You Heartless Bastard.

In January 2007, a division of the agency where I work published a calendar whose cover photo was a (ahem) husky man lying on his stomach, only the pants of his jeans and his boots visible, investigating a hole in the ground. I was trying to describe this calendar to some coworkers of mine today.

"Oh wait," piped up one, who by God would be three-martini break group material if there still were a three-martini break group, "are you talking about 'the butt calendar'?"

I was.

"It totally reminded me of someone I used to work with!" I exclaimed, getting a few funny looks; so I had to go on and tell the story of the man who fell asleep in high-level meetings, as well as on the floor of his cubicle and in communal work spaces; whose snoring echoed throughout the entire section; who once playfully sneaked up on me in the kitchenette but had dozed off by the time I finished washing my dishes and turned around to find him standing eighteen inches behind me; who finally had to bring in a doctor's note, excusing this and other behavior, on the grounds of sleep apnea.

The thing is, when you work among more or less normal people, it's no longer quite nice to talk about people like this one - who was after all fairly typical for the setting. Try telling straights the quasi-comical horror stories you used to hoot over with like-minded inmates on break, and next thing you know they're glazing at you, smiles politely frozen on their faces, heads slightly tilted. And you realize you've become someone who makes fun of the differently-abled. And you feel like an asshole.

Do you wonder why I never blog anymore?

I recommend not lying around with your head stuck down in a hole in the ground. It limits your options like you wouldn't believe. And it's bad karma to make fun of TPPeople.

For the Amusement of Strangers

My sister Margie and I grabbed a quick bite at Taco Cabana today, over by Burnet and 183. It was midafternoon, and not many other people were in the restaurant. And we were talking very frank girl talk, and I did notice after a while that the two guys a couple of tables over from us were being completely silent.

Well, it's good to bring a little happiness into the life of a stranger.

Margie was telling me how she was just at Mount Bonnell the other night with this guy she really likes, but he has a girlfriend. Still, apparently he's willing to hang out with her in a city park at 3am, so who knows how long that's going to last.

"We found some guy's cell phone there," she said. "Just lying on the ground. We used it to make a bunch of crank calls."

She's actually my half sister.

I reminded her of the time she lost her cell phone near the hike and bike, and a jogger found it, and called the first person in her address book - Beth. And he waited there until I arrived to pick it up. And as he handed me the phone, I noticed that her tagline at the top of the screen was "Chicken Fucker," which he didn't comment on, and neither did I, because what can you really say about that?

So wouldn't karma dictate, I asked, that she track down the guy whose phone she had found and give it back to him?

"Oh, we got it to him," she said, picking idly at a scab on her palm. "He was really happy! We just crank-called a bunch of people in his address book first."

"What happened to your hand?" I asked her.

"Oh," she said, "I scraped it up on Mount Bonnell, trying to get loose when I caught my foot in a crack in a rock. I was like this," and she demonstrated, lifting one leg above her, "and as if that weren't bad enough I was wearing a skirt..."

If the guys at the next table were laughing, I couldn't hear them over myself. "And you were with this guy you have a big crush on?!"

"Plus I was having my period," she went on. "So I'm there with my foot over my head and my skirt around my waist and a big pad saying, 'Turn around! Turn around!'"

We're different, Margie and I. I'm pretty sure that if that happened to me, I would just write off the crush and never see him again. True love isn't everything. But she seems okay with it.

I expect the guys at the next table were impressed.

Fake It Till You Make It

Everybody calls in sick for the "wrong" reasons* every now and again. We all know how to sound sick over the phone, but do you know how to avoid giving yourself away when you get back to the office? I mean, sure, you could carry a red ink-stained handkerchief balled up in your hand, and cough into it during your staff meeting; or you could keep a nice aromatic bucket of live bait hidden in your cubicle.

In fact, I'm not entirely sure some people in my division aren't already doing this.

But you don't really need to go to such great lengths. All you really have to do is be a little discreet. Here are some common reasons for calling in sick, and the telltale signs to avoid for each.

The exercise class: Well, make sure your breathing has slowed to more or less normal before you come in. And try not to look so damn healthy.

The job interview: Change clothes for the office, but don't overcompensate and show up in cutoffs and flip-flops. Just bring something that you would normally wear to work. If you park in a visible spot, make sure your jacket and tie aren't hanging up in full sight on the passenger side.

The shopping trip: I'm sure I don't need to tell you that your purchases should stay out in your car. If they're perishable, you'll just have to drop them off at home. The thing to look out for is stuffing the receipts into your wallet when you're checking out, because those things can flutter away at importune moments, and they are time-stamped.

The tryst: Towel off as much of the Axe body spray as you can, along with any other substance you may have been sprayed with. Comb your hair, fix your makeup, and make sure your clothes are all right-side out. Try not to look smug.

The weather: Why yes, sometimes it is just too nice out to go to work, and you need to spend the day at the lake, the beach, the park. Or it's ghastly out and you want to stay home in bed with cats and coffee, or watch football in a topless bar all day. Try to avoid going anywhere that your legitimately vacationing coworkers might hang out, and wear plenty of sunscreen. And do a little creative research; I'm sure that glittery skin must be a symptom of something life-threatening.

Lunch: Often not at all your fault, you finally pay your tab and glance at your watch and realize that, due to the crowding of the restaurant and/or the ineptitude of the server, you've now been away from your desk for three full hours. Just claim food poisoning and go home, because trying to explain the truth isn't worth it. You should try to look a little pale and drained when you come in the next day. (Scratch this one if you're at lunch with the boss, but keep in mind that s/he's more likely to pick up the check if you manage to convey a little gastrointestinal distress.)

Then there's the I'm-just-so-plain-sick-of-work-I-can't-face-it-this-morning day, but I cover this last because you don't have to worry too much about looking suspiciously smug, happy or refreshed when you go back in. If you find yourself taking so many of these that your sick time is going down faster than you can accumulate it, you should probably call in sick and go job-hunting.

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*Special note for public employees: If it's near the end of the month and you've already submitted your timesheet, your death constitutes government fraud and can actually get you in a lot of trouble, so you should probably avoid it.

Caroling

Not this year, perhaps. My throat feels like someone drove a freight train through it.*

Of course the Friday right before the Christmas holidays is the most suspicious possible day to call in sick. I'm certain the panicmonger supervisor thought I was faking, so it's a good thing nobody invited her to happy hour. One of my coworkers was there. "I just had one of those 8-hour bugs," I told him.

Alas! how sharp the teeth of Karma, in your ass...

Some local real estate agent made the rounds of the neighborhood last week, dropping off poinsettias on everyone's doorstep. What a sucker! We're renting. But as far as I'm concerned he might as well have given me a puppy. What do I do with this? I already have so many plants, and all crowded indoors, too; and with the Christmas tree, dropping needles all over the place, there's hardly space to move in the living room. Next year? Smaller tree.

Fortunately over the next few days I'll get the chance to spread out a bit: Jim and the girls are going to San Antonio for Christmas, and leaving Eric and me here - since Eric has to be in truancy court again on the 27th. I'd have a party, but almost all my friends are out of town (sigh). But at least I can get some cleaning done.

It's too early in the morning for wassail, isn't it?

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*Diane, get your mind out of the gutter

Karmic Sob Story

"The maid quit," reads the sign taped to the cabinets in the office kitchenette, "and your mother doesn't work here! Please wash your dishes promptly and do not soak."

A semi-regular member of our Three-Martini Break Group has been in Europe for three weeks; he comes back tomorrow. He is, I'm pretty sure, the sole reason that sign appeared just a couple of weeks after he, Robbie and I started working there. He is also probably the only person in our area who has never noticed it.

He's just a little absent-minded, is all.

Jason eats oatmeal for breakfast every day. When he's finished he puts his bowl and spoon in the sink to soak. He leaves them there all day, every day; and the next morning, when he's ready to eat again, he washes them out and reuses them. On a couple of occasions, to his annoyance, they've disappeared.

Three weeks ago Jason made his rounds, at the end of the day, and said his goodbyes before heading off to Ye Olde Worlde. An hour or so after he left, I went into the kitchen to wash my coffee cup, and there, behold! was his oatmeal bowl, soaking peacefully in the sink, patiently awaiting his eventual return.

Of course I thought this was hilarious, and so typical of him. He didn't mean to leave it there. He just forgot; and as far as I'm concerned it's no big deal; then again, you should see my house. If I ever invited her over (which, quite frankly, I wouldn't), the panicmonger would fire me on the spot.

So I washed his bowl and spoon, giggling, and dried them, and put them away in the cabinet. But as I told the other 3MBGers about it, of course everyone felt it would be highly amusing to put the bowl and spoon back in the sink, the night before his return, with the nastiest, grimiest, foulest-looking substance we could find soaking in them, as if (of course) they had sat there untouched and festering the entire time he was gone.

We bounced around various ideas: slime, silly putty, fake vomit. I even thought about filling the bowl with dirt and planting a few clippings from my ivy. But then I forgot about it until late this afternoon, when it was certainly too late to go out and buy something. So I looked through the kitchen cabinets and improvised.

I found an old, dusty green foam florist's block, pulled it to pieces, and mixed the shreds with that nasty, flaky brown stuff that many state employees seem to believe is coffee. I moistened the resultant mix with some of the cold leftover brew and finished off the sludge with a dusting of black pepper. It basically smelled like coffee, but it looked as if a yak with alarming health issues had suddenly found itself unable to get to the toilet in time.

And I was pleased with myself, and I went into the bathroom to change for the bike ride home. And as I was changing, I thought about how if we did this to a lot of the guys, they'd get a huge kick out of it, but Jason would probably be thrown way off balance because we're not as close, and how it would probably make him feel picked on and really hurt his feelings, because I'm the same way and getting pranked just makes me feel stupid and hurt and embarrassed. And finally I couldn't take it anymore, and I went back into the kitchenette and poured the sludge down the sink and washed out the bowl.

Do you know what green florist's foam doesn't do? It doesn't dissolve. The sink was still backed up when I left. Tomorrow someone will probably have to call in a plumber.

I'll leave it to the others to convince Jason his oatmeal created the clog.