Don’t mess with my Zen, man.

Things my office has in common with the innermost depths of an Egyptian pyramid:

1) They’re both silent as the grave.
2) Those who disturb that silence will be cursed.

U mad, Imhotep?

This is how we like it here. Quiet. Peaceful. Contemplative.

And after more years working in customer service than I care to remember, listening to the same god-awful corporate radio playlist on a loop and enduring verbal beatdowns from customers because they thought Yogurt A was on sale, not Yogurt B, and by god, they WILL have their 10ยข discount if they have to escalate all the way to the regional manager, I prize my quiet workplace.

Safely ensconced in my muted accounting haven, I am under no obligation to suffer fools who won’t take two seconds to read something before they come pestering me for the information instead. I do not need to listen to Britney Spears expel yet another identical song out through her nose twenty times a day. Our soundtrack is the gentle hum of powered-up computers and the clickety-clack of fingers on keyboards.

Because it is the general consensus among the small population of our office that key-clacking, mouse-clicking and the occasional din of the air conditioner roaring to life are the loudest it ought to get in here. Personal calls and unnecessary chit-chat? Take it outside, Talky Talkerson. Computer speakers? Disabled unless you really, really need to show everyone that hilarious cat video right now. And there’s no need to bicker over whose turn it is to pick the radio station, because there is no radio!

We do not delude ourselves that this is everyone’s ideal workplace, but it works for us.

So why must there always be someone who has to ruin it?

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Watch it, that travel bug’s a biter.

On a scale of 1 to GETMETHEHELLOUTOFHERE, I’m definitely edging towards the stereotypical me-shaped hole in the wall as I escape while manically cackling “I’m free! I’m free!”

Crap, Daffy beat me to it.

I know I’m a grown-up (STOP SNICKERING, I AM!) and there’s a whole lot of childhood I wouldn’t want to revisit, but damn, do I miss having a real summer vacation. Or any vacation, really. When your body’s a dirty traitor and you’re sick as much as I am, vacation days just kind of sneak away before you realize they’re gone.

There’s something so cruel about looking out the window and seeing all that blue sky and sun calling me to me, and then having to turn back to Quickbooks and Excel and Outlook and real life and the knowledge that unless I somehow beat the odds and win the lottery without being struck by lightning and killed first, I’m stuck being a responsible adult.

But lord, is it tempting to get in that car every morning and just keep on driving.

Awwwww yeahhhhh.

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Take me to your TP.

Nutty Hubby and I don’t usually watch a whole heck of a lot of TV. What we do watch can usually be found on Food Network or Space, where the majority of commercials mercifully exist only to point out what else you could also be watching on those channels.

But American Ninja Warrior has returned for another season, and we like watching people fall off obstacle courses. So, with trepidation, we have ventured back into the realm non-themed programming…and found ourselves caught squarely in a bombardment of ads focused solely on butts.

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Won’t somebody please think of the boomers?

Dear retailers,

Another Father’s Day has come and gone, and now that I’ve done my daughterly duty and shelled out some of my time and money in a pitifully modest recognition of all the time and money my dad spent on me over the years, let’s have a little chat.

Because buying my dad a simple dress shirt should not be this fucking hard.

I know there’s a whole new generation of svelte hipster CrossFitting Superdads out there, believe me. And I’m not saying they don’t deserve material rewards for their paternal endeavors just like any other father figure. But every year it seems you’re catering more and more to them, and leaving less for the still plentiful dads who showed them how to do this whole dad thing in the first place.

You know, that whole giant demographic of middle-aged dudes you seem to have completely forgotten about?

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Life is too short for boring socks.

It’s been said often, and with good reason: it really is about the little things.

I didn’t feel like writing today. I haven’t felt like doing much of anything all week. Getting out of bed this morning and yesterday was a struggle; Monday and Tuesday I was too out of it to even bother putting up the fight. I’m sick of being sick, I’m tired of being tired, and my energy reserves are running on empty. But at least I have my goddamn Tweety Bird socks on. And that matters more than you might think.

Hold on to your hats, we’re going to get all real in here for a moment.

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Turf Wars: Episode 2 – Lenny, the eight-legged audiophile.

Continued from yesterday. Did you miss Part 1? Go check it out, Lenny and I can wait.

There is an exception to every rule, and as much as I loathed 99.9% of my new house’s octopedal inhabitants, there was one unlikely friend to be found among them. He was a cobweb spider, and his name was Lenny.

Actually I gave him the name Lenny, because I like naming things and he looked like a Lenny, but he never objected so I assumed it was cool with him. Lenny was also in all likelihood a girl, but I had just escaped from ten years of all-female private school hell, and another girl wasn’t really what I needed in my life just then. Lenny, being the pinnacle of understanding, was kind enough to play along for the sake of our friendship.

I was around fifteen or sixteen years old, the approximate age when your opinion of sleep is, “Not if I can help it.” My parents had stopped caring how late I stayed up so long as I didn’t keep them awake, and our walls were thick enough that I could keep my music playing in the computer room and surf the net well into the night without disturbing anyone. It was just me, Winamp, and a screechy dial-up modem, three buddies chillin’ out together in the wee hours.

At least I thought it was just us three.

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Turf Wars: Episode 1- The Arachnid Menace

Spiders are a conundrum for me. Most of the time I like them, really I do. They eat the pests that eat my strawberries, they catch the annoying flies that would otherwise make their way into our apartment and circle around hitting things with no apparent purpose other than to bludgeon themselves to death, and some of them are just really, really freaking cute.

CC image by Thomas Shahan on Flickr.

CC image by Thomas Shahan on Flickr.

Just look at that adorable furry face, those huge Puss in Boots eyes! This is one spider I could just scoop up and cuddle, albeit very carefully so as not to squish him. But you wanna know the best thing about him? His purest, most delightfully redeeming quality?

He’s outside.

Where he belongs.

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