Tragedy with a Capital T

When I moved to San Francisco 10 years ago, I got myself a nifty, green, 32-oz. Nalgene water bottle. It was shiny and glorious.

At first, I was very careful with it. I protected it and became agitated when it got scratched. Over time, and after a few nasty spills off my bike and down a hill, I gave up the ridiculous quest to maintain this utilitarian object in pristine condition. I let it get a nice patina. I still took care of it, mind you, but with less obsessiveness.

Today, when I filled it to the brim with water, the cap strap cracked and the top connector-button-thing popped off. It was a single motion, really. The weight of the water just became too much for the poor thing.

Being attached to this particular bottle, I went to the Nalgene website to look for a new cap (I know they sell replacement parts). So I arrive at the site only to find all kinds of information about how they're converting to BPA-free plastic.

They aren't recalling anything, but they are changing over in response to customer demand and a study by Canadian scientists suggesting that BPAs may do bad things to our bodies.

Honestly, I'm not that concerned with having used the bottle for 10 years, but now that I know this stuff, combined with the fact that the bottle has sustained a mortal wound has led me to the conclusion that it's time to say goodbye.

It is a sad day. It's not like anyone died or anything, however, a memorial for my bottle will be held tonight. Matt and I will bid a fond adieu to my beloved bottle and then responsibly recycle it. In lieu of flowers, please make donations in my bottle's name (Fred) to the charity of your choice.

On a happier note, I've already picked Fred's BPA-free replacement. I nearly went with this one, but it doesn't have any kind of connector system for the cap and I really like that feature of the Nalgene. My new bottle's name is Ted. While he'll never be the same as Fred, I'm hoping we can become close. You know, develop a bond.

I'll always love Fred, though. We went through a lot together.

Sayonara, Fred. I always remember the good times.



There's a woman in my office (we'll call her Mary) who has an ongoing medical condition. She and I work pretty closely and on the days that she isn't in the office, I get an email from her saying she won't be in.

I don't ask for more information. We aren't friends and I figure if she wanted me to know more, she'd tell me.

Another woman (hereinafter known as Ruth), a 'friend' of Mary's, came in this morning and when Mary wasn't at her desk she came directly to mine.

"Where's Mary?"

Now, Ruth knows Mary's situation. She knows that Mary needs to take days off more often than most people do. She knows it's related to Mary's condition.

"She's out today," I said.

"Well what's wrong?"

"I don't know. She just emailed and said she wouldn't be in in today."

"Did she tell Cary?(HR bitch)"

"I don't know," I said, trying to maintain my patience.

"You should make sure," Ruth told me.


"They need to know."

"I'm sure she took care of it," I said, hoping that would put an end to it.

"Did she say she would call later?"

SWEET JESUS, SHUT UP - only I restrained myself - with much effort. "No."

"Do you know if she was going to the doctor?"


"She should be going."

"Yeah, I don't know," I said, shrugging to punctuate my point that I was in the dark.

"The treatments are really hard on her," Ruth said, lowering her voice.

I nodded.

"Did she say if she'd be in tomorrow?"


"She didn't say or no she won't be in?"

At this point I think it should be abundantly clear that I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING and I should be left alone.

"I don't know if she'll be here tomorrow."

"Because I have some vitamins for her." Among other things, Ruth sells dietary supplements and makeup on the side. I've never bought anything, but it hasn't been easy not to.

"Well, she'll be back eventually." I started to type again.

Now it should be noted that in the course of this interrogation, I never turned to look at this woman. I was making notes on some paperwork and continued to do that the whole time until the end when I started an email to a consultant.

"Maybe I should go see if I got an email from her."

Seriously? You just stood at my desk for 7 minutes asking me question after question that I have no answers to and now you're going to see if she sent you an email? Fuck, man.

She went to her desk. I thought I was safe. In a few minutes, though, she called me and said, "I still don't have an email from Mary. Can you forward me the one she sent you?"

Again - Seriously? It's NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. FUCK OFF.

"Sorry. I already deleted it."

"So it should be in your deleted items in your Outlook."

"Nope. I empty my trash every time. It's gone."

"Oh. Well do you know who else got copied on it?"


"I'll ask Paul."

I hung up.

Jesus Tapdancing Christ on a Rye Crisp!


Sadie Married Lady

Well, I'm married again. And this time for real.

It was never something I considered until Matt said it was important to him at the beginning of our courtship. I thought of it as an outdated convention. A somewhat demeaning transfer of property, as it were, from father to husband.

Matt said, while he agreed in theory, he really wanted to be married to me. Actually, what he said was that he needed to be married to me. I'm not a particularly gooey kind of gal, but when he said he needed me to be his wife, I did swoon a bit.

So here I am. A Sadie. A married lady.*

*I borrow here from Funny Girl.



Someone here at the office is crying. Loudly. Because she made "an honest mistake and now he's yelling" at her. I'm not sure who it is that's crying. Or who it is that's yelling at her. I don't hear yelling. I can only hear her. Maybe 'he', whoever he is, is out of line. But for the love of Jesus Christ on a toast point, don't cry at work. And if you absolutely cannot control yourself (which she clearly cannot) go to the bathroom or your car or somewhere where 1) the 'offending' party can't hear you and 2) no one else can either.

I know we all have our days when we want to cry. I know that some of us are more quick to tears than others, but to blubber on and on (she's still crying loudly a couple of cube-bays down) for prolonged periods of time is not only unprofessional, it's disruptive. Don't be the woman who gets labeled "the cryer," it won't do you any favors.



I work in a cube farm. It looks a lot like Office Space. I do work that requires a lot of space. So in the interest of my continued efficiency, a guy from "Maintenance" came to my cube yesterday and knocked out a wall. So now I have a double-wide. Or, as the maintenance dude called it, an "executive cube." Look out. I'm on my way up the corporate ladder. Or, at least across this rung I'm on right now.

The worst part of this development is that it has me genuinely excited. I don't like my job. I don't hate it, either, but I definitely don't want to make a permanent condition. So the fact that I'm excited by a big cube is a little scary. Am I caving to the corporate mindset? Have I caved already and just don't want to accept it? Fuck. This is not the economy to become self-righteous and high-horsey, but I don't want to be a cog in the machine.

Oh dear god. I may have to go steal some office supplies to make up for this.



I'm not lying when I say I feel sorry for her. I do feel sorry for her. I'm also just a little afraid of her. And it's for all the same reasons.

She is, what can only be called, pathetisad. She wants so desperately to have Matt's attention that she'll humiliate herself. This is what also makes her frightening. This willingness to throw herself under the bus must also mean that she's willing to throw just about anyone else under the bus as well.

She's Stacy from the Wayne's World movie.


H. O. Triple T (HOTTT)

I'm fairly sure that the surface of the sun is cooler than the yoga room was today. Holy hell. And it was hell.

First of all, let me be clear, I do this enough that I'm not all that susceptible to a fluctuation of a couple of degrees or a little more or less humidity. Let me also be clear and say that this is a beginners' class. Sure, you can be a beginner for years, but you have to assume that there are some actual beginners all the time...

Today we blazed. And the hippy-fuck instructor wasn't helping. He was one of those fuckers who kept telling us that "at teacher training..." and go on to tell us how lucky we are that we didn't have to go through that kind of stuff. He had a litany of examples of how much harder it is at teacher training and, again, how we lucked out not to have Bikram himself teaching our class. I have a little piece of news for you, Judgy McYoga, it isn't luck. I'm not at teacher training for a reason, asshole. I'm not prepared for that. That's why I'm in your class instead of Bikram's.

He also kept harassing people when they came out of a pose early or sat one out. What the fuck? I don't come to yoga for a hard time. This is not yoga boot camp. It's a beginners practice. A practice that ran long after starting late, I might add. If it didn't happen every time this powertool taught a class, I would overlook it. But it has happened every last time I've had the misfortune of being in one of Judgy's classes.

Fortunately, I quickly became adept at tuning out the stream of shit that ran out of his mouth and just practice, but really, I shouldn't have to. I hate that guy.

There's another instructor at the studio (a favorite of almost everyone) who, at the end of every class reminds us to never let anyone steal our peace. I try to keep that in mind. I tried really hard tonight. But there were a couple of times when all I could think of was jamming my fist into Judgy's adam's apple. At least something gave me a reason to smile in class...


Another Thing I Love About Corporate Settings

I just signed no less than 15 birthday cards. I can identify exactly 1 of the recipients by name.
I literally have no idea who any of the rest of them are. It's fucking awesome.


I Might Barf

This is how I've felt all day today. I don't know why. I don't feel that bad physically, just kind of barfy. But if one more person asks me if I'm nauseous because I'm pregnant I'll barf on them.

First off, I'm not pregnant. But the thing that irks me is that so many people have asked. Now, to be clear, there can be no question physically about whether I'm pregnant. I weigh a little more than I'd like, but there is no way that someone would ask because of my appearance. But that's not the point. The point is: At what point did it become polite to ask someone you barely know if they're pregnant? Especially based on the evidence that I feel a little nauseous. I would never ask anyone I work with if they were pregnant. I might not ask a good friend.

Pregnancy is definitely something that should be left to the gestating party to reveal. Sure, time will eventually do the job, too, but christ, don't ask.

It's amazing how free people feel to invade your privacy. But it's also amazing how quickly people will just give it up.

I have a myspace profile. There's relatively little on it. Because I don't want any person who stumbles upon my profle to know every last detail of my life. But I see plenty of people's profiles all the time where they disclose every last detail of their lives to anyone who's willing to read it. I don't get it.

I have a few friends who have myspace profiles where they reveal not only what they've been eating for the last month, but where they live, work, when they have dates and when they get laid. WTF? And then when they end up with people acting inappropriately on their page, they get upset.

I've been thinking about getting rid of my myspace page for a while now. First of all, I think I'm getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of thing, if you know what I mean. But secondly, I've had a few unwelcome visitors. Why do that to myself? I'm not trying to debate the merits of different social networking sites, but at least facebook keeps a little tighter lid on things.

But I digress. The intent was to say mind your business. So that's it. Mind your business. Don't worry about anyone else's. Especially mine. Thanks.


New Town, New Habits

I have arrived. Not in the old fashioned "I've made it" kind of way, but in a literal sense. I have arrived in a new city. Sin City. Las Vegas. Loosely known as the desert to those of us from the far left of the nation, and the place I used to refer to as "the place where dreams go to die."

I've been here a while now, though, and I like it. Sure, for many people (those who take their life-savings/entire paycheck to the casino) it still is the place where dreams go to die, but as far as I'm concerned it has everything I need right now. Plus no State tax.

No, I don't love the heat. Today's high (so far) is 105. I haven't lived any place this hot since Texas. Although, as they say (whoever they are), at least it's a dry heat. Yeah. It's usually pretty dry in an oven, too. But I'm here...because this is where I'm supposed to be right now.

Why am I supposed to be here? Have I committed a crime and am being punished? No. Quite the contrary. For the first time in my life, I did something a little impulsive and it paid off. I'm happier than I ever thought was possible.

In the mean time, I've found a way to torture myself, too. No one should be ecstatically happy and not have some way to punish themselves, right? So now I actually willingly walk into a room that's 105+ degrees and at least 40% humidity. It's horrible and I love it. Bikram.

If you ever have the chance to move to Vegas, I'm not going to recommend it, but as I said, it's where I'm supposed to be right now.