I work in an office building.  My company occupies the entire floor I work on.  Actually, the entire building.  In the centre of my floor are the elevators, kitchen, bathrooms and the hallway.

Today we will be discussing the bathrooms.

There’s a women’s, a men’s and a separate handicapped washroom.

No one that works on my floor at the moment is handicapped.  So except for an occasional visitor, that washroom doesn’t get used – by handicapped people.

Instead, the male population of my floor have turned this washroom into the poo-room.  As in . . . the washroom of choice for when they have to poo.  And I use the term “male population” here because, as we all know, women don’t poo at work.  Unless there’s some kind of rare extreme emergency or unpleasant stomach bug.

As I navigate my way around the floor throughout the day, I frequently walk through the centre hallway, thus passing by the washroom area.

I would like to direct the following open letter to the men of my floor;

Dear Male Coworkers,

When I see you coming out of the “Handicapped Washroom” I know exactly what you’ve just finished doing.  I suppose you think you’re “sneaking” in there for a nice mid-day poo, but then you forget to also “sneak” out and instead just fling the door wide open and saunter into the hallway.  Often right into my path.  With your stink trailing behind you.

Yes, I may return your friendly smile and head nod, but make no mistake -  I’m WELL aware that you’ve just finished wiping poo off your ass.  And I am no longer able to view you in a professional capacity for the remainder of the day.  That’s why I sometimes cancel our meetings.  The vivid mental images make it too difficult for me to concentrate.

Please just use the regular men’s washroom. That way your poo breaks are less obvious.

Thanks,

The Only  Girl

Seriously, do you know a male that is discrete about his poo or is it just something they’re not capable of doing?

So the other week, as certain blogger (cough-Monique-cough) offered me her cute-as-can-be daughter, who she nicknamed “Mini Ga” after taking this picture of the lovely Miss Haley.

I believe her words were, and I quote, “take the crazy blondie off my hands”.  And, being in desperate need of some female companionship around here, I gladly accepted.   We’re going to have tea parties, do our nails together, maybe some baking . . .  it’ll be awesome!

But then, another blogger (cough-Meredith-cough) indicated that said daughter was to be HER’S and not mine.

Well.  As I told Little Miss Flash Pasteurized, I am not about to lie down and let her take The Haley Ga from me.

Sure – Meredith tried to prove her worth.  In fact she did her best with this photographic comparison the other day.

Whatever Meredith.  Not even close.

So I’m here today to launch a defensive and get my Little Ga back.

Exhibit A

We actually LOOK alike.  We truly COULD be related.  No?  I mean, we both own a pink boa for heaven’s sake!

Exhibit B

The other night we attended the Olympic Opening Ceremonies together.  I believe you’ll see the Canadian athletes entering the stadium behind us.  This was really the highlight of the evening for me.  Well, besides having Haley Ga at my side.

Exhibit C

In this pic she’s shooting a little stick on our backyard ice rink with my son.  They get along SO well.  Almost like they’re related.

And so, my Bloggies, I’m sure you’ll agree that the Haley Ga belongs with The Only Girl.

Although then I suppose I’d have to change the name of my blog.  Which would mean I’d have to get my tattoo re-done.  Hmmmm.   Okay then.  How about joint custody Meredith?  Can we come to some kind of a compromise?

A long time ago, in a land far away, when The Only Girl was in her mid-twenties, she worked for a mid-sized Canadian company.  And at this time, she unwisely decided to move.  There may or may not have been an asshole ex-boyfriend involved.

Fortunately, the mid-sized Canadian company had a branch in the neighbouring city where she was headed.  And fortunately she worked for the President of the company at the time as the very-best-ever Executive Assistant.  And he agreed to transfer her to a conveniently timed job opening at the other branch.

But she wasn’t very happy at her new job.  She went from working with City Mice to working with Country Mice.  And she didn’t really like mice.

Then one day she happened to be speaking to her old boss and filled him in on her tale of woe.  As luck would have it, he had recently been speaking with a good friend of his, who just so happened to own his own company in the very town The Only Girl had re-located to.  And he was indeed looking for a very-best-ever Executive Assistant.

So the old boss hooked our Girl up with his buddy for a job interview.  Perfect!  Until Mother Nature stepped in and took Father Fate for a joy ride.

The interview was arranged for 8:30am.  The Only Girl slid out of bed at a respectable 7:00 to prepare.  The drive would only take about 15 minutes, so that would leave her plenty of time to shower, dress, put her face on and deal with the hairs.

Except she hadn’t counted on a very unexpected snow storm.  A very big snow storm.  Almost Washington-ish.  So she kicked the morning preparations into high gear and got in the car as fast as she could to begin her drive.  But instead of taking a mere 15 minutes, it took two frustrating, hair-pulling, tear-inducing, scream-prompting hours!  2 hours!  Which made The Only Girl very, very late.  For a job interview.  Which is typically frowned upon.

Now, had our Girl been a little older or a little wiser, she would have realized that the gentleman who would be interviewing her, this President, would very likely have understood that the weather conditions were to blame for her tardiness and not hold it against her.  She might have called ahead and explained the situation before politely asking to reschedule the interview for a later time.

But no.  Our Girl was young and stupid.  And somehow she got it in her mind that lateness = bad interview = no job.  So when she finally did arrive – 2 hours late – she had mentally thrown in the towel and had already given up any hope.  She gave what can only be described nicely as a bad interview.  A heartless, pathetic, drab, humdrum, dull, mundane interview.  Which is SO not our Girl.  She usually shows really well.

And so, as expected, she didn’t get the job.  The job working for the President of a fancy high tech company.  A company called Research in Motion.  The company that designed and manufactures a little device known as the BlackBerry.  You may have heard of it?

And you know what they say . . . behind every successful man is the very-best-ever Executive Assistant.  And it was almost me.

Have you ever had a brush with job fame?

(BTW – The Olympic Opening Ceremonies are on tonight – Friday Feb 11th – 6:00 Pacific / 9:00 Eastern.  See ya there?)

My BFF Elle and I went to the Spa this weekend.  A very high class spa in a very high class hotel in downtown Toronto.  No, this is not a regular occurrence for us.  This was a special event we had planned for several months.

And it was awesome!  A hot stone massage followed by a DE-lish spa lunch, then topped off with a facial.  Not to mention spending the day with your Bestie.  Bliss I tell you!  We decided that this is exactly what we would do every week as soon as one of us wins big in the lottery.  But of course we’d take a limo to and from instead of public transit.

I do, however, have a few things I need to get off my chest;

• To the Canadian TV show actress we shared the change room with – you’re not that great.  Get over yourself.

• To the naked woman in the hot tub – please bring a bathing suit next time.  Glad you’re comfortable with your body, but we weren’t.

• To the self admitted make-up artist I shared the bathroom mirror with – a) it was very intimidating to awkwardly apply my sad make up collection in front of you and b) if you’re a make-up artist, can’t you make yourself look better?

• To the gentleman who’s sole job was to tidy and straighten up after each guest as they moved about the spa – please marry me.  I have never met anyone as anal as me before and I find your homosexuality charming.  We were meant to be.

• To the gentlemen in the spa bath robes that were clearly having a business lunch meeting with a lady also in a bath robe – a) really odd place to hold a meeting  b) presumably you were naked under those spa bath robes . . . at a business meeting (creepy!) and c) why did the salesman from Gucci across the street show up to deliver a pair of beautifully boxed and bagged Gucci shoes to each of you?  Exactly who are you and why are you important enough to get free shoes while you have lunch in a robe?  We tried to eavesdrop on your conversation, but couldn’t figure it out.  Can Elle & I be your friends?

• To the 2 women sitting at the table behind us at lunch – sorry the “one size fits all” spa bath robe wasn’t large enough for you, but can you please stop talking so we can eavesdrop on the Gucci guys and figure out who the heck they are!  Sheesh!

• To the man sitting behind us on the 45 minute ride home -  did you not think of your fellow commuters before you decided to bring your stinky take-out dinner on the train?  Thanks for making me nauseous.

May I add that these people in no way ruined my spa experience.  Nothing could have.

Same again next week Elle?

So I’m sure you’re all dying to know the conclusion to yesterday’s rambling mattress post, aren’t you.  Aren’t you?!  Awww – C’mon!  Humour me, will ya.

Did she sleep?  Did she like the new mattress?  Was it a big fail?  Come closer cyber friends, and I’ll finish the tale . . .

Bedtime approached with both apprehension and excitement.

Apprehension like “crap – what if I hate it?!  I’ll be sentenced to bad sleep for years to come!”  And for the record – The Only Girl REALLY likes and REALLY needs her solid 7-8 hours a night.  Or else there’s big trouble – particularly for her family.  And there’s very little patience – for everyone and anyone.

And excitement like “OMG!  I can’t WAIT to try out my beautiful new mattress tonight!  I think I just might have the BEST sleep ever!”

And so the countdown to bedtime began.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

And when the time was right, up the stairs I went.  Step.  Step.  Step.

My teeth got brushed, my face got washed, I applied copious amounts of facial moisturizer and finally, my mouth-guard was inserted (nightly teeth grinding is starting to have some dental implications for The Only Girl).

Ready.

And so I jumped in.  And I do say “jumped” because this new mattress is high with a capital “H”!  The old one was high, but this one is even more so.  In fact I think The Youngest might have to take a running jump just to get into it.  And I should probably be careful getting out of it in the morning when I’m all half asleep, or I could seriously hurt myself on the way down.

But it was good.  Sooooo good.  And my back did not hurt in the morning.  Nor did I awake in a deep saggy crevice.  In fact I was still very, very comfy.

On the “Comfy Scale” Willie only gave it a 4 out of 10.  But I’m sure that was just to piss me off.  I, on the other hand, will award the new mattress a 9 out of 10.  The only negative comment I have is the extreme height.  But I’m sure I’ll get used to that.

So – for now – I hesitantly declare the mattress selection a big fat WIN!  But watch yourself, Kingsdown Mattress people, I’ll be re-evaluating in 6 months.

And yes, as predicted, Willie did suggest a “breaking in”.  Unfortunately my bedtime preparation routine took too long and he fell asleep.  Or was it the very comfy new mattress?  I guess we’ll never truly know.

I’m working from home today.  Something I do once a week anyway, but today is special.  Why you ask?  Because today I’m expecting a delivery.  We’re getting a brand new . . . MATTRESS!

And I’m giddy about it.  Like a kid a Christmas.  Or a husband on Superbowl day.  Let me back this tale up a bit.

About four years ago we bought a new house.  A house with a REALLY big master bedroom.  Like, crazy big.  And in an effort to fill it up a bit, we figured we’d trade in our queen size bed for a king size one.  Which was probably a good idea anyway, because every now and then a child hops in with us through the night.  But with the new house expenses and all, we didn’t have much cash leftover for the new bed.  Fortunately for us, the friend of a friend had just purchased a king size mattress that had recently “fallen off the back of a truck”.  Not being one to care exactly where a good deal came from – I was all over it.

So a king size mattress we did get.  And it was good.  Very good.  For about 6 months.  But it turns out that you do in fact get what you pay for.  And I eventually had the sagging mattress to prove it.

Both Willie and I (okay, really more I) couldn’t stand it.  It was horrible.  It hurt my back AND my feelings.  So after much deliberating, we decided to chalk our “good” deal up to stupidity, and agreed to buy a new one.  Properly this time.

Now the good thing about having a husband that doesn’t really care about what he sleeps on is that;

A)  I got to pick out the mattress I wanted
B)  the picking and subsequent buying decision was completely up to me

Which made me anxious.  What if I picked another looser?  What if they delivered it and it wasn’t comfortable?  What if it’s too hard?  Too soft?  Even though the only person I was trying to please was myself.  Because as previously stated – Willie will pretty much sleep on anything.

So I went to a national, reputable mattress chain and agonizingly made my selection.  And it was a winner!  A firm yet comfortable pillow top model with a 10 year warranty.  And we slept good.  Really good.

For about 3 years.  Till I noticed it starting to sag.  In spite of all our OCD mattress rotating, this bitch was getting saggy!

So I called the national, reputable mattress chain, provided some details, and to my delight, this problem was covered by the 10 year warranty!  A no-charge mattress exchange was waiting for me!  You can’t imagine the depth of my happiness.  Although my current mattress model was no longer available, they had one that was virtually identical and wanted me come in to give it a try to ensure I would be happy with the substitution.

“Uh-Oh.  Did I really want the exact same type of mattress again?  Would I not be in the same predicament again in just a few short years?”  Worries.  Anxiety.  Concerns.

So I opted instead for a different mattress.  Quite different in fact.  Different manufacturer.  Different type of pillow top.  Different firmness.  Very different.  It even had a different price tag.  A much higher price tag – that the national, reputable mattress chain did not make me pay for.  Again – EXTREME happiness!  The kind that makes you do a little dance every time you think about it.

“Uh-Oh.  Is it really a good idea to change everything up?  Will I really be happy with this very different mattress?  What if I don’t like it?  Why were they willing to give me the better mattress for the same price?  Was there something wrong with it?  Will Willie let me pick out another one in a few months if there is?”  No.  This mattress will have to do for awhile.  A long while.  Whether I liked it or not.  Worries.  Anxiety.  Concerns.  Upset stomach.  Heart palpitations.  Gripping fear.

But it’s too late for that now.  The mattress has been decided on.  It has been ordered.  And it is being delivered later today.

Will I like it?  Will it be comfortable?  Will I be able to relax enough to sleep tonight?  Have I made a bad decision?  Will Willie use some kind of manly focus switching technique by insisting we “break it in” immediately?  Will I ever stop asking these ridiculous questions?

Stay tuned . . .

Did you ever meet someone, a complete stranger, but instantly felt like you’ve met them before?

Maybe there was something about their voice, or their mannerisms.   Maybe the way their mouth moved when they spoke or their eyes.  Something.  You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but yet, it was there.  A familiarity that you just couldn’t deny.

This is how I feel about him.  About Elvis.

I’m SURE we had met before.  Likely in another life because I certainly never met him in this one.  But how can someone be SO familiar if you’ve never met them?

Did I watch too many of his movies as a kid and permanently ingrain him in my mind?  No.  I prefer to believe that we did meet in a previous life.  That we were good friends.  Possibly even Lovers.  Maybe High School Sweethearts.  But that something tragic happened that tore us from each other.  And our lives together were never completed.

Which is why he wandered through his life always searching for that perfect love again – the one that he had shared with me.  I just know it.  In fact I’m convinced of it.  And you will not be able to tell me anything different.  Sadly no amount of drugs, doughnuts or peanut butter sandwiches were ever enough to fill that void that I left behind.

Yep.  You heard it here people – The Only Girl was the love of Elvis’ life.

Shut up.  I was so.

This is a scheduled re-post from Oct 7/09 to tie you over till I’m back from my Mexican vacation.  I won’t be able to visit any of your blogs during this time, but I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.  Promise.

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How can I reclaim all the minutes I’ve lost sitting at a computer – waiting?  Whether it’s at work or at home – patiently waiting.  Waiting endlessly for something to happen.  Waiting for the damn thing to just start up in the first place.  Waiting for the web page I’ve requested to load.  Waiting for the application I’ve requested to open.  Waiting for the report I’ve requested to run.  Waiting, waiting, waiting . . . and sitting.  On my now permanently flat ass.  That’s how I seem to spend most of my life.  It’s so frustrating.  It’s making me crazy.  I don’t know how much longer I can take it.  How much longer I can go on.

So I think I’ll go back to pen and paper.  To snail mail.  To reading books instead of blogs and web pages.  I’ll move to an Amish community where they don’t even know what a computer is, let alone how slow it can be.  Where I’ll work the land.  And I won’t have to worry about my grossly inadequate Fall wardrobe because they’ll give me those simple Amish dresses.  And I won’t have to worry about my hair anymore because we’ll all just have the same braids and bonnets.  It will be a wonderful life and I’ll have lots of extra time.

Anyone with me?

This is a scheduled re-post from Sept 2/09 to tie you over till I’m back from my Mexican vacation.  I won’t be able to visit any of your blogs during this time, but I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.  Promise.

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Okay, so the other night my husband found a diamond.  I’m not going to tell you where exactly, in case you attempt to make a false claim that you were the one that lost it,  but suffice it to say that it was found outside in a public place and not near our house.

I’m thinking that perhaps some thieves from a big jewelery store heist dropped it during a clandestine meeting to sell their goods to an international diamond buyer under cover of night.

My husband has nicknamed it “The Fugazy”.  Like all those other really big diamonds that get their very own name.

And it’s big.  Like I’m guessing about 2 karats.  And it’s pretty.  And very sparkly.  And I’m SO hoping that it’s real.  I’ve shown it to a few friends and they all agree that it looks very real – but that it’s probably fake because finding such a thing is really too good to be true.  And they’re probably right.  Which is exactly why I haven’t taken it to the jeweler’s yet.  Because once I do, he will probably tell me “yep – it’s a fake” and the dream will come to a crashing end.

So I’ll keep it safe for a little while longer.  And bring it out now and then to admire and think about what we’ll do with all the money we get after we sell it.  Or maybe the beautiful new piece of jewelery I’ll have made.  It will be spectacular.  And the envy of all my friends.  But for now it’s tucked away safe and sound.  In an undisclosed location.  Allowing me to dream on for just a little while longer . . .

This is a scheduled re-post from Oct 26/09 to tie you over till I’m back from my Mexican vacation.  I won’t be able to visit any of your blogs during this time, but I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.  Promise.

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I wear earplugs to bed every night.

Why?  Because my husband snores and until I find a way to legally drug him long enough to drag his limp body convince him to go to a snoring clinic for that operation minor procedure, it’s the only way I can possibly sleep in the same room as him.

And I don’t really mind.  The ones I use (above) are actually quite comfortable.  And in addition to snoring, they also succeed in blocking out any and all other background noise.  Which includes, but is not limited to; barking neighborhood dogs, hot tub parties in the next backyard, young children having nightmares and possibly smoke detectors (although I am slightly concerned about that one).

I buy a pack of 20 every couple months.  I use a pair for about a week or so before I discard of them and fetch myself a fresh pair.  Fresh earplugs, by the way, are the best.

But sometimes I drift off to la-la-land with them still in my hand.  I intend to insert them, but then I put my head on the pillow, and maybe watch the news or drowsily chit-chat with Willie, and the next thing I know I’m waking up to some snoring and the plugs are scattered under the covers beneath me somewhere.  Dang – hate that!

And last night was just such a night.  I stupidly made the fatal error of putting my tired head down on the comfortable pillow before inserting said ear plugs and before I knew it, I was asleep.

Except this time I didn’t wake up to the snoring.  No.  Much, much worse.  I was rudely awoken by a terrible, horrible, chemical taste in my mouth.

What the heck . . . ?  AHHHHHHHH!  There was an earplug in my mouth!  MY MOUTH!  And I was – CHEWING it!  An earplug that I had been using all week – IN MY EARS!!!!

Of course I immediately spat it out and threw it across the room.  Gagging in the process.  I’ve been totally grossed out ALL day.  And I just keep asking myself – why?  “Why did you put the used earplug in your mouth?  What could possibly have possessed you to do that?  How did that seem like a good idea?  How long had you been chewing it?”

Because just like “I was drunk” is no excuse for having an affair, I don’t believe that “I was sleeping” is an excuse for used-ear-plug-chewing.  But apparently that’s just the type of person I am.  A used-ear-plug-chewer.  And the sooner I come to terms with that – the better it will be for all of us.

Hi.  My name’s Cher.  And I’m a used-ear-plug-chewer.