What's that smell?

I worry sometimes that what I bring for lunch might stay around longer than I intend. Food aromas can be pretty distinct and, unfortunately, some have a tendency to linger.

Today I had tuna. For all I know, right now my office mates think I'm a weird lady that smells funny.

For the sake of etiquette, there are some things that just shouldn't be brought to work. These include:

- Popcorn. It's delicious, but everyone can smell it. EVERYone. You're not working in a movie theater.
- Broccoli. Sorry guys, but this stuff smells like flatus. Unless you're very, very cruel, it's not what you want your cubicle to smell like.
- Any and all fish/seafood.
- Children. I realize this digresses a bit from the original topic of food ... but ... I don't care how well-behaved Timmy is, I don't want to waste precious time pretending that he's cute while making awkward kid small talk. I can only have the "What grade are you in now? Look how big you've gotten!" conversation so many times before I snap.


There has to be an easier way ...

Well crud. It happened.

The people at work found out I'm "good with computers."

Now my duties include everything from teaching people the intricacies Photoshop to showing them how to make bold font in Excel. And occasionally troubleshooting a printer or twelve.

Today I had to deal with a locked Excel spreadsheet. I really don't understand why people password protect these things. It just makes life harder for everyone that has to use them. My goal seemed simple: make the 11 x 17 spreadsheet fit an 8 1/2 x 11 page, while remaining legible. Should be too hard, right?


Unfortunately, sooomebody password protected the spreadsheet. My first troubleshooting step was to see if I could just unlock it from within Excel.


The great Google God said I could download a program that would crack it for me. I decided against that method right off the bat, since it would probably give my work computer the ebola virus, and I really don't want to have to explain that to our IT peepz.

Instead I emailed myself the spreadsheet. Sent it from work email to Gmail. Then I opened it up in Google Documents and BEHOLD! The spreadsheet was unlocked. So I saved it as an .xls file and opened it back up in Excel.



Think Pink

I'm torn.

On one hand, I really don't care for pink. Occasionally I indulge in something that's a brilliant, deep magenta. Maaaybe. But cotton candy pink? The single, strangely sickening color that tech marketing folks use to attract women? Not so much. It's just not my style.

I resent this shade of pink. It's patronizing. The cotton candy pink laptops (which are never top of the line models, btw), game consoles, mobile phones, game controllers, etc. scream at me from the shelves of Best Buy. "THE NEEDS AND DESIRES OF FIFTY PERCENT OF THE POPULATION CAN BE BOILED DOWN TO THIS! IT'S ALL YOU GET! CONSIDER YOURSELF INCLUDED!" When these companies got together to brainstorm ideas for attracting female consumers, this one shade of pink is all they could come up with? Really? Seriously. Really?!?!!

However ...

Somehow I feel drawn to these things. I feel a bit like it's my duty to buy them. To prove that the market it out there. That, yes, girls ... nay ... WOMEN ... like this stuff. Sometimes I want to cover my laptop in sparkling pink rhinestones. As a sign of solidarity.

I am female. I can also fix your computer. This combination is neither mutually exclusive, nor unusual.

Full disclosure: There is a cotton candy pink Xbox 360 controller sitting on my coffee table at home. I also insist of playing as Peach in Mario Kart. And I win.


Tragedy at suppertime

So there I was.
Home from a long, hard day at work.
Making myself a delicious, nutritious Lean Cuisine delicacy.
The little black plastic dish looked out at me from behind the microwave door.
Spinning in circles.
I looked right back at it.
Eager and ready.
Beep beep beeeeep.
Went my microwave.
"Hoorah!" went my tummy.
"Hello gooooorgeous," I said as I opened the door.
Reaching eagerly for my meal with hands bare.
But as my fingers wrapped themselves around the little black plastic dish.
My nerves registered HOT PAIN.
"GAH!" I said as I lifted the little black plastic dish.
Up and away from the safety of the microwave.
"NOOOOO!" I said as the little black plastic dish.
Leapt away from my pain flashing fingers.
Tipping over and away from me.
End over end.
Into the garbage can.
"Oh," I said.
Looking at the upside down little black plastic dish.
Sitting in the garbage can.
And then I made this face:



Most of the time, I love being tall.

- Us tall folks make more money, have higher social status and gain more respect than short folks.

- The extra height lets me be intimidating in a subtle way. Especially with 5 inch heels. (Not that I'm intimidating, generally. But heels still help when I put on my "for serious" face.)

- I can reach things on my own at the supermarket. Or in the kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

There are, however, some drawbacks to extra height.

- You're prone to bumping your head and knees a lot. Small cars are the devil.

- Good luck finding pants that fit. Or shirts that don't show your belly. And jackets with long enough sleeves.

- Losing weight does not show until you have lost an ungodly amount. I say this because I just lost 7 pounds in the past month and I can't figure out what part of me got smaller. Maybe it was my grey matter?



I'm not one of those people that thinks you have to suck it up. That there's nothing you can do about it, so wait it out. Grin and bear it and make it through. Deal.


Not me.

It's not about running away at the first sign of trouble. It *is* about knowing you deserve to enjoy being alive.

Sometimes happiness can only be found if you go. Get out. Leave.


Existential Angst

I occasionally wonder why I do so many things. If I'm just doing my 40 hour/week day job, I feel useless. Listless. Stuck.

Instead of enjoying free time, I just cram more and more onto my to-do list. Writing projects, graphic & web design, publicity, so on and so forth. I'm not sure if I'll ever manage to slow down.

But maybe I will. And maybe the key is a day job that actually pays me to do stuff I love.

I'll find it someday. I hope.


Cities are weird

1) There was an angry mime yelling at a camera guy on the corner by my apartment. Apparently he's not a very good mime.

2) There are a few celebrity hot spots on my workout route. If I didn't find them so annoying, it would be an exciting discovery. I get to deal with paparazzi glaring at me in all of my sweaty glory when they realize I'm not an approaching star. I'm not sure what tips them off ... ... ...

3) Speaking of workouts, I've started writing workout haikus. Here's the latest:

Nose pressed against glass
Photog' catches shopping star
I pass by smirking.