What a Happy Ending

Last week, I realized I had poison ivy.

My first reaction was something along the lines of "shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit." You see, I have a long, terrible history with the dreaded rash. Every summer for as long as I can remember, I have been plagued by that demon plant's poison oil. Apparently, one of the genetic endowments from Father was an incredibly high sensitivity to urushiol.

The first time I developed this rash, The Moms had no idea what it was. Since my legs were covered with oozing, puss-filled, bloody* wounds, The Moms covered them with opaque tights before taking me to the doctor. In August. In The 'Sip. The misery that ensued is one of my most vivid early memories.

Every summer following that, I managed to find my way to the nearest batch of the bastard plant and roll around in it. Well, that is, what I must have done if you listen to the medical gurus' dictation on the subject. They claim the rash doesn't spread. They claim you can't be infected by someone else's oozy, puss-filled rashes. They claim you only get the rash if you come in contact with the plant.

Now, I'm not contradicting the prevailing medical theory, but all I know is that I learned to spot mine enemy early on and avoid it like the plague. It didn't help. If one of my brothers got poison ivy, I did too. Even if we hadn't been to any of the same places in weeks and I only spent 10 minutes in the same room together after he had the rash. And, no matter what, the rash always spread. Just sayin'...

When I was checking groceries the summer after high school, I noticed the tell-tale fiery itch one night mid-shift. At the point of discovery, I had one little red rash about an inch long on my lower abdomen. By the next day, the fiendish plague had overtaken the better part of one-half of my body. I went to the doctor and called out sick. Believe me, with a rash like that covering your arms and face, no one wants to buy their groceries from you.

So last Tuesday, when I instinctively reached to scratch my arm, I recognized the fiery itch and stopped myself. Shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit. Poison Ivy. FUCK.

Two fairly small dots butted against one another on my right forearm. To an untrained eye, they would likely appear to be innocuous little pimples. But if the years of recurring summer battles have taught me anything, it's to know what this rash looks like.

Immediately, my mind started racing. I thought back to the day before and realized I'd been scratching this same place for at least 24 hours. Where the hell could I have gotten poison ivy?

No clue.

I braced myself for the worst, imagining waking the next morning to find the rash covering me from head to toe.

I can't skip out on training this week, the company has spent too much to send me. I guess I'll just have to deal with being hideously disfigured for the rest of the classes. It's not like I'm actually going to see this people again anyway... Right?

Fortunately, the worst never came. It's a week later, and the rash only spread to four more little annoying dots on my forearm. They're nearly gone now.


I don't want to speak too soon, but I think perhaps my super-sensitivity to this menacing little vine has abated as I've gotten older.


* Yeah, bloody. You try to keep a 4-year-old from scratching poison ivy, dammit.

A Little Addition Goes a Long Way

Courtesy of VVK

For future reference:

1 Diver Down
+5 Irish Car Bombs
+3 Guinness
+2 Glasses of UBFRDP*
+3 Random vodka drinks

---

Vague recollections of exposing nipplage to a pierced and tattooed bar mate


* Unidentified Beer From Random Dude's Pitcher

Soul-Crushing Disappointment

This cracked me up.

(And even while I was laughing, I had to give Drew and the crew at Left-Handed Toons major props for using the word tessellate and using it correctly.)

Braless, this time...

An excerpt* from my IM with Roommate tonight.

Roommate: We can look after you bring me home tomorrow night too. After I give you some of your goodies.
Belle: Good god, your dad didn't pick bras out for me, did he?!?!
Roommate: no- you're saved
Belle: Thank god!
Roommate: I think you really will like what he got you. I got one too. Already tried it out.
Belle: Now I’m really scared.

* Slightly edited to eliminate the schizophrenia that epitomizes our IM exchanges.

Moving Blows Goats

Roommate wants to move. Her commute currently blows goats. Mine is about the same now as it was before my company moved, but our current location leaves some things to be desired. (Namely, a desirable location.)

I've looked at exactly one place. Roommate is currently out of town, so she's looked at exactly zero, but she found the one I looked at.

The house is old. As in almost a century old. It's got character and a yard and three bedrooms and is located across the street from a sweet little neighborhood park.

What it doesn't have is central heat/air or good insulation, which worries me but probably not enough to put the brakes on signing a lease. Going through winter in that house will probably suck balls. But I think winter sucks balls anyway.

We're trying to consider other options as well, but it's really tempting for me to just say yeah to this place. I fucking loathe this process.

Adults Only!

If you, like me, got a lower-than expected blog rating and are wondering what you might do to knock your site up to an adult-only entertainments level, my suggestion is to mix in about a dozen instances of the words shit, ass, and fucking in your next post.

Go. Speak. Now.

Click here: savetheinternet.com.

Fill out the form. Tell your story. Do your part.

You have until July 16, so do it sooner, not later.

That One Hair

You know what I hate most about shaving?

It's not that decent razors cost an arm and a leg. It's not the sometimes tedious task of lathering my legs - effectively half of my body - with slimy goop that junks up the tub, making me have to haul out the Comet and get on my knees much more frequently than would otherwise be necessary. It's not raking a sharp blade across my sensitive skin. It's not the occasional knick. It's not the razor burn (but, oh, do I loathe thee, Razor Burn).

It's that one hair. That one fucking hair. No matter what I crazy angles I contort myself into, no matter how many directions I run the razor through the tricky angles around my ankles, no matter how thorough I believe my post-foamy gook inspection is; that one fucking hair always seems to remain.

And what is perhaps even more annoying about the situation? The fact that I never notice that one fucking hair until I'm out somewhere in a new summer dress with cute new sandals and a fresh pedicure. I'm out, enjoying my day, and I cross my legs and glance down, and there it is. That one. fucking. hair.

Taunting me.

When I notice it, it's always much longer than it would be if I'd missed it in just one shave. Oh yes. That one fucking hair makes it painfully apparent that it's been hanging around like that for at least a week, effectively evading all swipes from my stupidly expensive razor blade. Mocking me and my inability to achieve that perfect shave.

I despise that one fucking hair.

What annoys you?

Should I Be This Scared?

I've found myself flying pretty much solo at several social events in the past two weeks. Well, three, to be exact.

At the first*, a happy hour, I met a few people (4). I talked easily to the first soon after entering the bar. The others I met a little later. Two of them said they would offer their expertise in the apartment hunt (so far, one has). The last vowed to join me and a new associate in an upcoming social endeavor. I've yet to call. (But I will! I will!)

I was invited to the second event by one of the hosts**. I knew no one save this host, and, being that he was a host, I didn't expect constant entertainment. My feelings on the event are mixed. I met a (small) handful of pretty cool people (again, 4), but the majority of the guests did not seem to be people I'd ever get along with. After a few good hours with the few cool people, I found myself pretty much alone with the not-so-cool people while waiting for a ride. The night actually ended with me feeling very much like a junior high reject with acne, bad breath, and head gear. Perhaps I digress...

The third event was completely random.

Opposed to spending yet another Friday night entertaining Roommate's parents while she was off on date*** and semi****-stood-up by my partner in crime for the evening, I headed to the bar solo.

I've been to this bar a few times before with Quicksylver. The first night we went was our waitress's first night as well. We'll call her Saronno. Despite Quicksylver's initial insistence that she was just being nice to get tips, we hit it off really well and have since talked about hanging out together.

Anyhow, Saronno was at the bar when I showed up Friday, but she wasn't working. She invited me to a small get-together she was planning to hit up before heading to a bigger, swankier party later on. I accepted her invitation.

She and I were the first to arrive. I kicked a little ass on the Wii***** then we moved on to the beer pong. (At which I also kicked more than my fair share of ass, if I do say so myself.) Saronno left, and I was totally fine. Got along with everyone there. Had a fantastic time. Hope to see all the players of the night again in a similar setting.

Before I accepted Saronno's invitation, though, I was prepared to call myself socially awkward. I'd even begun a post describing myself as such and outlining all the ways in which I'd changed that made me feel like I was the social reject.

But, now? I'm not thinking so much in terms of my morphing into a socially awkward woman in her mid twenties as I am thinking of me fucking putting myself out there. Trying to meet new people. Failing at times, perhaps. Succeeding at others, perhaps.

Attending social events and trying to meet people on your own is a scary proposition.

I really have nothing more profound to say on the subject.


* I have to admit, I primarily went to see a boy. The boy was not there. The boy does not yet get a name.
** The host is the aforementioned boy. He still doesn't get a name.
*** Both completely okay by me, by the way.
**** "Semi" because I don't really blame him.
***** I'm saying right now I'd be totally addicted if given the opportunity. That shit rocks. And, no, spending $400-500 on that shit is not an option for opportunity for this chica.

Some Notes on the Office Move

- Changing one address to another on 400+ pages of my company's extremely convoluted Web site is slightly more therapeutically mind-numbing and less annoyingly nerve-wracking than I initially predicted. I will probably be at this for the better part of the week.


- Despite the office move being delayed numerous times for a total of several months, not one of the floors of our new space is what we can call, um, completely finished. The construction workers are still wearing hard hats. Walking through a space with no ceiling tiles a bit ago, I wondered if I should be as well.


- Our new phone system is super sleek and cool. Unfortunately, we weren't given adequate instructions for using the phones or the system. My boss hung up on someone I was talking to today when he pointed to a button on the super sleek and cool phone (which is, apparently, highly touch-sensitive). And after attempting to enter my extension and password several times, I locked myself out of my voicemail account. So much for keeping up business as usual.


- Our nifty balcony seating area is completely closed. My prediction for its opening? No sooner than the time the leaves start falling.


- My cube* is located just at the entrance of our department. By the doors nearest the elevator. Already nearly everyone who has walked through the door has described to me, in detail, their technical problems. I never have the answer. Ever. I've been requesting a different cube since before the move. There are empty cubes. I am not allowed to move. I'm am not a happy camper.


- The new seating location also puts me just around the corner from a man who's always telling me how sexy I am. How fine. And how he'd say all kinds of things to me if he weren't married (which he then proceeds to say anyway). He's been in my cube no less than 10 times already today. I don't foresee that volume decreasing any time soon.

- The bathrooms have full walls and doors instead of stupid stalls where the person next to you is always trying to quietly take a shit and you always find yourself looking over at her shoes and thinking, Why'd I have to look so I'd know who that is? Now I'll just be weird around her all day.

- Above the toilet, there are two silver buttons. One looks slightly different than the other. After my initial response, which was something akin to Sylvester Stallone's character's reaction to the three seashells in Demolition Man,** I tried each of the buttons. They both just flush the damn thing. So I ask you, what's the point?


On the elevators, specifically:


- Of our six elevators, only two will stop on my floor, only one will go to the floor below me, and only three will go to each of the remaining floors. The same elevators don't go to all those floors, though. I've done the elevator hop 10+ times already today, opting for the stairs almost each of those times after the second elevator wouldn't accept my destination.


- One of our floors lacks elevator call buttons. The ingenious construction workers have a system for this. They simply stand at an elevator's doors and shout the floor's number out. Another worker on another floor will send an elevator up to them. My coworkers and I are less swift; we've been using the stairs.


- We were told before the move that we'd have to use our newfangled key fob thingies*** to get the elevators to go to our specific floors. On my many trips to the various unfinished floors this morning, I dutifully carried my newfangled key fob thingy with me. My colleagues gave me odd looks. The more outspoken pointed at me and laughed. You don't need that, Belle. Why are you carrying it around?!? When I went down for my first smoke break of the afternoon, I was informed that the elevators had been reprogrammed. We now do, in fact, need our newfangled key fob thingies to get to our specific floors. Guess who'd succumbed to peer pressure (and, perhaps, early-onset Alzheimer's) and left her newfangled key fob thingy on her desk?




* The new, PC term for our cubes are "modular units" or some such nonsense. I refuse to participate in the delusion. It's a cube, people.
** Oh, shut up.
*** My company owned the last building we were in, and our staff comprised the majority of people in the office. Security was much less an issue than it is in the new place, which we will (eventually) share with others. I've used access cards and key fobs at other jobs. Many of my coworkers seem befuddled by the additional security measures.

A Wonderful Feeling

Know what made my day today? Going to CL and realizing I hadn't been in so long that I hadn't visited the site once on my (months-old) new laptop.



The only purple-'cause-I-clicked-it link is for apartments. Yeah, that's right, apartments.*

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I would've gone through withdrawals if I didn't check the personals and whatnot every day or so. But it's been months, and I haven't even looked at the damn thing. Or really thought about it.

Yay me for kicking the CL addiction!

* Roommate and I are tossing around the idea of a move.

Restricted

Get your blog rating at Mingle².

And what earned me the illustrious R rating?

These words:

Dead (x9) Death (x2) Pissed (x 1)

Where's the profanity??? I must be off my game lately.

(Thanks to Arjewtino for the link.)