“There is no use trying,” said Alice, “one cannot believe impossible things.”
“I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast!”
– Lewis Carroll
Marie’s shower is tonight! I’ve been up late two days baking and Hennessy wonderfully let me shop on her Costco card yesterday to procure sundry necessities. Trying to figure out the menu and organize it within budget and time (that lived up to my grandiose schemes for my friend, she isn’t named after Marie Antoinette for nothing!) was difficult, and at one point I despaired and thought it impossible…
But then I found these, and I knew it was going to the social event of the season!
“The art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease.”
– Voltaire
I will publicly scorn those who play Farmville and whatever the latest Vampire obsessed game is on Facebook, but I am far more guilty than they. For I, it must be confessed, play…Sorority Life.
(Yes, yes. Shame. Plenty of shame. Let’s move on, shall we?)
However I think that, despite the obligatory shame spiral, I’m still allowed to be a bit snobbish about the fact that I in no way confuse Facebook and its games with real life.
For example yesterday, after I got home and checked my email, I logged into Facebook and Sorority Life, and sitting pretty at the top of the message board was: “My kid is sick! Is there an R(egistered) N(urse) on the feed?!”
Asclepius facepalms. As does Hippocrates and Galen. Major, major fail.
“Of course there’s a lot of knowledge in universities: the freshman bring a little in, the seniors don’t take much away, so knowledge sort of accumulates.”
– Abbott Lawrence Lowell
It's alright, dears. This feeling of being overwhelmed is entirely normal. And here's a tip, it doesn't really ever go away.
I swear, every year the Freshmen get younger! It’s orientation time/first week of school so herds of these infants are roaming across campus with dazed and confused looks on their faces, prodded along by overbearing parents.
These parents are walking their “children” (who are usually 18 and above) to classes, arguing that their little darlings should be able to park in the Provost’s parking space because it’s closer and widdle babykins can’t possibly be expected to walk all the way from the dorms to class, and if they are out of state, calling us in a state of panic because they their kids didn’t answer the phone when they called, and can we send out a search party now?!
We at the University Police department, hate such parents. We hate even more explaining to them, that if their child has been robbed, accosted, or got a splinter, we actually have to work with the child (who again, is over 18) and not the parents themselves, as said child is a legal adult. Ooh, they hate that.
All I’m saying is, my parents dropped me in middle America somewhere and bunked off to Belgium. I got myself to school, into a dorm, registered for classes, text books and supplies , and off to classes in two days, requiring only a ride from Fairy from the airport to campus.
“I don’t see how an article of clothing can be indecent. A person, yes.”
– Robert A. Heinlein
Alright, ladies, am I completely alone in this or are there other proportion victims out there?
I’m barely five feet tall, with an exactly one inch space between my ribs and my hips. Those same ribs are rather wide but my shoulders are rather narrow, and my hips are rather rounded. My legs are short (duh) and taper downward, long and lanky we are not!
I need normal size pants to fit around what Casanova calls “birthin’ hips” (he’s from Georgia, we’ll excuse it), but those pants usually hang past my feet by a good six inches. I routinely by Ankle Length trousers from the Gap and Banana Republic, but that’s a misnomer for a short girl if ever there was one. I still have to wear three inch heels to keep them from dragging. Also, because of my high hips, low cut jeans or pants of any kind are unflattering in the extreme…so why do almost all trousers winkingly advertise “our lowest cut ever!”
Really, Victoria Secret models don't look good in bad pants, how much less we mere mortals?
Medium size shirts fit around my ribs, but I’d need the 80’s-est of 80’s shoulder pads to fill those gaping shoulders, and they always manage to make me look pregnant. However, size small shirts fit shoulders and stomach perfectly while straining to cover, not my breasts, but my lower rib cage (which, unlike my legs, tapers not at all).
So, apart from having to work extra hard on exercising my abs to create the illusion of a waist, shopping for clothes on a good day is rough. And let’s face it, most of what’s in the petite sections are not made for 24 year old, fashion conscious career girls!
Also, I admit, I’ve put on 10 pounds since I got married. Hence my fab exercise bike, Harley. It’s working. Slowly.
Yesterday I finally replaced my torn trousers, it took nearly 2 hours. I also tried on my bridesmaids dress for Marie’s upcoming nuptials and wilted a bit in front of the mirror. It’s an adorable dress, I absolutely love it, but the cut of it does nothing for my figure. Sort of like this:
Pretty dress, pretty woman (pun!), not so happy together
However, I am happy to report that, even though it took a while, I found trousers that are three-inch heel friendly, hit at the waist, and make my bum look good. I also scored two new work shirts that don’t strain across my breasts/ribs (is there anything more tacky than a too tight shirt? Yikes, everyone gets a view!) And with that, my Fall/Winter work wardrobe is complete. Which means that, if I’m lucky, I won’t have to buy new trousers – and take the requisite shopping aspirin – for another year.
“Sweet is revenge – especially to women.”
– Lord Byron
Good morning, minions. Where can I get the best real-looking plastic snakes money can buy?
Oh, I'm sorry. I thought work ended at 5.
Last week, after doing the laundry run, I returned the key to Lt. Colossus as per usual. Then J. and I headed up to the City for the evening. I’d left my phone at home because it needed to charge, and when we came back I had about half a dozen messages on it that proceeded thus:
“C. this is —- from work, Lt. Colossus asked me to call you and find out where you left the key to the van. Could you call me back? Thanks.”
“C. this is —- again, we really need that key.”
“This is Officer —-, I’m not happy. You know that you’re supposed to turn that key into Colossus when you’re done, it’s not your car. We need to use it.”
“C., Colossus. Where the hell is that key? You know better than to keep it, damn it! We need it!”
“C.! Where is it?!”
“C. Hi…sorry…this is Colossus…I found the key…see you tomorrow.”
The blasted man, after having told all the officers on duty who needed the van that I had absconded with their blessed key, had accidentally taken it home with him in his pants pocket. Jupiter Ammon, what is it with men and pants in this office?!
But to add insult to injury, this morning he found Lt. Citrus pressing a uniform in the supply room and cracked, “Shouldn’t you have to wear a skirt to do that?”
Wise heard him and let him have it with both barrels.
“But you girls weren’t supposed to hear that,” he protested.
“It’s sexist whether we hear it or not,” I retorted.
“You just have not sense of humor,” he tried to tease.
See, my my bite far, far worse than my bark.
Foolish, foolish man. I’ve officially lost patience with your mild but all-pervading sexism and your tendency to blame things on me. And unlike most women you seem to know, I am not of the ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away persuasion. Also I know three very important things about you. 1 – that you scream like a girl, 2 – that you are terrified of snakes, 3 – your locker combination.
There are many ways to cure sexism and undesirable behavior. I choose psychological warfare.
Like I said, I am a great fan of signs. I made this sign for Marie because she needed something appropriately British and pink to pick her up post-surgery. I found this sign to be of great comfort to me moving towards a new fall semester. I post signs when I have to take lunch at my desk, so that people know I’m unavailable. I post a sign when I run to the laundry so people know where I am. Signs are meant to be read, and more importantly heeded.
Now, would someone please explain to me how this one ended up in Lt. South’s office? And is anyone else wondering what on earth goes on in this office over the weekends?
More importantly, can anyone explain where the stuffed raccoon came from?
As if we were not already desperately busy, especially with Fall semester looming, this is also when the University hosts a conference open to the public. For a mere $44 dollars, you can come spend week going to classes about academic topics, theology, personal development, and probably basket weaving for all I know. This wouldn’t be so bad if it were not for the people.
And we're not leaving without our commemorative mugs!
It is impossible to convey how boorish these invaders are. You’d think they owned the place! Office supplies go missing, we have to lock classrooms so that they can’t get in, they knock people down rushing to classes, they yell at everyone…genuine menaces to society. However, it’s their propensity to complain about everything, usually consequences they’ve brought on themselves by their rude behavior, that really bleaches us of all sympathy. Some favorite complaints:
I couldn’t find a parking space so I had to park in the road against oncoming traffic.
No. You didn’t. That’s like saying, “There were no cigarettes so I had to smoke crack.” Not at all. The circumstances are probably aggravating and cause withdrawals and make you irritable (not unlike frustration with parking), but the solution you propose is still illegal.
We paid good money to come to this conference, get out of our way!
We pay much, much more money to go to school here for four years. Full time. And do you think any of us get our way?
We paid good money to come here [again, please note $44], so we should be able to park wherever we want.
Hm…not really. This is, in fact, a fully functioning university 365 days a year. Which means that we have anywhere between 20,000 and 60,000 people here on a daily basis who are actually working and taking classes who need to park. To put it simply, we trump you. You are visitors, we are permanent.
We can’t find anything on this campus of yours. Don’t you label anything?And where are we supposed to park?
Yes. You will find them on those handy maps you were given on your first day. And you can park in any one of the half-of-the-entire-campus-lots we took away from those mentioned in the complaint above this one and gave them to you to use. For a week. For free. Ingrates.
The bishop encouraged us to come so, since the bishop sent us, you should give us food for free, because of the bishop.
This is not the parish potluck!
We drove a long way to come here, why can’t we leave our car in a handicapped stall?
I don’t care if the Vatican called you personally and declared all your sins would be forgiven if you invaded campus. I don’t care if we get an email from Mecca declaring this the site of this year’s pilgrimage. I don’t care if St. Thomas a Becket re-capitates himself and orders Chaucer resurrected to write another masterpiece about our humble university town. You do not, under any circumstances, get to get away with such unpardonable behavior!
(Cutting in front of whole lines of people, including one in a wheelchair, to buy things at the campus store and then snapping at the people who ask you to move to the back of the queue, “We’re with the conference!”)
Who raised you?!
“All abstract sciences are nothing but the study of relations between signs.”
– Denis Diderot
One of my annual duties is to process raises for all of the student employees, all 150-200 of them. Each of these raises must be individually entered, then individual added to two separate databases (before I hand them off to Susie who enters them into another worksheet). As you may imagine, this takes quite a bit of time. I usually clear my entire schedule to work solely on this project so that I can get it done in a couple of days.
These couple of days are brain melting. I stare at the computer screen without breaks from the moment I get into work until the moment I leave. By the time I limp out to my car, my eyes are crossing and uncrossing beyond my control. I swear I’ve developed carpal syndrome in my right index finger.
Note: NOT Dave Matthews.
Funny things happen to my head, such as yesterday when I had to do a double take because Pandora (which often doesn’t make sense anyway), playing in my peripherals suddenly flashed a picture of King Leonidas from 300…no…wait. It wasn’t a naked, roaring barbarian, it was Dave Matthews. I rubbed my eyes and prayed for 5pm. But it pays off to do it all at once because within three days I can usually get back to my normal schedule only slightly worse for wear.
The only way I am able to get it all done in a timely matter is by carefully cultivating the idea that anyone who disturbs me during this process will be marched out into the parking lot, lined up, and summarily shot. This year, to facilitate the speedy processing of raises, I put up the following sign:
And, much to my royal irritation, everyone has been ignoring it. Cretins.
“I am a great believer in luck.”
– Thomas Jefferson
Well, ducklings, it’s that time. I counted up all the comments, facebook links, and blog shout outs, plugged that number into random.org, and the winner is…
Denise! Who said, and I quote, “oh, what the heck! i’ll play- i never win but i like your blog and i like shabby apple! and green is my color!!
d;)”
Positive thoughts today, Denise, you’ve one yourself some serious pretty from Shabby Apple. I’ll be emailing you for your contact info. Thanks to everyone who participated, hopefully there will more giveaways in the future!
Now, while some people come into our office and say things that are just plain silly, other people say things that are, literally, unbelievable. From this week (and it’s only Wednesday morning):
“I have a doctor’s note. Uh…from…um…a doctor!” *
“I’ve, uh, locked myself out of my car. Don’t have my keys. Could you guys open it for me?”
“Can you prove ownership of the car?”
“Um, no. Can’t you just shoot the trunk lock open for me?” **
“You don’t understand, you are going to do what I tell you. Don’t you know who I am?” ***
* I am a rhinoceros. One of us is lying.
** I’ll bet lunch someone finds a body. Any takers?
*** No. I don’t. And since it’s my job to be painstakingly aware of all requisite movers and shakers, that ought to tell you something.
Small Dog Syndrome 