go to McDonalds for the free Wi-Fi over there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And instead of shouting back at them, as I might have – <i>Go ahead, you ungrateful cheapskates!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Get outta here, the whole lot of you, with your stupid laptops and your power cords that anyone can trip over and your three-dollar cups of coffee that you nurse for nine freaking hours every G.D. day . . . GET THE F. OUT!</i><span style="font-style:normal"> – TMABITW remained perfectly composed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He held up his hands and patted the air – in the manner of Martin Luther King Junior or Gandhi – to calm the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then, in a clear and compelling voice, TMABITW addressed the crowd: <i>Let me see what I can do.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>That’ll be the last we see of him</i><span style="font-style:normal">, grumbled the grump from the table behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’m going to Panera</i><span style="font-style:normal">, sniped some other jerk, angrily shoving a stack of charts and graphs into his briefcase.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But in fact it <i>wasn’t </i><span style="font-style:normal">the last we would see of TMABITW.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">TMABITW was back, mere moments later, with a tray of biscotti, demitasses of espresso, and a few Perriers for those who seemed like they might overheat.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He circulated among the group, offering refreshments as he spoke: <i>I just want you all to know that you will have Internet back shortly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The situation is being monitored by Seattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If it can’t be resolved within the next fifteen minutes, we’ll be calling in a specialist from AT&T.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Being monitored by Seattle?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Are you kidding me? <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">TMABITW had called in the big guns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Entirely on our behalf. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I pictured the CIO of Starbucks, whoever that is, being roused from his bed on a Sunday morning, or hauled out of church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And all because of TMABITW.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now that’s what I call not just service, but dedication.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And can I tell you something else?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not a single person offered a word of gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(Full disclosure: not even Princess Pissant, who was helping herself to a second or third free biscotti.)<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I want to thank you, here and now, TMABITW, and to let you know that what you did and what you stand for did not go unnoticed, at least by one person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Furthermore, the way things are going for Princess Pissant, by the end of the day, EVERYONE, including Ashton Freakin’ Kutcher, is going to know about <i>you</i><span style="font-style:normal">.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--></span><p></p></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Times;font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Times;">SEATTLE, WASHINGTON ON HIGH ALERT</span></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifk8GVSbKRquYloCIpbQ1HsJ-Kw504clUdB_V5g0CN1i8q7aqRLaKQs9VFC9jsICGUZiQsrJ9Enp6bI88lMC5tFgKp253FoIgiL2qR9vvUsGD3uHe3LW9yslU_27DVImOPxkhU_QUld1Y/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifk8GVSbKRquYloCIpbQ1HsJ-Kw504clUdB_V5g0CN1i8q7aqRLaKQs9VFC9jsICGUZiQsrJ9Enp6bI88lMC5tFgKp253FoIgiL2qR9vvUsGD3uHe3LW9yslU_27DVImOPxkhU_QUld1Y/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652413198219868370" /></a>Princess Pissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12084069964418111654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-38137088523340349962011-09-07T17:06:00.000-07:002011-09-07T19:26:39.368-07:00Hurricane-Shmurricane<div class="MsoNormal">
Princess Pissant is hopping mad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before I get to explaining the source of Princess Pissant’s
ire, let me add that Princess Pissant is also eternally grateful. Why, you ask?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, if you’re reading this, you probably are aware that
there was a bit of a hiatus in Princess Pissant’s productivity. (I totally own that.) The reasons are manifold, and not worth
going into, although it’s likely that I will . . . but the point – and that for
which Princess Pissant is eternally grateful – is that the absence of Another
Day at the Office on the blogosphere did <i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – as everyone close (or, shall we say, </span><i>related</i><span style="font-style: normal;">) to Princess Pissant predicted – go unnoticed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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No! More than
one person – two to be precise, if you’re a numbers person – actually
cyber-approached Princess Pissant, and inquired as to <i>when</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Another Day at the Office would reappear. Yeah, that’s right: Princess Pissant
has fans. (Plural.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And, not that I’m counting, but let’s just say her followers
have tripled in a little less than two weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So thank you, <i>both</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> of
you, for your support . . . and your patience. And I am happy to report that your wait is over. Princess Pissant is back, and with two
whole hours left before she has to pick up KN2 (Kid Number Two) at the Little
Darlings Learning Center, she’s here, checking in at the Office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Which brings me back to why I am so freaking P.O.’ed. Probably some of you remember that the
East Coast was hit about a week ago by a formidable hurricane. Irene. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, suffice it to say: Irene did not work out at <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the way Princess Pissant had hoped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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No, this epic hurricane achieved nothing, absolutely
nothing, to my advantage. The
thing is: I was totally counting on losing electrical power . . . for hours at
least, if not days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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You might also remember that I had a certain contract
hanging over my head; and that, somehow, in spite of spending day-in and
day-out here at the Office, I’d accomplished relatively little toward that
end. The deadline for presentation
of my work was to occur on the heels of hurricane Irene.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Widespread loss of electrical power was to have been my
saving grace. Surely there would
be <i>no way </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to put the finishing touches
(or even the initial touches) on that pesky PowerPoint, and hence, no way to
present it to the clients. I’m no
techie, but I do know one thing: electricity is required to power your average
laptop computer for more than a few hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the night that Hurricane Irene was to make landfall, I
was pretty chilled out. By
mid-afternoon, I’d tied up the outdoor furniture; stocked the cupboards with
all kinds of crap that normally I would never let KN2 or HOB (His Older
Brother) eat; and even replaced the batteries in the <i>one</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> flashlight we’d been able to locate – a little blue
souvenir-ie thing from Ellen and Brad’s wedding that, in the event of a
blackout, could illuminate one square inch of surface area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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What’s more, MHTP (my husband the photographer) had
performed some kind of triage – involving a blue tarp and bricks – on the leaky
roof, so that by the time the torrential downpour hit, a big puddle of water no
longer formed on the kitchen counter <i>exactly</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> where we charge our iPhones.
Puddles did form </span><i>elsewhere </i><span style="font-style: normal;">on
the kitchen counter, and also on the kitchen floor, but our iPhones were not
charging in those places.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had planned to keep my iPhone fully charged until the
moment of widespread electrical power loss, at which point I would use it to
call the client, and calmly explain that we had <i>no</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> power, and probably wouldn’t for the foreseeable
future, and that I’d need an extension.
Actually, I was going to come up with a better way to put it. You don’t need to remind me, as some
unnamed relatives have, that “asking for an extension” is frowned upon in the
professional world, where you get </span><i>paid</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to perform your work, in some prescribed amount of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I never made that call anyway because, turns out, every
home and business within a 60-mile-radius did lose power, <i>except </i><span style="font-style: normal;">for mine . . . and that of the client.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So really the hurricane came and went and there were no
excuses. I still had that damn
contract hanging over my head. And
what’s worse: all the kids were out of school. That’s right, the entire school system shut down . . . for
days. So whereas normally I’d be
putting in my time here at the Office, instead I was home – trying to come up
with crafty activities to engage KN2 and HOB who really would rather spend
their leisure time terrorizing each other and the dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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To make matters worse:
HOB, the day after the hurricane, was invited to a joint birthday party
(two of his closest friends) that had been billed (on the Evite) as having some
sort of “naturalist” theme. I
imagined there would be a visiting biologist or ecologist or archaeologist or any
sort of “- ologist” who would acquaint HOB and his fellow otherwise self-serving little savages with some kind of do-gooder philosophy. The mothers hosting the party are
neighbors and good friends of mine, and I remember marveling at their creativity
in coming up with such an educational, and yet fun!, theme for a 7-year-old
boys’ birthday party.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, when I went to pick up HOB from the party, I found him
and the dozen-or-so other invitees running amuck, several whooping what sounded
like Native American battle cries – <i>IYEYEYEYA</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – and others keening some kind of coyote yowl, and all of them – to a
little six or seven-year-old person – fully armed. Turns out, the visiting naturalist was not a do-gooder by
any stretch of the imagination, but rather some guy who taught them all how to
construct deadly weapons out of common household items.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So: not only were <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
the neighborhood boys out of school, and therefore completely idle, suddenly
they were equipped with bows, arrows, something called “blow darts,” and
basically: entire arsenals of lethal hardware. It made walking the dog dangerous and difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And it goes without saying that it made attending to that
contract all the more cumbersome and fruitless. Which brings me back to my original train of thought, and
the reason I am so damn angry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, the first place to regain power after the hurricane
was none other than <i>here</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – the
Office. (For new readers, the
Office is, in fact, a Starbucks.)
Not only was the Office one of the few places around town with power; as
a result, it was featured – with an accompanying photograph no less – in the
local paper. If I squinted hard
enough at the picture, I could actually make out my coffeeshop “colleague” FSGA
(Former Secret Government Agency) guy in the background. I can only imagine what that unnecessary
exposure meant for his “cover.”
Meanwhile, I think the headline was: </span><i>Area’s Powerless Flock to
Local Starbucks</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. (That subtly slighting title was an added irritant.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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In short, the whole thing pissed me off.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our hidden gem – this aesthetic and soothing Office, shared
by me and my various co-workers to whom I’ve referred in previous blog
entries – is now, well basically, America’s worst kept secret. And on a rainy day like today – even
with power having been restored to most of the outlying communities – the
Office is utterly jam-packed. It
goes without saying that I was <i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> able
to get my coveted spot in the corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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What’s more: the new folk appear to be severely lacking in
any kind of Office etiquette or decorum.
They’re a bunch of slackers, forever socializing and loud-mouthing to
one another, as if the rest of us don’t have very important things to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like that <i>new</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
contract that I’ve got hanging over my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh yeah, by now, you’re probably wondering: just how <i>did</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> she make out with that other thing? The presentation. Was she able to pull it off, in spite
of the many obstacles placed in her path?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, I gotta tell you – and this is why Princess Pissant is
an eternal optimist – in the end, it wasn’t <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> that bad. Notwithstanding
that one crazy lady ranting (rather rudely, if you ask me) about the
irrelevance of my presentation, about halfway through, I have to say that, in
general, the fruits of my labor were surprisingly – MHTP might even say,
shockingly – well-received. If I
do say so myself, Princess Pissant came out – if not entirely smelling like
roses – at least not completely disgraced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I won’t say that it wasn’t “nip and tuck” there for a
while. And I’m certainly not going
to make the same mistake twice.
Nope, today, right away in fact, as soon as I sign off here, I am going
to get cracking on that <i>new</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
contract. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Only problem is: what with all the riff-raff here at the
Office, I can hardly hear myself think.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9G2MI0IcQT3OVwaaQmplDlvmFWv9qUmqruPTELh2FyLq6X899UR6xK3Us1nSMuN75yPQDliuLPiQA106IWVpbASOj3Owvp5rHN5mr-O-Bf18kB2hZqxD-hF-ocynX6OWxs-Se1ibg1nE/s1600/HISPTAROOF.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9G2MI0IcQT3OVwaaQmplDlvmFWv9qUmqruPTELh2FyLq6X899UR6xK3Us1nSMuN75yPQDliuLPiQA106IWVpbASOj3Owvp5rHN5mr-O-Bf18kB2hZqxD-hF-ocynX6OWxs-Se1ibg1nE/s320/HISPTAROOF.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
MHTP’s PRE-HURRICANE HANDIWORK<o:p></o:p></div>
PrincessPissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348185934545131026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-90269120781551107272011-08-25T09:57:00.000-07:002011-08-25T10:13:46.655-07:00Earthquakes and Other Natural (Sort of) Disasters<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">By now, some of you might have grown concerned that Princess Pissant did not survive the East Coast Earthquake earlier this week. Well, I am here to assure you that she is alive and well. And: Back At The Office.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The office, likewise, does not appear to have sustained any structural or otherwise damage from the quake. All the tables and chairs are upright and in their correct places, and there’s not a single crack in the pastry case.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(For those of you new to Another Day at the Office – Hi Dad, I happen know that you’ve become a follower under a pseudo-nonymous email address, so as to be able to monitor Princess Pissant’s blog without any detriment to your reputation – “the office” is located in a Starbucks.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Truth be told, I wasn’t even <i>at</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the office when the quake struck. I’d taken a personal day on account of the French family of four who were visiting. I had just entered the house from walking the dog, in fact, to find the French family of four gathered in the kitchen, which then started to rumble and shake. The French family immediately recognized the event as a “tremblement de terre,” while I had </span><i>no</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> idea what the hell was going on, and so stood frozen in panic in the doorway, which turns out – after consulting the FEMA guidelines – is </span><i>exactly</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> where you’re supposed to be in the event of an earthquake. Fancy that!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The dog, meanwhile, in spite of belonging to a species that’s supposed to sense oncoming weather changes and natural disasters, failed to pick up on anything. He did go around sniffing the air, whining in some kind of distress, and generally acting strange immediately <i>after</i><span style="font-style: normal;">ward, as if that was going to do us any good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the next hour or so, the French family, who were greatly impressed by the earthquake, helpfully tried to point out items that had fallen, been broken or were in disarray, including all the crooked wall hangings, as a result of the quake. It got to be embarrassing after a while, to keep repeating, “Um, that was that way before actually.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the French family of four was lovely, with two children ages 11 and 4, who were sweet, good-natured and well-behaved, in extreme and stark contrast to my own kids.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My kids – the aforementioned KN2 (Kid Number 2) and His Older Brother (HOB) – in the face of foreign visitors, acted even more barbaric than usual.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The 11-year-old French boy was not able to speak or understand <i>much</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> English, but he did know enough to continually beseech KN2 or HOB, “No, no, pleese do not to do zsat to your brozser,” whenever one of them was pursuing the other with nunchucks, a fireplace poker, or some other potentially lethal instrument.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In any event, although we had a great time with the Frenchies, I was relieved when they left, if only because their presence greatly illuminated my shortcomings as a mother, house-keeper, and overall person. And my kids reflected poorly not just on me, but on all of American culture really.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, while the Frenchies were here, I was not able to come into the office, and, well, I’ve still got that contract hanging over my head, with next week’s deadline looming ever nearer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I am back, and I just now finished perusing Petfinder for “adoptable pug” links to send to my mother, so I am ready to hunker down and get to work.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope there’s not another earthquake. Boy, that would really put a damper on my plan. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Actually, I hope that if there IS an earthquake, it destroys the building where I have to present my work on that contract next week. Yes, I hope that building totally crumbles to the ground. That would buy me considerable time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(But if that happens, I hope no one gets hurt.) <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If someone were to get hurt, or worse, killed, I would feel awful.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Really awful, I mean . . . Knowing that I actually had willed that to happen. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh God, I feel awful now, just thinking about it. I am going to take a quick break and peruse the Internet for more pug rescue resources. Pictures of adoptable pugs, or really <i>any</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> kind of pugs, always make me feel better. Hold on, back in a jiff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, I’m back. Although it is nearly the lunch hour now, I am going to power through and work during lunch.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before I do: did I mention that the day of the earthquake was also HOB’s first day of school? His first day of first grade, in fact. First grade is hugely different than – not to mention a big adjustment from – kindergarten, we’ve been told, because the kids actually sit at desks, which came in remarkably handy when they all had to crawl <i>under</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> their desks and remain there for several minutes after the earthquake.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, when HOB finally arrived home from school that day, which was not until quite late – the metropolitan area in which we live is evidently as unprepared for earthquakes as it is for the snowfall that occurs every single year – he reported that he was one of the <i>only</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> ones in his class who did not cry, and was in fact not afraid </span><i>at all</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt a real surge of pride then toward HOB who’s always been a cautious – some might say pathologically fearful – kid. Then he told me the only reason he wasn’t afraid was because he had “no idea what was going on.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chip off the ol’ block, I guess. I wonder if someday he too will work out of a Starbucks. Wouldn’t that be crazy if HOB carried on the family name? Right here at my big wooden desk in the corner?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I sincerely hope HOB has bigger dreams for himself, but I won’t be entirely disappointed if he follows in my footsteps. It’s better than landing in jail, right?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of kids, I don’t know if it’s Bring Your Kid to Work Day – and I didn’t get the memo – or <i>what</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? But the office is absolutely overrun. And they are really freaking loud, and disruptive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mommy Blogger’s three kids are running wild while she just types away. How can she not be distracted by them? <i>Have a little consideration</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, I want to shout over at her. Even Former Secret Government Agency (FSGA) guy looks like he might lose his cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of losing one’s cool, My Husband the Photographer (MHTP) – whom I’d hoped to keep out of this blog but, sorry, honey – nearly lost his cool at me the other day. This brings me to that other unfortunate incident I was going to tell you all about.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You remember the venerable Master Wong, Tae Kwon Do expert and summer camp counselor, who was occupying KN2 and HOB and a bunch of other little brats last week, enabling me to attend to that contract I’ve got hanging over my head?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, MHTP went to pick up the kids from Tae Kwon Do camp Friday because I had to stay late here at the office. According to MHTP, Master Wong really gave him the cold shoulder. Not even a bow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was unusual behavior for Master Wong, and also strange because MHTP is one of those people who, unlike Princess Pissant, doesn’t seem to garner any enemies, or even generate the slightest amount of ill will. <i>Everbody</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> loves MHTP.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s kind of annoying, actually.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, we chalked it up to Master Wong being in a bad mood. For the first time <i>ever</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. That is, until later, when I was unpacking all the kids Tae Kwon Do crap from their camp bag. Their camp bag was a duffle bag that I dug out from the back of my clothes closet. I think I used it for books in college or something. Suffice it to say, I haven’t used that bag, or even seen it, in a looooooooong, loooooooong time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So imagine my surprise when, while rifling through the contents – swim suits, goggles, crushed juice boxes, nunchucks, etc. – I happened upon what could only accurately be described as, well: a pipe.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And not a tobacco pipe either.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, MHTP was shocked, not to mention <i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> hacked off. He even raised his voice in anger when he said, “No wonder Master Wong wouldn’t talk to me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, in my defense, with <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> that I’ve got going on – I mean the housekeeping and the mothering and the walking of the dog, and not to mention the long days here at the office – am I really expected to check the kids’ camp bags for marijuana pipes everyday too? </span><i>Sheeesh.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It goes without saying that I don’t use that pipe anymore, and so I put it in a really safe place – nobody ever opens up that backgammon board case anyway – and I do think that MHTP will get over it. Eventually.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We should probably look for a different place for the kids to do Tae Kwon Do though.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it did get me thinking: I wonder if they ever conduct random drug tests here?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;">PRINCESS PISSANT’S KITCHEN – BEFORE (AND AFTER) THE EARTHQUAKE</span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ljRzsYzdeDwwy3hmYeiY7C2DJ_4rZJg4L2Iu321MvxVlVKsIBHPhDQswkjD2VMT-N_4jEdAuNtZr7s0it8hcV4BAeRtBGdpL-hdoYxLE-Xu9Fmht6aC5J2Ku7jGJOBhRl9G3H9JCEOo/s1600/earthquakebeforeandafter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ljRzsYzdeDwwy3hmYeiY7C2DJ_4rZJg4L2Iu321MvxVlVKsIBHPhDQswkjD2VMT-N_4jEdAuNtZr7s0it8hcV4BAeRtBGdpL-hdoYxLE-Xu9Fmht6aC5J2Ku7jGJOBhRl9G3H9JCEOo/s320/earthquakebeforeandafter.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span>PrincessPissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348185934545131026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-19220278917356340572011-08-22T07:11:00.000-07:002011-08-22T07:11:53.227-07:00Diving Into the Work Week <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>1517</o:Words> <o:Characters>8651</o:Characters> <o:Company>Lindsay Moran</o:Company> <o:Lines>72</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>17</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>10624</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>10.2006</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Princess Pissant’s father – notwithstanding his degree from MIT – reports being “unable to access” Another Day at the Office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Princess Pissant finds this claim dubious, especially considering her 102-year-old grandmother was able to read the blog (and declare it “interesting, but in poor taste.”)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Princess Pissant will be writing about herself in the third person today, BTW, in the manner of Bob Dole . . . or a lunatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the case of her father, Princess Pissant reads “unable to access” to mean “has no interest in.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But let Princess Pissant start off by reassuring readers that Former Secret Government Agency (FSGA) guy is back, in full force, at the office, having returned from his mission – which must have been a huge success – with a certain spring to his step.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let Princess Pissant also report on two rather distressing incidents that occurred since we last spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First: This morning.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, the third person thing is exhausting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This morning, I dropped off my younger son – henceforth to be referred to as Kid Number 2 (KN2) – at school, and was just about to depart when the Headmistress of “Little Darlings Learning Center” rushed out and handed me an envelope with 15 dollars in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out, I had overpaid the yearly field trip fee by 15 bucks.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Bonanza!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Coincidentally, I was out of cash, and had left my credit card next to the home computer, after a huge Athleta.com buying spree over the weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Since starting at the new office last week, I haven’t had nearly as much time to shop online.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d been planning to hit the ATM on the way, which was going to make me late to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, with this unexpected windfall, I would be on time and thus able to get my usual optimum cubicle.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those of you new to Another Day at the Office, wondering why on earth someone would have to fight for her own cubicle space, you should know that my office is located at Starbucks.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another inconvenience, incidentally, of working out of a coffee shop is that every time you need to use the restroom – for me, several times a day – you’ve got to ask someone, <i>anyone</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, to keep an eye on your laptop so no one runs off with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crazy, I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I head into the office, take stock of the usual suspects – FSGA guy, Mommy-blogger, Failed Writers, etc. – and note that my favorite office space is still free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Excellent.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I have to use the restroom, and herein lies the daily dilemma: do I set up shop and then dart to the bathroom?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, it’s kind of frowned upon to ask someone to watch your stuff <i>as soon as</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> you come in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Violates coffee shop co-worker etiquette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or do I take all my stuff to the bathroom with me, and risk the optimal spot being occupied when I come out?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decide to risk it, and so with: my laptop; and a bunch of medical forms from KN2’s school that I’m supposed to fill out and have various doctors sign; and some other handouts regarding the “academic” calendar; and a stack of Athleta catalogs (for the lunch break); and another stack of loose-leaf papers related to that contract I’ve got hanging over my head; and let’s not forget the envelope with 15 dollars in it, I head to the lavatory, which – <i>dagnabbit!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – is locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At least at this particular Starbucks, you don’t have to ask for one of those toilet keys with a 2-by-4 attached to it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I stand there – one eye on the lavatory door, the other on my still vacant optimal workspace – wondering if I’ve made the wrong calculation today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From inside the ladies’ room, I can hear the hand drier whirring into action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re almost done.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But then a few seconds later, I hear the toilet flush again . . . and then the faucet running and then the drier whirring into action again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the faucet goes back on!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On, off, on, off, flush, drier, faucet, drier, flush again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s then that I realize it must be my office-mate in there:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Homeless Lady, with the shopping cart full of newspapers, undertaking her daily hygiene ritual.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By this time, I <i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> have to use the bathroom and, </span><i>goddammit!,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> someone is taking my seat!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some kid no less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dressed like a hippie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No laptop, no books, no stack of papers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a cup of herbal tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i>What the F. does he think he’s doing?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am totally outta sorts now, and there is no sign of a break in the action inside the ladies’ room, and I already feel the work day slipping away, and I’ve still got that G.D. contract that I absolutely <i>have</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to finish, or at least start, working on this week.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s in this flustered state that I scan the area to make sure no one is watching and then head into the men’s room, which naturally stinks to high heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to use the bathroom without my skin touching anything – not like KN2 who has to caress every surface of every public toilet he uses, and would probably lick pubic hairs off the seat if I weren’t there to intervene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I use my elbow to turn on the faucet and try to use my hip to open the door, but when that doesn’t work, I wrap my hand in three brown paper towels before touching the handle.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I exit to find none other than FSGA guy outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waiting.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve never met, or even spoken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FSGA raises an eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone was in the ladies room.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">FSGA fiddles with his badge, then wordlessly steps past me into the men’s room.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In a thoroughly bad humor at this point, I throw out the tainted paper towels, find another seat – one from which I can give Hippie the evil eye – and then quickly set up shop.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, I am NOT going to waste time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not going to blog, or surf, or read discarded newspapers, or anything like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not even going to open those Athleta catalogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m certainly not going to squander away several hours trying to figure out how to add a “Like” button to my Facebook page, like I did over the weekend.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am just going to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spread out the various periodicals, graphs and charts related to that contract on my new desk, which I have to say is of <i>extremely</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> limited space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I open my laptop and double click on the draft of my power point presentation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far, it consists of the title slide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The title slide looks really good though.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But maybe I’ll change the color scheme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay yes, grey text on blue background looks much better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Totally gives the impression that I know what I’m talking about now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m about to fiddle with the layout of the title slide when one of those little alert windows pops up: “You are now running on reserve battery power.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Oh, for chrissake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;">There’s not an electrical outlet in sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well there is </span><i>one</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> . . . over there by Hippie, who is really nursing that herbal tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel my blood pressure starting to rise.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I commence counting slowly and silently to ten – the way that they teach you in Anger Management classes (or so I’ve been told) – I suddenly realize what I need to do.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I need to get a cup of coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, that will calm my nerves and maybe give Hippie enough time to finish his herbal tea and skedaddle.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I order a <i>grande</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> coffee with room for cream and – heck, I’ll splurge today – one of those breakfast sandwiches with sausage, egg and cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s low blood sugar that’s got me all in a funk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cashier: That will be 5 dollars and sixteen cents.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me (reaching into computer case for cash-filled envelope): Okay, here we go.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shoot, I cannot find that envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It must be in here somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me check all these pockets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, not here either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eww, gross, what’s that slimy stuff?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shampoo?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did I put a little thing of shampoo in my computer bag?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Goddamit.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somehow, there’s a huge line of people behind me now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dump the contents of my bag onto the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A tampon lands in the tray of cranberry scone samples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cashier is visibly irritated, as are the people in line behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Can you hold on one second?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I left my money over there.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I gesture toward my desk.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cashier gives me a blank stare, and then calls to the guy operating the espresso machine: Alex can you help me void a transaction over here?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alex, who’s occupied in various stages of about four or five different kinds of “chino” drinks, abandons his post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This prompts a collective groan from the crowd.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I exit stage left, and run to my desk where I begin rifling frantically through my belongings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The envelope has gotta be here somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But somehow it’s not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mentally retrace my steps since leaving the “Little Darlings Learning Center.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, I have a <i>Eureka</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(What other people – smarter, more successful people – might call an epiphany.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I must have thrown it away!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, with the paper towels I used to safeguard my hand from urinal germs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can picture it now: I remember with clarity just sort of hurling a wad of paper product into the trash.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, with little to no other recourse available, I head over to the trash bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s one of those metal dome-topped ones that looks like R2-D2 and has a small hole in the top, so you really have to reach your arm all the way in and begin digging around like you’re going to pull out winning lottery numbers or something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so that’s how I’ve started out the workweek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under the collective gaze of all my new office-mates, including: FSGA guy, his brow now permanently fixed in a raised position; and the Failed Writers, all taking appreciative note; and Mommy-blogger’s eyes bulging halfway out of their sockets; and Hippie sputtering the dregs of his herbal tea (all over my rightful desk); and the cashier with her pursed lips; and Alex, who’s completely distracted from his duties at the “chino” machine; and all the other patrons gaping in revulsion; and only the Homeless Lady flashing me a look of what can only be interpreted as solidarity, I calmly go about digging in the trash.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The interior equivalent of Dumpster Diving.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But you know what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i>did</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> find that envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was right there, under some coffee cups and half-eaten pastries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a little soggy and I had to brush off the crumbs, but inside was the fifteen dollars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which I used to pay for my </span><i>grande</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> coffee with room for cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The breakfast sandwiches were all gone by the time I returned.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I </span><i>was</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> able to grab a handful of cranberry scone samples, which for some reason had remained untouched.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I am going to sit for a few minutes and enjoy this cup of coffee before I get to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll save the other distressing event to tell you about some other time.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s only 9:45 am, but for Princess Pissant, it’s already been a long day.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->PrincessPissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348185934545131026noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-13817177204661520282011-08-19T09:07:00.000-07:002011-08-19T21:01:56.252-07:00TGIF<div class="MsoNormal">TGIF!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, that’s right: IF! And TG for that! Indeed there are quite a few folk TG-ing here at the office today: occupying my coveted workspace is none other than: a Bible Study Group.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, to call it a “group” is a bit of overstatement. It’s three biddies nibbling on scones and poring over the New Testament. To call them “biddies” is probably a tad misleading as well. They all appear to be <i>about</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> my age, but don’t think I’m going to tell you what that is. (If you’re reading this, Mom, and you’re probably the only one who is, you already know . . .)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the Bible Group ladies are talking about how their kids are at “Vacation Bible Camp” this week.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Vacation Bible Camp is hugely popular around here. I don’t get it. To me, “vacation” and “Bible” probably don’t belong in the same sentence. And, I’m sorry, but it’s either one or the other – a vacation cannot also be a<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Bible camp. How do these people sell their kids on such a charade?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I told my kids that they were going to “Vacation Bible Camp,” they’d be like, “Um, what’s a Bible?” And if I told them, truthfully, what a Bible is, they’d be like, “Um, NO!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By this time, you’re probably wondering: what do I do with my kids while I’m here at the office? Actually, you probably are not. You probably don’t give a shit because, really, who gives a shit about anyone else’s kids?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of which, yesterday I discovered that – here at the office – we’ve got a Mommy-blogger in our midst. I know she’s a Mommy-blogger because I was behind her at the pastry glass and she tried to engage me in a conversation about tree nut allergies. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, when I didn’t bite, she would not shut the F up about her son’s tree nut allergy, and the various “nut challenges” they’d had to put him through, and her involvement in the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network (FAAN), and <i>Would I like to sponsor her in some kind of March on Washington</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Are you like marching against nuts?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mommy-blogger (slowly, as if talking to someone mentally deficient): No. It’s to raise awareness about food allergies.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Like who, in this day and age, is not already aware of all the freaking food allergies out there? You can’t even pack a G.D. lunch anymore without worrying about half the class going into anaphylactic shock.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me (reaching for my wallet – <i>not </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to make a donation but to pay for my banana-NUT muffin): I see.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After this Mommy-blogger stomped off and began typing furiously at her laptop, which is how I figured that she’s a Mommy-blogger, and that chances are I was going to be featured in her blog. And probably not in a complimentary kind of way.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well guess what Mommy-blogger? My kid has food allergies too, and he’s got an Epi-pen and all that, and you don’t see me asking for handouts? Anyway, aren’t there rules again soliciting at the office?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">BTW, for those of you who are new to <i>Another Day at the Office</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – which would be pretty much </span><i>anyone</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> reading this, since as of 4:30 a.m. this morning, the last and final time I checked, I had a grand total of 0 (zero) followers – “the office” is in fact a Starbucks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">NFI. (That is: No Further Information.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">NFI about this particular Starbucks, at an undisclosed location whose actual coordinates could be considered highly sensitive and must remain secret, because of – insert whisper voice – FSGA guy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">FSGA guy – which you would know if you’d tuned in yesterday at the launch of this blog – refers to Former Secret Government Agency guy. Like me, FSGA guy works outta Starbucks. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Interestingly, FSGA guy is MIA today.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are two plausible scenarios here: 1) He works late Monday-Thursday and takes every other Friday off OR 2) He is on a Top Secret Mission.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am choosing to believe the latter, and praying for his safe return. Not exactly praying, per se. But I <i>am</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> thinking about him, and thinking about asking the Bible Study Group ladies to keep him in their thoughts as well. I am also thinking about asking them: </span><i>How, really, did Jesus get so many followers?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because I’m batting zero here.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, back to your question: How DO I balance such a demanding work schedule and the equally demanding obligations of motherhood? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And don’t worry: I won’t let <i>Another Day at the Office</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> slide down that slippery slope into Mommy-blog-dom. Rest assured: neither of my kids has done anything remotely cute, interesting, nor brag-worthy since they were 9 months old. And I don’t foresee that changing in the near or far future. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So the following may the last you’ll ever hear of them:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I manage to balance career and family by dropping the kids off at Tae Kwon Do camp for 8 hours a day. TKD camp is run by the venerable Master Wong. So far as I can tell, a typical day entails: one hour of punching and kicking each other, followed by: video game time, lunch break, some more punching and kicking each other, and then some sort of martial arts-related or culturally-relevant field trip. Usually Chuck E. Cheese.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday, they went in a van to a public swimming pool – and the fact that I was <i>fine</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with that, even though my kids are 6 and 4, and don’t know how to get into or out of their own swimsuits, and Master Wong barely speaks English – shows one of two things: either I am the worst mother imaginable (and thus have no business blogging about it anyway) or I am just so totally committed to my job, here at the office, that I cannot be bothered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In my defense, I probably am not the worst mom ever since I <i>did</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> find it concerning when the only thing the kids could report about the swimming pool was “the naked old man” that they saw in the shower, whom they then described in great detail and with much hilarity. The fact that I found their account disturbing, on a number of levels, shows that I am in fact </span><i>not that</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> bad a mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another thing you are probably curious about is this mysterious contract that I alluded to yesterday, which is the real purpose – beyond blogging – of my setting up camp here at Starbucks. You’re probably wondering: what is that important contract she’s got hanging over her head? What’s it all about? What exactly is she getting paid <i>to do</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, you and me both sister! I haven’t an F-ing clue. All I know is that I am due to present my work the week after next. So next week is going to be crunch-time here at the office. TKD camp will be over, but hey, just it time for school to start.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So don’t stress on my account.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Really.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One more thing: I absolutely LOVE the receptionist here. She’s not at all one of those self-serious types who bristles or balks when asked to make coffee. Speaking of which, it’s time for a coffee break. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Only a few more hours left before the weekend. TGIF indeed! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</span>PrincessPissanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04348185934545131026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6923894704216734928.post-54142566436219075272011-08-18T07:52:00.000-07:002011-08-19T21:00:08.252-07:00The New OfficeToday is my fourth day at the new office. I am starting to know my way around, and get a feel for my office-mates. It was a lot better than the first day, which sucked, the Internet being down for most of the day. I didn’t have access to email, or really <i>anything</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, all day. I was forced to do some actual work on this contract I’ve got hanging over my head, instead of stalking my exes and nemeses on Facebook, or shopping for sale items on Amazon.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, around noon, I went and complained to the IT guys.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: I think the network’s down or something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Barista: Yeah, we’ve had a couple other people mention that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">[I should clarify that “the new office” is actually a Starbuck’s.]<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Well, is there anything you can do?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Barista: <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Like re-set the network or something?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Barista:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: I just thought . . . since others were experiencing . . . <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Barista: I can give you the number for AT&T.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took the number and returned to my “cubicle” in the corner, which by the way is the most coveted spot in the office: <i>huge</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> wooden desk; two available (and functioning) electrical outlets; hard-backed bench that’s so uncomfortable it MUST be ergonomically correct. The bench is more conducive to real work than the cushy chairs, and thus boosts my productivity, which is never a bad thing on one’s first few days. Trying to make a good impression and all. Pretty much every day that I’ve been able to get this spot, I notice my office-mates who arrive later staring enviously at it, and subconsciously willing me to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What can I say? Early bird gets the worm. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In fact, by the time I’d returned from my consultation with IT – with the AT&T’s support number scrawled on one of those cardboard coffee cup sleeve s – Whoever invented THAT is living large, huh? Probably someone who started out small, just like me, here at the office – these two World of Warcraft geeks had taken over most of my desk. Stringy greasy hair, black surplus garb; heart wrenching cases of acne.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: You guys able to get Internet?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 1 delivers a look of mild disdain.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 2: I’ll let you know in a minute . . . actually, nah, looks like no connection.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me (waving irritatingly-genius and bitterness-inducing cardboard coffee cup sleeve): The barista gave me the number to call AT&T.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 2: Seems like that’s <i>their </i><span style="font-style: normal;">problem, not ours. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me (feeling surge of camaraderie toward WoW geeks): Yeah, right?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 2: Well, <i>I’m</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> not calling . . . (then addressing WoW Geek 1) You wanna head back over to McDonalds then?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 1 (eyeing WoW Geek 2’s <i>venti</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> iced tea): How much did that tea cost?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 2: Like five or six dollars.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 1: You shoulda asked for less ice.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 2: But I wanted ice.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 1: You shoulda asked for less though; there’s like <i>no</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> tea in there. It’s all ice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: There’s free WiFi at McDonalds?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Hmm, better benefits? But going from Starbucks to McDonalds would be like leaving Abercrombie and Fitch to work at Wal-mart, or resigning from a well-paid government job with tenure, security and benefits to . . . hang-out with a bunch of other unemployed losers at the local Starbucks. Wait a minute . . . that’s exactly what I’ve done.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geek 2: Yeah, we usually spend the morning at McDonald’s and then head over here when it’s the lunch hour. It gets way too crowded over there.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So here are some of the characters at the new office, that I can only imagine will reappear in future postings, and with whom I will no doubt form lasting and meaningful relationships:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Former Secret Government Agency guy: obviously laid off some time ago, persists in dressing in suit and tie, and wearing his govt.-issued badge . . . to Starbuck’s . . . every day. He likes a table with his back to wall so that co-workers cannot see the Top Secret shit he’s up to, on Craigslist.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">SAHM ISO Nanny: Stay-at-home-mom who conducts endless Nanny interviews at the same table every day, while using her foot to rock colicky newborn in its car bucket. I want to whisper to each of the prospective Nannies, while she’s up purchasing muffins: “She only pays $8 an hour.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Evidently homeless lady: Newspaper-filled shopping cart. She showers in the bathroom at the same time every day and pours herself a big serving of half-n-half into a McDonald’s cup. Bizarrely, I find her a lot less sad than Former Secret Government Agency (FSGA) guy. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A smattering of failed writers: they sit in the cushy chairs, mostly, and stare into space. Obviously all envy and despise one another.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Baristas: the IT guy, and the receptionist gal. I think I overheard FSGA guy telling her, “Hold my calls please Deidre.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WoW Geeks: Aforementioned. At the moment, I feel closest to them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">So Day 2, there was this sign on the conference table, not far from my cubicle saying that the Meeting Area was reserved at noon, and we’d all need to vacate. <i>Sorry for the inconvenience.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WTF? <i>Huge</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> inconvenience. Had to go to the Satellite office of Panera, but there are so many distractions there – in the form of sandwiches and baked good – that I couldn’t get a damn thing done. Ended up meeting up with the WoW geeks at Mickey-Dees. But they were calling it a day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This morning, I ran over the curb on my way into the parking lot. Major-ly embarrassing. Everyone at the outside tables looked over, and watched me walk in, shaking their heads, and muttering to one another and themselves.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All in all, it’s been a good first week though. I haven’t done much of anything on that contract, but I’ve settled in, made some new friends – or acquaintances at least, and, well, I did take the time to start this awesome blog.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">Anyway, it’s nice having a job where you kinda look forward to heading into the office. And tomorrow, I would imagine, is casual Friday.</span><br />
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