September 10, 2014

The Initiates

Normally, I wouldn't blog about something so inane as a dream I had. But I believe this one deserves looking into. It is a dream in three acts, and they all take place at my house, which is a red-brick ranch in a quiet, tree-filled suburb.


Boss Lady drove me home from work for some reason, and then, as I was about to go inside, she said, "We should go out to dinner." I got the feeling she was bored and didn't feel like going home.

As one does not say no to one's boss' reasonable request -- even outside of normal work hours -- I told her I'd go inside to change out of my work clothes, and then we could go.

She wanted to come in and get a tour of the house. I mumbled an awkward assent, as I couldn't remember at what level the dog hair was in my house -- it could be anywhere from freshly-vacuumed to auxiliary carpet. But when she came in the front door, dog hair was the least of my worries.

Apparently, Husband was working on some home improvement projects, which included adding an all-stone extra room to the front of our house, which he hadn't caulked or mortared or anything, so it had bugs crawling in and out of it. I was completely skeeved out. "You'd better call an exterminator today!" I whispered to him.

The rest of the house was a jumble of tools, building materials, and sawdust, so I wrapped up the tour quickly.


I noticed that Husband had brought in the mail and put it on the kitchen table, which he'd moved to the middle of the living room. It was full of odd-shaped packages with my name on them. So I opened them, as one does.

The packages were full of creepy, handmade gifts. I don't really remember them well enough to describe them fully. One was a marionette that kinda looked like a Sally from "Nightmare Before Christmas" gone horribly awry. One was a jar full of red liquid that had things floating in it. One was a big razorblade carved into... something. One was a jar full of clear liquid with tiny colorful things floating in in, and a magnifying glass in the side of the jar so you could see what they were. I did not look. One was a book. I did not read.

Suddenly, Hermione from work was there. [Not her real name, obvs, but I find it fitting, as she, too, is young, awesome, and nerdy.] She explained to me that these gifts were from a group called The Initiates, ominously enough. I had no idea how she knew, since she wasn't part of the group. I supposed it was just one of those things that Millennials know about before anyone else, like The Cloud or emojis.

Upon receiving creepy, handmade gifts from The Initiates, one was supposed to then do three things: One, register on The Initiates website. Two, nominate someone else for the Initiates, who would then receive their own creepy, handmade gifts. Three, The Initiates website would then tell me to whom I was to send my own version of a creepy, handmade gift, which would not be the person I nominated, and to whom I could never reveal myself as the creepy, homemade gift-giver.

Kind of like the most fucked-up chain letter in the world. I immediately knew I would be nominating Hermione, but I didn't tell her. I was also creeped-out that I would never know who gave me the creepy, handmade gifts, since some of them had no address or postage on them and had clearly been brought to my house in person. There could be Initiates in my neighborhood!

I had no idea what kind of weird-ass gift I would be giving to The Initiate Nominee chosen for me, but I started thinking about whether or not it would count if I could just modify a Barbie in some way that would be awful enough. I have a replica of the first Barbie ever made, and she has eyes with white irises. That's pretty unsettling, right?


I had little time to ponder my new role as Initiate -- nor figure out where I was going to go to dinner with Lady Boss -- as I came across a set of stairs in my ranch house where there used to be a closet. Odd.

I climbed the stairs to discover that Husband had -- while I was at work, apparently -- added a second story on our house. A master bedroom suite, to be exact. Complete with built-in bookcases, a vaulted ceiling, and some intricate, antique wood trim Husband said he'd found in the attic. (Apparently, Boss Lady had driven me home because Husband was using our car for trips to Home Depot.)

It was a lovely room, full of light and interesting architectural details. The kind of room I'd look at in a magazine and go, "Oooooooh." However, I resented the shit out of the fact that he had designed and built a master bedroom suite -- where I was to sleep every night -- without consulting me on a single thing, or even letting me know it was going to happen. Because I HAVE OPINIONS! Jeebus, Husband, have you met me?!

Worst of all, in the apex of the vaulted ceiling, he'd hung a dozen different windchimes. I HATE windchimes with the white-hot passion of a thousand burning suns!

Well, that was the clincher. I was all, "You didn't consult me on anything." And he was all, "Well, tough." And I was all, "I guess we're getting divorced, then, because this was a dick move." And he was all, "I guess we are."

I wasn't worried, though. I knew The Initiates would totally have my back.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 08:31 AM | Comments (0)

September 03, 2014


Have I talked about Work Bathroom Etiquette here, yet? Seems like I have, because God knows I can't stay away from talkin' poop. Still, I think I need to revisit it.

But first, regarding my liver, I am fine. Did an ultrasound, did another blood test, and both came back fine. I am fine. I probably just ate even more crappily than usual that week, and that's what triggered the elevated enzyme. But I had a salad last night, and I might have another one next week, so all will be well. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here.

Now, I hope I don't have to go into the work bathroom etiquette (W.B.E.) basics here. I.e. if someone else is in the bathroom when you enter, always choose the stall furthest from them; always flush, because those stupid auto-flushers don't always work; etc.

I would really like to elaborate on the most serious of all W.B.E. rules -- what to do when the other person in the bathroom is pooping.

For example, when my coffee kicked in yesterday morning, I arrived at the bathroom to find that is was blissfully unoccupied, praise God. This was my signal that I could proceed to poop uninterrupted and unencumbered by an audience. So I did.

Halfway through my morning constitutional, someone walked into the bathroom. And when I mean "halfway through," I mean there were audible clues that that person should have turned right around and returned in a few minutes when I was done.

Because that is what you do. When you discover that someone is committing big potty, you give them the privacy that they need. Most of us have been camping and have few qualms about peeing with another person nearby. But pooping is really something that we'd rather do alone, if at all humanly possible.

However, this person did not heed the golden rule of W.B.E. She just came barging right in and ensconced herself in a stall, heedless of the warning being plopped just two stalls away from her. Uncool, lady. Way uncool.

Ideally in this situation, I would just finish up quickly and hightail it out of there. But I'd eaten a lot of cheese, and the second half of my endeavor was going to take a little more effort. Not a lot, but enough that it would not be over in a couple seconds.

So I provided the other woman with the international sign for I'm-Pooping-So-Hurry-Up-And-Get-Out-Of-Here: I stopped doing anything. It should have been obvious to her that I was waiting for her to leave, and she should have obliged by taking care of business post haste and scurrying out of there, leaving behind an aura of understood apology for interrupting my me-time.

But she did not.

No. Indeed she sat down and gave me the international sign for I'm-Pooping-So-Hurry-Up-And-Get-Out-Of-Here. There was no sound. I waited for a moment, in case she has a shy bladder. Nothing. It soon became clear what we had on our hands -- a pooping stand-off. She wasn't going to poop, and she wasn't going to leave.

Bitch. How dare she override my right to poop in solitude?! That is not how it is done in a civilized society! You don't drive slow in the far left lane, you don't make the cashier do a price check with there are six other people in line behind you, and you don't horn in on someone else's pooping time!!!

Naturally, I was outraged. So I did the only thing that I could.

Well, that's not true. I could have pounded on the stall wall and hollered, "Bitch, slam your sphincter shut and get the fuck outta here! You're outta line with this fecal overlap!" But I did not, as there was no way I could be sure that it wasn't my boss.

But what I did was slam my sphincter shut and leave the bathroom with my head held high, righteous in the certainty that I was taking the high road, and she -- SHE! Would eventually succumb to some horrible poop-related karma.

Enjoy your searing gas pain and volcanic rectal event, Poop-Blocker!

Posted by Pirate Wench at 05:28 PM | Comments (0)