Respect Your Blog

Image credit: openclipart.org

Image credit: openclipart.org

I’m not gonna lie, I used to post a good portion of my blog entries while wearing PJs.  I’ve come to realize, however, that when I’m wearing PJs and slippers and I’ve got my rat’s nest of uncombed hair pulled back in a scrunchie so I won’t have to deal with it and I’m not wearing any makeup because it’s not like any of you can see me, anyway, I usually end up writing a sloppy blog entry.  Because I’m sloppy.  So I came up with a resolution:  respect your blog.  Treat it like something you value, not like something you just got from a fast food restaurant that you’re done with and you throw in the back of your car because who cares.

I like to dress up a little while I’m posting to my blog.  I put on pretty shoes, I do my eye makeup, I try to make my hair look presentable.  I know you can’t see me, but it makes a difference.  When I respect my blog, and my blog readers, enough to approach it like a professional, I write better blog entries.  I also try to make sure that my apartment has achieved at least a basic level of cleanliness, because I can see my living room reflected in my computer screen and it’s really distracting when I’m typing a post and I see the reflection and think, why do I have three coffee mugs on my end table?  I don’t even drink coffee.

Why is this important?  Because I’m a freaking adult.  I know my laundry has been piling up and I really need to empty the trash and I haven’t been grocery shopping in two weeks so I’ve just been ordering in (which is probably why the trash is so full), but it helps me concentrate when all my crap is where it’s supposed to be.  It helps me write when I know, somewhere in the layers of my little blind mind, that I could walk outside to get the mail and not worry whether anyone’s around to see me, because I look decent.  It’s all part of not becoming a crazy cat lady with 27 cats who goes to the grocery store wearing a house coat because she forgot to check the mirror before she sat down to post to her blog.

This blog may not be an actual job, and thank God because most people end up hating their jobs and that would suck for me, but it’s something that’s important to me.  It’s important to me to write a good blog entry for you to read.  And I don’t mind if you read it while wearing your PJs.  That’s totally OK.  That’s almost what you’re supposed to do (unless you’re reading this while at work).  Get out your scrunchies and put on your slippers and know that I put effort into myself as well as into this blog post, because I respect my blog and I respect you.  Peace out.

Friends don’t let friends drive moving vans

Two friends

Two friends (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is the story of how a friendship was born:

We all have different ways of dealing with stress.  Some people drink, some people turn to religion, some people become extreme couponers.  Me, I swear profusely and laugh at completely inappropriate things.  Until recently, I had my own office at work, so it wasn’t a big deal.  Then we made a new hire, and she got put in with me.  I was a little worried about this.  I’m not exactly–what’s that term?–safe for work.  Why would The Powers That Be hire a young and impressionable girl and then deliberately put her in an office with me?  I’m still not sure.  But they did.

I was good for about twenty minutes before I dropped my first expletive.  For me, that’s extremely impressive.  I’ve been known to utter sentences that contained more obscenities than non-obscenities.  I’ve crafted phrases that have used profanity as subject, verb, and object.  For a second, I was really afraid I was going to get a formal complaint.  I apologized for my impropriety.  My new officemate looked at me and said, “What?  Oh, I didn’t even notice.”

Huge f*&%ing sigh of relief!

Since then, I have learned her preferences in candy, lunch destinations, and breakfast muffins, and she has learned the true extent of my shameful addiction to caffeine as well as the depths to which I am willing to sink for the sake of making a joke.  I probably still should have been trying to behave myself around her so she wouldn’t run screaming from the office and file a complaint about the vile cretins surrounding her.  However, when you see each other at 7 AM and spend hours together going through paperwork to get a report in by the deadline, barriers tend to go down.  I was a little disturbed by the fact that she prefers Ryan Gosling to Johnny Depp, but she’s about five minutes old, so I let it pass.  JD can be too much for some people.  It’s okay.

Duct-tape Moving Van

Duct-tape Moving Van (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Officemate–she’s really more of an Office Sister at this point–moved house this past weekend, which is why I haven’t updated for a while:  I helped.  Well, I tried to help.  I’m not what you might call muscular, so I’m no good with moving furniture.  But I can pack like a champ, so that’s mostly what I did.  I packed and vacuumed.  I stayed at Office Sister’s place overnight so I could get up at dawn and pack some more.  Leading up to it, I thought, “Cool!  We’ll hang out, pack some boxes, drink some wine, make inappropriate comments when our supervisors can’t overhear–it’ll be great!”

I’m going to change my name from Little Blind Girl to Little Stupid Girl.  I know better than to think things like that.  Disaster 1:  The refrigerator Office Sister and Office Brother-in-Law ordered didn’t fit the space they had so carefully measured.  Disaster 2:  The microwave didn’t fit, either.  The freaking microwave!  Disaster 3:  Saturday evening traffic in a major metropolis.  Disaster 4:  Half a dozen people who had promised to help canceled.  Disaster 5:  God finally decided to smite us with torrential rain and intermittent tornados.  I’m not saying we didn’t deserve it, but seriously, who gets tornados when they’re moving?  And on, and on, and on.

Exhaustion, tears, the occasional natural disaster:  this is how a friendship is born.  No amount of stress at work can bind two people together quite like driving through tornados and packing away your Office Sister’s bras.  By the time the moving truck had been emptied at the new house and all the furniture had been set up, there was just no point in pretending to be refined and proper.  You can’t move house without swearing and, what’s more important, you can’t move house without revealing who you really are.  Sometimes literally, if you interrupt someone just after a shower because you’re looking for somewhere to brush your teeth and everything’s already packed up.  You just can’t help seeing each other in all your glory.

And it was pretty cool.

English: Clayton Farmhouse Drive Linking the f...

English: Clayton Farmhouse Drive (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So my Office Sister is all moved into her new home, her first actual house, and she’s the cutest thing on two legs with her funny, patient husband and her loudmouth cat (shrieked the entire way to the new house.  Hour and a half.  Oh, my God!) and I don’t even remember how many boxes of couscous we ended up unpacking.  And three different kinds of salsa.  And at least twenty pillows.  And that’s it; we’re friends.  Done.  End of story, professionalism be d%&*ed.  You can’t lay hands on someone’s lingerie and then look them in the eye without laughing.

And that’s the story of how a friendship was born.

Pain, pain, go away

High quality ostrich feather duster

Image via Wikipedia

A friend of mine who is blogging about training to run a marathon posted about the pain she experienced the first time she and a friend tried Pilates.  I experienced similar pain when I first tried to do decline sit ups.  Those are the ones where you lie back on a bench tilted so that your head is down near the floor and your knees are at the top, and then you do sit ups.  They hurt like hell, but not until the next day.  No one warned me, so I did several dozen.  I went to bed that night feeling very pleased with myself.

The next day I tried to get out of bed and nearly blacked out from the pain.  I couldn’t move until later in the day, and only after I’d taken a handful of over the counter painkillers and stood under a hot shower for half an hour.  That evening, someone made me laugh and I punched them out.  Well, not really, but I wanted to.

Since then I’ve been careful to warm up before exercising, patiently stretching and making sure I don’t push myself beyond what I should just because I’m not currently falling down.  I get a fair amount of exercise, though I wouldn’t run a marathon if you promised me a garden of daffodils and a pony at the end of it, and I feel sympathetic but gently superior when people complain about how much pain they’re in because they didn’t warm up properly or they had an overly bruising work out.

I did some spring cleaning this weekend.  I climbed on ladders to reach high places, I stood on kitchen counters to get to the tops of the cabinets, I got on my hands and knees to clean under the refrigerator, I moved furniture to clean under and around it, and I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees.  It took the entire weekend.  I was exhausted at the end of it and was really, really grateful that it was done and I could go on about my normal life.

The next morning, I went to get out of bed and couldn’t move.  It was like I had done a hundred decline sit ups, run five miles, climbed a mountain, and carried a small buffalo, all without warming up.  I looked around my sparkling apartment and thought, you know, I’m legally blind.  It’s all a big blur to me anyway.  How clean do I really need it to be?

Sorry, Mom.  The dirt and I have decided to make it official.  To be honest, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened earlier.  I still don’t have full range of motion in my arms, and every time I sneeze (thanks for the cold, by the way, Unknown Waiter With Hacking Cough.  I want my tip back), I see stars.  And, would you believe it, after all that, I got my trash bags all lined up for a trip to the trash chute–and it’s backed up!  It’s just as well, really.  I don’t think I could have lifted the bags that high up, anyway.  So here’s to dirt and me:  from now on, my name is Mud.