Crazy? Yes, but I’ve got skills! Or, The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades, or A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum...

Since my company has national clients, the front desk is open from 6:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. PST and the average work day falls somewhere in that time range.  My work day runs from 6:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m.  I like to think that I keep Midwest hours; because that prevents me from thinking about how early I actually have to wake up.  Sure, there are downsides to waking up between 4:30 and 5 a.m., like having the same social availability as an elementary school student, but there’s also a hidden benefit.

During my commute, I experience a world entirely hidden from the 9 to 5 crowd.  I’ve had this schedule for nearly a year, and in that time I’ve seen:

·    My neighbors returning from late night parties*

·    Transients exchanging morning pleasantries in Couch Park

·    A different transient pooping in a flower bed

·    The rotating faces of other transients as they set up to panhandle at the I-405 Glisan off ramp

·    The Sweeper~

·    Morning delivery of The Oregonian

·    Employees warming up the grill at Byways Cafe

·    Construction workers picketing near the old Meier & Frank Depot/new North American Vestas headquarters building.+

·    Still other transients sleeping under art gallery awnings and on the delivery docks along NW 13^th Avenue

·    Bread baking at the Pearl Bakery

·    MillerCoors brands being delivered to Whole Foods

·    A Pearl Bakery delivery van driving the three blocks to Whole Foods to deliver bread

In short, I notice all sorts during my morning walk to work.  However, it wasn’t until this morning when I heard one from two blocks away that I realized I hadn’t seen a child during my excursions.  And, you know what?  I realized that I hadn’t missed them at all.  Additionally, my mornings are so very pleasant without their sticky hands and bubblegum smell that it felt like an intrusion. 

Yes, I know I’m well on my way to becoming a crazy cat lady.  If my future is between embracing the CCL way of life or turning into Old Mother Hubbard – I say bring on the cats!

    

                                                                                                                                       

*First I get upset and disappointed in myself at having never stayed out until 6 a.m. unless I was working a graveyard shift, but then I remember that these neighbors are in their early 20s and if they keep up this kind of behavior they will not have the fabulous skin I have when they reach their 30s.

~The Sweeper won’t talk to anyone but himself, so I’m not sure about his story.  However, he’s an older guy that wears a black hat with earflaps year round.  Most mornings I see him diligently sweeping or cleaning out storm drains around NW 15th Avenue and Glisan.  The Sweeper doesn’t appear to have loyalty to specific stores, because I’ve seen him sweep the street, sidewalk, and parking lots in front of businesses and empty storefronts.  The location seems more important than the specific business.  I can usually find him on either on NW 15^th or 14^th Avenues and within a block of Glisan.

I don’t know if the businesses in that area (e.g., Premier Press, Touché, Hawaiian Time, and FASTSIGNS) are aware of The Sweeper, but if they are then I hope they supplement his broom addiction since the companies are benefiting from The Sweeper’s efforts.

+I was unable to tell exactly what was being picketed since the group was still getting organized when I walked by.  Plus, they were congregating across the street from the old Meier & Frank building, in front of the storefront at 1437 NW Flanders St., Portland, Ore., which (as far as I could tell) was also under renovation.  There was a decent sized florescent orange and green wearing crowd gathering and holding picket signs.  A group that may have been too large to fit comfortably into the storefront at 1437 NW Flanders, so I may never know exactly what prompted these men and women to congregate on a weekday before 6:30 a.m.

You know - It's kind of like Midgets

My parents divorced while I was in high school.  It was a horribly arduous process that lasted more than two years, and included allegations of child molestation, tens of thousands of dollars spent on something similar to counseling at Scientology centers both in Oregon and California, and let’s not leave out the attorney’s fees and court costs.  In the end, the situation was so convoluted that my parents had to be married again before their divorce could be granted. 

Yes, that whole mess is the basis for my most of my abandonment and intimacy issues, and my feelings toward the institution of marriage.

Before the shit really hit the fan there was one week where my household was eerily calm.  My parents had stopped talking to each other, which also brought a stop to the nightly shouting matches* scheduled for after all of us kids had gone to bed. 

My mother had moved out of her marital bed and onto my trundle bed.  Since I was 14-years-old at the time, I asked the question dreaded by all divorcing parents.  I asked my mother why.  I mean, she had already made it through 18 years of marriage – why was she throwing in the towel now?  The only answer she had was that all of the small things had added up.

I didn’t understand it then, but I get it now.  Like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, life is made up of all the little things.  They can be good or bad, but by their very nature they are not life shattering or career making.  However, they breathe life into your day or maybe a little heat into your workout.

The little things that do not make me happy:

5)  Boys on eHarmony who don’t know the difference between “to” and “too,” and/or fail to capitalize proper nouns

4)  Seeing pictures of newborn pandas – if worms and salamanders were able to breed, I’m sure the offspring would look something like newborn pandas.

3)  Seeing pictures or video of a cat with two faces – I’m glad that you have a home and you do look happy, but your face looks like something out of one of my nightmares.

2)  Telemarketers who call back – after you’ve told them you’re not interested – just to hang up on you.

1)  The person or company who has called me 17 times in the past two weeks from 503.914.1318 and not left a message.  I tried to call you back from a different phone, and a prerecorded message told me that no one had been assigned to that number.  If you’re a ghost in the machine, consider yourself on notice – we’re officially in a fight.

Little things that do make me happy:

5)  Using the restroom at work and finding the toilet water blue

4)  Watching a video of bear cubs wrestling – they could be puppies or weird shaped monkeys, but they’re bear cubs and they’re adorable.

3)  Photos of giant panda cubs – I love the fact that it looks like one of them fell asleep in the middle of playing ball and that another one is up and ready for action.

2)  Taking the first drink of soda, and feeling the cold bubbling lava rush down my throat

1)  Seeing a skinny woman with bra and/or panty lines

*Take your pick of topic: The legal battle over their chiropractic clinic’s billing procedures was only a few years behind them, as well as the accompanying money problems so bad that my paternal grandparents would regularly come down to “visit” us (see: drop off groceries).  My mother had just been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and was starting to lose her ability to walk without the aid of crutches.  My father was convinced that my mother was cheating on him with a karate instructor (they did end up dating, and it was just an added bonus when he was convicted of child molestation years later).

You can call me Peter, Peter Gibbons.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder, which came first the cubicles or the over management? 

If you’ve ever seen Office Space, you might remember the scene where Peter has “trouble” with the TPS reports and he is spoken to – twice – by his two bosses about the same exact thing.  Yeah, that feels like my life these days. 

Earlier this year I made the mistake of recycling what I thought were additional copies of a quarterly newsletter that is distributed to all employees.  It was pointed out by my manager and another member of the department that I was supposed to file everything and not decide what is superfluous.   As it turns out, although a new employee receives a copy of the quarterly newsletter along with everyone else, a second copy is included in a new hire packet that is distributed to during their fifth month with the company and the additional copies were needed for those packets.  Even though I offered to print additional copies of the newsletter off of the producer’s website or in the alternative contact the producer and order more, the situation resurfaced during my midyear review.

A similar situation happened last summer with coupons from local businesses.  There is an annual block party near my work, and since I was a temp during last year’s festivities it was all new to me.  The day of the block party, coupons were delivered to the local residents and businesses for things like a free taco from Baja Fresh and free gorgonzola fries from Henry’s Tavern.  The day after the block party, I took it upon myself to make the unclaimed coupons available to other employees.  I didn’t check with my manager before doing this, but the other receptionist who had been with the company for over three years saw what I was going and didn’t stop me.  Everything was fine until two weeks later when my manager wanted additional coupons.  We talked about it then and we talked about it again when the company hired me a couple months later.  I needed to check with her before doing things like giving away all of the free coupons the company had received. *

In addition to the block party, summer months also means that instead of the boring business casual attire we wear most of the week – this girl can wear jeans all day everyday as long as there are not expected visitors.  If there are visitors, depending on how important the visitor is, we might need to suit up or simply avoid denim. 

Since I’m half of a twosome that updates the intranet with the daily dress code, it’d be a problem if I gave jeans a thumbs up but was wrong.   My manager pointed out that one of the things I needed to work on – in addition to decision making (see: above for the happy recycler) – is following protocol when it comes to determining the dress code.  Listen, I’d love it if I didn’t have to ask about every single little thing, but when I have to suit up for Company A’s visit in February but can wear jeans when they come back in September, I get confused.  Call me dense, but I don’t know what the rules are so I ask.

Even when I think I know what I’m doing, I seem to make the wrong decision.  I help out with payroll by collecting all of the timesheets.  If a timesheet isn’t turned in on time, I send a reminder.  The only problem is that one week I jumped the gun, and went by the employee deadline.  Managers have an additional 24 hours to approve timesheets, and I’m supposed to wait until the Manager’s deadline has passed to send out the reminders.  Well, I had nothing else to do, so I started churning out the reminders – a day early.  Some people were confused while others were annoyed. 

My mistake was pointed out, and I haven’t done it again.  Not even when I sent out the pre-deadline e-mail reminder for the next pay cycle and set an Outlook alarm to notify the recipients three hours before the employee deadline.  Since the alarm had been used in the past, but not consistently used, people again became annoyed and/or confused when their alarms went off.  Of course, HR thought I was sending out early reminders – again.

Last pay cycle I waited until after the manager deadline to send the reminder e-mails to the employee with their manager cced.  Everything went off without a hitch.  Well, until two days after the manager deadline when we were still missing ONE timesheet.  HR assumed that I had missed that one employee on my reminder list.  Well, I had sent the reminder, but since that employee reported to an executive I had not cced the manager or the manager’s assistant on the e-mail.  So, I sent a second reminder last Wednesday and cced the whole gang.  Last Wednesday, HR pointed out that executives should not be cced on the timesheet reminders, but the executive’s assistant could be cced.  This morning a member of HR came down to my desk to reiterate that I should not cc executives on the timesheet reminder e-mails. 

Well, I can promise both you and HR both that in the past week I have not sent out a single timesheet reminder – let alone a timesheet reminder where I would have accidently cced an executive.  So, I really don’t know how these reiteration talks are scheduled.

*Fast forward to this year’s block party.  My manager was taking a vacation day when the coupons were delivered.  Although she appreciated the fact that I texted her to ask if she wanted me to hold coupons back for her, she thought it was ridiculous that I made it a point to ask her if she wanted me to set aside any additional coupons for her.

Holy Fireballs of Poo, Batman!

Have you ever met a person that you strongly dislike?  You know, one of those people about whom you can’t think of anything nice to say? 

Chances are that they can’t think of anything nice to say about you either, because you can’t remember a single positive interaction with them.  Sure, you can remember the interactions that ruined your day, the times they withheld the information you needed to do your job, the times they “corrected” your writing and either made things inconsistent (e.g., the number of spaces after a period) or just wrong (e.g., created a number noun disagreement), and all the many, many times they corrected and re-corrected (see: contradicted the original “correction”) you. 

There’s only one thing stopping you declaring a full out battle royal – after 15 months of dealing with this person you can’t figure out if they’re fucking with you on purpose or if they are so overwhelmed/disorganized/anal retentive/unaware of their own management style (see: alternating absentee and micromanagement) that you happen to be an innocent bystander in the tsunami that keeps beating down their door.

Yeah.  I don’t know a person like this either.

Damn it, Janet!

Sometimes I like to fantasize that my life is a movie or play, and I’m an observer instead of a participant.  At its best, my life would be a comedy of errors.  Given the fact that I’ve tried a potpourri of things my career (hospitality, marketing, philanthropy, legal, and now administration while trying to headbutt my way into the financial world), so I can’t help but feel that my professional life is little like Frankenstein’s Monster.  Scratch that.  My career has been as horrific as Frankenstein’s Monster.  My career (or lack thereof) has been a little shiner, a little funnier, a little sexier, a little Rocky Horrorier…?

 I’m not talking about the movie, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  I’ve only seen a performance once, and I’m still a little scarred from the experience.*  I’m talking about Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s actual creation, Rocky Horror.  Whether you picture the 1975 version with Tim Curry, Susan Sarandon, and Meat Loaf or Glee’s 2010 episode “The Rocky Horror Glee Show,” when you imagine the creation or monster – you think of a nearly naked, buff blond dude in tight gold short shorts.  Which, unless you’re not attracted to men, isn’t a bad thing to imagine.

Certain jobs have definitely been more interesting or rewarding than others, but between temping, retail, work-study positions, and my collection of other jobs – there’s very little that I haven’t done.  I’m sure that I’m going to forget something, but I’ve been paid to do the following jobs:

Accounts payable/receivable

Administrative assistant

AmeriCorps VISTA

Benefits counselor (for a national corporation)

Bookseller

Business owner (contract legal researcher and assistant)

Convenience store clerk

Corporate mascot

Fashion consultant (a fancy way of saying sales associate and bra fitter)

Florist (took orders during Valentine’s Day)

Hospitality (managed a youth hostel)

Journalist (for my college newspaper, but I’m an award winning college journalist!)

Law library circulation assistant and shelver

Legal researcher and assistant (yes, I’m double dipping)

Medical filer

Medical screening (for a different company)

Photographer

Property management

Radio DJ

Shoe saleswoman

Teaching assistant (legal research and legal writing)

The glamorous jobs that I wasn’t paid for:

Judicial intern

Marketing intern

Student attorney (both criminal and civil)

No wonder why I haven’t developed an “actual” career, right?  I’ve been too busy trying to find my “passion,” or otherwise avoiding the inevitable – adulthood.

I love all of the random stories that I have (e.g., an Asian tourist felt me up in my cow costume, because she wanted to know if the person inside the mascot costume was a man or woman.  That same day I made a child cry, because I was a cow with opposable thumbs.)  However, there is a downside that’s been smacking me in the face recently.  Specifically, it’s when I run into issues like the fact that I just started a 401(k) this spring and my current company has about 196 employees and I have the second smallest salary.  So, it hasn’t all been rainbows and unicorns, but at the very least it’s been a pair of gold short shorts and that’s not a bad place to start.

* It was during high school at the Clinton Street Theater, and I’m convinced that the guy behind me got a hand job during the first half of the show.  I’d like to thank his special lady friend for covering the action with her coat.  I probably should have known better than to assume the only sexy time that would happen during those fateful 100 minutes would be on the screen/stage.  I had seen the film before, but I was so blissfully young and ignorant.

I don’t care if your carbon footprint is miniscule – YOU suck

I hate bicyclists.

Okay, let me specify.  I don’t hate ALL bicyclists.  But, while walking the streets of Portland, Ore., I see too many bicyclists who needlessly put me, as a pedestrian, or themselves in danger because at least 70 percent of bicyclists I come into contact with don’t obey Oregon’s Bicycle Laws.

Yes, Oregon has bicycle laws.

The problem I have is that as a pedestrian, I feel like a moving target for a small handful of bicyclists.  I’ve almost been hit several times.  Sometimes I’m not paying attention, but the most traumatic times have been when a) a group of bicyclists decided to go the wrong way around the roundabout on NE 7^th and Tillamook and I had stepped off the curb in anticipation that they would follow the same rules as cars and use the roundabout correctly, b) I was standing on the edge of the corner on SW 5^th and Stark when I had to lean back, so I wouldn’t shoulder bump a bicyclist who was taking the corner way too fast and way too close to the curb, and c) an SUV stops on the opposite side of the street to let me cross and a bicyclist passes on the right side of the SUV and almost hits me. 

These things happened to me and every other day I hear about other situations that have happened to my friends and coworkers.

It’s an entirely different situation when I get into a car.  I don’t own a car, so if I’m in a car I’m either driving a ZipCar or (more likely) I’m a passenger.  Last Thursday I saw a bicyclist nearly get himself hit.  Yes, it was entirely the bicyclist’s fault.  He didn’t stop for the red light on a bike only traffic signal at an I-5 South on ramp in North Portland.  The car had a green arrow and was actively turning onto 1-5 South when the bike ran through the light.  And, to make matters worse, it was dusk and neither the bike nor the biker had lights or anything reflective (clothing or otherwise). 

I see biker disobeying stop signs and traffic lights, not using bike lanes or green boxes where available, weaving between cars and lanes of traffic, hopping off and on sidewalks, riding the wrong way down a one way streets, and not using hand signals to indicate anything other than aggression.  Daily.  There are even some bicyclists who don’t stop or allow cars to pull to the side of the road for an ambulance (with lights and sirens blaring) to pass.

Don’t even get me started on the fact that none of these geniuses seem wear helmets.  Sure, helmets are only required on people under 16-years-old, but with how some of these people ride I’m surprised there aren’t more vegetables.  But, even then, the automobile driver would be SOL after the accident, because unless there are other mitigating factors relating to the accident the motorist would likely be saddled with the costs, fines, and emotional trauma resulting from the accident.

I’m not saying that all drivers follow the posted speed limit or come to a complete stop at every traffic sign.  (Who knows what happens when someone gets behind the wheel of a car?)  I’m not even saying that there are no law abiding bikers that stop for every traffic signal and always wear a helmet, * or that every pedestrian crosses at marked crosswalks and always looks both ways before crossing. 

What I am saying is that the average person behind the wheel of a car or bike, or even a pair of sneakers isn’t ALWAYS perfect.  But, so many bicyclists blatantly break the laws that are there to protect them and everyone else on the road, and they feel justified in doing it.  Bicyclists need to realize that rules are not made to be broken.   I don’t care if Henry Bicyclist saw Suzie Driver run a red light.  Suzie’s actions cannot be used by Henry as justification to disregard traffic signals. 

It doesn’t work that way.

Maybe the City of Portland should post a reminder to bicyclists to abide by traffic signs and signals, because the current statutes are just empty threats or worse – “suggestions.” 

Or, better yet, the Oregon Legislature should increase the base fine associated with Class D traffic violation and the Portland Police Department should be given the budget to enforce these statutes.  There are enough bikers in the Portland metro area that I think that failure or inability to enforce biking laws has become a problem and a serious pain in my ass.

*When I see a bicyclist wearing a helmet and politely waiting at a four way stop sign behind two cars – I want to run into the middle of the street and hug them, because I’m so proud of their manners and the great job they’re doing in sharing the road with motorists and pedestrians alike.  This happens so infrequently that I might just give in to my passions.  Wait.  If I do that, I hope the biker doesn’t get offended.  Okay, maybe I won’t do that… 

Lies and the Lying Liars who Lie about Telling Them

Maybe I’m too nice. 

I don’t understand the point of blatant lies, especially when the lies are about pointless things like someone’s age, their job, or even the food at a corporate event.  I think that honesty is the best policy,* but it appears that I’m in the minority.

While I was in law school, I had a summer internship in a different state.  I ended up casually dating a guy that I now simply refer to as “The Liar.”  He lied about his age, his job, getting trapped on a mountain, and either a) all of the women he slept with while we were hanging out or b) lying about all the women he slept with while we were hanging out.  It got to a point where I stuck around just to see what other craziness would come out of his mouth.

Listen, I’ve been telling fibs/lies (white and otherwise) since I learned to talk.  (“Listen mom and dad, I found this cat wandering around outside.  (I bought it at a school fair.)  Can we keep it?”  “No, your muffin top doesn’t look that bad.  (Yes, it does.)”  “Yes DMV, I weigh 180 pounds.  (Try closer to 210.  Okay, that’s another lie.  As of yesterday afternoon, I weighed 238.)”  “Of course Mr. Sales Man, let me put you on hold while I page our CEO.  (I’ll put you on hold, but I won’t do shit for you.)”) 

What I’ve learned from my many, many years of lying experience is that my favorite kinds of lies are omissions.  (“I want to borrow your pictures, so that Halley can scan them.  (We’re then going to take them and turn them into a photo book and gift it to you for Christmas.)”  “Listen T-Mobile, you’re going to return this $29.99 charger without the packaging because it didn’t properly work with my phone.  (It kind of does a half assed job, but the charger that I bought for $2.69 does a much better job.  Plus, I hate your face.  Your eyeballs stink!)  Also, I have the receipt!”)

When it comes to the corporate world or men, I have to ask – what’s the point of telling people one thing when we both know it’s a lie?  There have been so many situations where I can’t see a point to include even a little lie.  Maybe it covers someone’s ass for making bad decisions, but the storm has already been weathered and people have already forgotten about greasy hamburgers and one salad option.  Or, maybe you don’t think you’ve lead an interesting life.  Maybe that’s true, but now I’m interested to know why you feel the need to make up all of these stories so you are kind of interesting.  Either way, I think I’m just too nice to deal with either of you.

*Granted, this policy has created a bit of an issue with my youngest sister, who has taken to regularly complaining about how hard I am to buy gifts for.  She complains to me, my uncle, my uncle’s new boyfriend, our siblings, her friends, my ex-roommates…   I’m sorry, but what am I supposed to do with an etched glass nameplate?  Since she’s given it to me, I’ve moved from living in a house with three (or four depending on the weekend) roommates to living in a studio.  It’s a very sweet thought, but I just don’t know what to do with it and so it stays bubble wrapped and packed away.  So, she thinks that I’m ungrateful and disappointed.

Yes, I’ll admit that Halley has been my post holiday ride for more years than I can count.  For all the years that I lived out of state, she was the one who drove me to the airport with all of the many gifts crammed into my suitcase.  And, on the years when my dad bought me a tie and a coffee mug with a cat sleeping in a basket or my half sister bought me a family of bunny figurines from Dollar Tree, Halley was the one I talked into driving me to Goodwill so that I wouldn’t go over weight on my luggage and so that I made the donations in time so I could deduct them the next time I filed taxes.  So, yes, Halley knows my dirty little secret, and she takes it personally.  Very personally.

Maybe it’s a Tumor

It’s not a tumor. 

Sometimes – I wish it was a tapeworm.  But, it’s not one of those either.

I know there’s a reason why I run around all day every day like one of the Hungry Hungry Hippos, but sometimes I just can’t figure out why.  Why do I need to be a member of the clean plate club?  (I thank my paternal grandparents.)  Why do I obsessively think about the next meal?  (Probably the same reason I eat when I’m bored, which tends to be most of the time right now.)

Of course, this wouldn’t be such a big issue if I wasn’t bored so often.  (Maybe I should take up knitting.)  I could probably work on my housekeeping or dedicate more time to reading, but all I really want to do is spend money.  I want to spend money on fancy shoes and expensive purses, or one of the many, many neighborhood restaurants that I have yet to explore. 

Usually, I’d get a part time job to occupy my time extra time and bring in a little spare scratch so that I can buy those fancy shoes or spend an evening eating my weight in fondue and cocktails at Bartini.  The current economic situation coupled with the fact that all of the 20-somethings in my neighborhood flock to part time jobs like hipsters to food carts has resulted in a blatant absence of open positions. 

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the second best thing to being 20-years-old and retired is being 20-years-old had only having to work part time.  Okay, yes, I’m totally jealous.  If I could afford daily happy hours along with maxi dresses, bounce flats, and cuff bracelets picked out by Rachel Zoe, on top of all my regular bills, and only have to work 20 hours a week?  I’d totally do it!

That’s a lie. 

I really, really don’t like maxi dresses, and bounce flats eat my feet.  Plus, by day three, I’d probably be sun burnt from hanging out at Couch Park and intensely bored with my Netflix and Hulu queues.  Then again, I might turn pro with regard to my crafting and start up an Etsy website.  (I can’t imagine that I’d come up with anything new or exciting, so I doubt I’d make enough for beer money.)

Blurg.  Since I don’t have a tumor or a tape worm, a part time job or an Etsy site – maybe I should focus on doing my dirty dishes.

First the Yoga and now THIS???

It’s possible that I’m slowly, but surely, turning into big ass tree hugger.  By “tree hugger,” I mean “hippie.”  (Yes, even though I live in Oregon (see: hot bed of liberalism), I use the term derogatorily.)  Although the transition from yuppie to hippie has been a slow one, my current smell definitely ups the ante.  

Seriously, this morning I put on deodorant and this afternoon I stink.  The problem might be the fact that I keep sticking my nose into my stinky right armpit to check on the situation.  But, I just investigated, and the left one has decided to get in on the action too. 

This ongoing battle started when my uncle (during one of our weekly dinners) talked me into trying a crystal deodorant stick – again.  I first ventured into natural non-scented deodorant during my stint at Scientology’s American Saint Hill Organization (ASHO) (the year that I think of as what would/should have been my freshman year in high school, but known to the rest of the world as 1994).*  All I remember is how the crystal ended up smelling like B.O., which then scented my new clean armpits.  Let’s just say that I resurrected Teen Spirit in its neon containers with scents like Berry Blossom and Caribbean Cool^ as soon as I quit ASHO.

So, this time around with crystal deodorants, I decided to enlist the help of one of Whole Food’s crunchiest employees (okay, it was the first employee that I saw) in selecting between the Crystal Body Deodorant Stick and the other seemingly identical deodorant crystal.  Well, I bought the Crystal Body Deodorant Stick, which requires me to make sure my armpits are new clean (if I take a shower at night, I need to take half of a whore’s bath in the morning), then I need to wet the crystal and rub the cold, dripping crystal over my armpits for what feels like two minutes.  Today I made the mistake of only spending what seemed like a minute to put on my deodorant.+  With the proper amount of time dedicated to the crystaling process, it actually works.  However, if I wasn’t so bitter about the $7.99 I spent on the damned deodorant and the fact that my sweater bunnies might be negatively impacted by normal deodorant, I’d be seriously tempted to run back to my Degree Shower Clean stick.

                                                                                

Blurg.  Until then, I guess I’ll just have to come to terms with the fact that I smell like a dirty, dirty hippie.

                                                                                                                                                                                        

*In addition to a policy that banned scented personal hygiene products there was also one about premarital sex.  And, yes, 13-year-old me was very disappointed in the latter’s existence.

^For some reason, I now really, really want to watch Saved by the Bell.

+I was pumped to play with my new eye shadow.  I know.  I know.  I know.  I need to reevaluate my priorities.