I went to lunch with my lead designer today. The First Chair helped me with the wording for my experience at my current job. That is, if you define helped as “Sat and ate lunch and watched the Dead Woman Walking chick write and chew on the end of her pen and occasionally suggest things that DWW dutifully wrote down but then didn’t use anyway”. Well, ok, she made some a couple suggestions I did use. But you’ve got to understand the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other are both making some very good points, and I’m trying to not be bitter and slap the snot out of both of them, as well as the majority of the people who cross my path these days. At any rate, the resume is finished. Well, for the most part. The verbiage looks so good, I decided I want to update my logo. Oh, and Rumors and Office Politics were a little snarky today. They were all whispering shrilly to each other behind their stupid fake french-manicured hands and shooting me the Stink Eye. Screw ‘em. I have 12 business days left. One of these days, before I leave, one of those little bitches aren’t going to be watching closely and I am SO going to pull down that little barely 12 inch long mini skirt, right in front of God and everybody. And they will lose, and I will win, and they will cry, and I will laugh, and they will… well, probably sue the crap out of me, so let’s end that little scenario right there before it even begins. The important point is, I’m not bitter.
WARNING: Bathroom humor dead ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
I had probably one of my proudest moments EVER as a Mom today. I went into the bathroom this evening after The Rockstar had spent a sabbatical in there. His little ritual goes something like this: he goes in there, drops a load that an elephant would be proud of, drops the lid, flushes, and leaves. MIGHT light a match to kill a portion of the stench, but that’s not because he’s considerate, it’s because he’s a pyro. But the point I’m trying to make is he almost NEVER checks to make sure it went down. Sometimes he might make that little bit of extra effort and swish the plunger around a little like it’s a magic “make the poop disappear” wand, and drops the lid. Because if he can’t see it, well, then it doesn’t exist, right? Exactly. Except he’s 10 now, and should have the “object permanence” idea down pat. But in reality, the next unfortunate individual is in for a treat. Poor unsuspecting victim walks into the bathroom, raises the toilet seat lid and is greeted by someone else’s nasty excrement peeking partially out of the hole, its grimy middle finger extended in belligerent refusal to exit this world properly. But this particular evening is different. I go into the bathroom, sigh deeply, grab the rubber pooper unclogger, and prepare to clean up behind my eldest son for the jillionth time. Doing a little “Gotta Pee Gotta Pee Gotta Pee Right Now” dance, I notice there is no rebellious log still lurking, but note the debris floating in the water confirming its prior existence. I do the experimental flush and ready my weapon. And… and water whooshes… the heavens open… the angels break into the Hallaluia Chorus… and everything goes down like a cheerleader on prom night. I can’t lie to you; I got got a little verklempt. But then my bladder switched up a notch in the urgency reminder procedure, and the celebration was over as fast as it began. But I’m so proud. *wipes away a tear*
Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Peace out.