dianaschnuth

The first floor women’s restroom at my work has three stalls. This is not usually a problem, as we don’t all have to go at the same time, so three stalls are sufficient.

However, the middle stall has been out of order this week.

Incidentally, the middle stall is everyone’s favorite. The stall closest to the door is the handicapped stall, which our resident wheelchair-bound employee mocked openly as being entirely too small to fit a wheelchair into. (Another single-person restroom was constructed for her use.) The stall farthest from the door is awkward, as the toilet is slightly off-center, so the user has to check between her knees before sitting to ensure that the target is, in fact, locked-on.

The broken middle stall caused a minor traffic-flow problem around lunchtime, when a group of women attending some sort of training session at our building swarmed the restroom. This required me to wait in a five-person-deep line for my turn to pee. Five minutes of my life wasted; not that big of a deal, I guess.

The broken stall caused a problem of a wholly different sort later this afternoon, as the toilet-choking load of shit still in the bowl began to smell. Bad. I dislike spending a short amount of time in a wretched-smelling bathroom considerably more than I dislike spending a lengthy amount of time in a normal-smelling one.

The odor wasn’t bad enough to induce gagging, but it was very unpleasant. Just knowing that someone’s shit was festering and fermenting behind that closed door was disturbing enough.

Update, 4:15pm: Someone finally made the stinky load go down the hole, but the john is still faintly redolent of shit, and the middle stall is still marked out of order.

When I was little, I would get excited about my birthday, just like all kids do. As I got older, and grew to expect less out of birthdays, I got less enthused about them in advance. After all, what’s the point of getting worked up just to get let down? These days, I go into birthdays expecting a day like any other; then, if something good happens, I’m pleasantly surprised.

Today, I was pleasantly surprised.

I’d already gotten my iPod from Aaron, thanks to my managing to ruin the surprise. I knew something was up with Sheryl, because earlier this week she’d asked where my office was. I also knew that our department was planning a pizza party for lunch, because Holly couldn’t keep it a secret, and had to know what kind of pizza I liked. So, I knew something was up before I even came in this morning.

I’d thought maybe the early arrivers would decorate my cube before I got to work—but no. I arrived to two cards (one from the whole department and one from Scott) and a lucky bamboo plant (also from Scott). That was cool. I put water in my bamboo plant’s little home and prepared to start my workday.

Not long after, I got a hand on my shoulder and a “Boo!” shouted at me (in an indoor voice, of course). I offered the standard reply, “Boo who?” before I turned around—and, holy shit, it’s Sheryl! She brought me two pots of mini daffodils and a gift card to Lane Bryant! *squee* She hung around for a couple minutes before going back out and heading to work (but not before talking to Rob Wozniak, who didn’t recognize her at first).

I coasted on a good mood for the rest of the day, enjoying my springy cubicle and the Twinkie tiramisu Scott made and the pizza for lunch and… yeah. It was a good birthday. At least, as good as having a birthday at work can be. 😛

And now, the documentation:

My shelf is all springy now! Daffodils from Sheryls in back and bamboo from Scott in front.

I put the other daffodils by my computer, so I could look at them all day. I actually took this pot home with me after work, though.

My birthday cards: The one on the left is from my coworkers, and the inside reads: “Smells just like a birthday card, doesn’t it?” or something to that effect. The one on the right is from Scott, and the inside reads: “Forget about that low-carb diet!” Heh. Then there’s the gift card from Sheryl in front there.

OMFG. Twinkie-misu. Twinkies cut in half, soaked in espresso (or strong coffee), layered on the bottom of a 9×13 pan. Coffee ice cream on top, Kahlua (if you’re not at work), Cool Whip, with mocha fudge drizzled and chocolate crumbled on top. To. Die. For. (Assuming you like coffee.)

Good day. Yeah. And Amy’s coming over tomorrow! Yay for birthday weekends!

After last week’s highly disappointing trip to the Marathon Laundry & Tan, I decided to try out the other local laundry.

First, though, do allow me to tell you of the highly annoying experience I had at the Marathon Laundry & Tan last weekend.

Continue reading →

I find that, when I get home from work, I don’t have enough mental energy left to work on my novel. (NaNoWriMo has at least upgraded my terminology for my “story” that I started a few years and 18,000 words ago.) I come up with plenty of ideas while I’m at work, and I’ve even written a little longhand, although it took me a good ten minutes to really get into the groove. (More about that later.) But, for right now, I find that I’m more interested in vegging in front of PBS or blogsurfing than adding to my story. I’m just so tired.

Of course, that has nothing to do with the snack-food potluck we had at work today, wherein I ate four dry Atkins muffins, a piece of veggie pizza, several crackers with spinach dip, several pieces of fruit, a few pigs-in-a-blanket made with Li’l Smokies weiners, a few pickles, lots of cheese, some salami and pepperoni, et cetera, et cetera. I’m positive I ate more sugar (and carbs in general) than I had originally intended today.

But back to my original rant. I find that my creative juices have changed from flowing at night to flowing during the afternoon. Of course, I now get up at 7:15am as opposed to 10am (or later, when I could get away with it) during college. So, I try to make the most of it when I’m at work: I keep a piece of scrap paper handy by my desk for to-do lists and general ideas, and I’ve taken to writing longhand in a journal over breaks and lunch. Thankfully, a Quiet Room has been instituted at work for people like me who would rather write or read or nap during my personal time, and that’s where I’ve been spending my time this week. In the big comfy fuzzy chair with the ottoman, my shoes off, one foot tucked up in front of me to make a little slanted writing desk out of my thigh.

Today, however, I was intruded upon. Just as I was moving from journaling to noveling, two young women came into the quiet room. One held a ball of yarn and two knitting needles, and the other brought nothing. They started talking quietly amongst themselves about this-n-that: “Did you start over with your knitting? I wish I’d brought a book. They seem really strict about this ‘no talking in the quiet room’ thing. Can you believe the traffic over there?” All in that low almost-whisper that is more attention-grabbing than normal speech.

I had been having a hard time getting started, anyway. I stood up, put on my shoes, grabbed my paper and my purse—and then they realized they might actually be disturbing me. They apologized “if they were bothering me,” and I pretty much blew them off. I crossed the hall and sat on the floor in the empty corner room with all the big windows, which is where I’ve been sitting to read up until now, and was where I had thought the Quiet Room was going to be.

Even with people walking past in the corridor and talking, with the ding of the elevator and the sounds of people downstairs echoing up the stairwell, I got more written on the floor of that sunny room than I would have fighting the distractions in the Quiet Room sitting in the comfy chair.

The underlining point of all this is that I’m losing ground on my 50,000 words. I’m hoping for a prolific writing day tomorrow while I’m off work, and for some more stamina in the evenings.

Edit: I just calculated that I’ve only added 1,440 words to my novel since the beginning of the month. I am way behind.