Smell you later

Something about me is that I have some sort of hypersensitivity to smells. This can be an extremely good thing. Like when my brother is making goat cheese mushroom risotto, for example. My taste buds can already sense the amazingness that is soon to occur. Or when the soap in my office bathroom smells like my favorite candy ... causing me to crave, then go out and buy said candy later that night. (Sour Punch Straws. The bomb.) But more often than not, it's an awful thing.

Like the other day, I walked into my apartment lobby during my lunch hour and it smelled like surplus-sized jugs of Chloroseptic were dumped on the floor and carpet and a wet dog had rolled in it. I couldn't hide the look of disgust on my face.

In other apartment-related smells, a note to the girl who likes to drench herself in perfume in the morning, and therefore leaving the elevator and lobby as some sort of flammable hazard ... I don't care if it's cheap Celine Dion perfume from Walgreens or Eau De Pricey Toilette made from the secretions of a rare marsupial ... don't slather it on. I have my own scent, thanks, and I don't need to smell like yours just by walking through the lobby.

Then there's the time I walked into the Clydesdale stables at the Anheiser-Busch Brewery tour and gagged for a minute, sure I was going to vomit in front of 50+ people. That wouldn't have been embarrassing at all.

I even have a rule set forth in my car and any car I ride in on a regular basis ... no farting while driving. I don't care if you roll the window down, that's just cruel.

Once, when I was at Mr. Goodcents enjoying a delicious deli sub-style sandwich, some pimple-faced employee decided it would be a good idea to mop the floors with bleach infested water. Right next to the table I was sitting at. Now my turkey sandwich with provolone cheese tasted like mop water and I was immediately done eating. (I never bow out early when it comes to meals.) I refuse to return to that establishment to this day.

But here's the worst smell-induced reaction. Located within miles of my office is some sort of tannery factory, or so I'm told. Someone told me that on certain days, they're boiling or tanning the hides of animals for whatever purpose. Whatever the factory actually is, the resulting stench is revolting. On these smelly days, I have to run to and from my car in order to avoid dry heaving. On one fateful day, however, I thought I could handle it. Walked at a normal pace. But soon, I started gagging. Gagging turned into dry heaving. Dry heaving turned into actual vomiting. Yes, I vomited outside of my office building due to a smell in the air. I went upstairs to get a cup of water to wash away the evidence but the damage was done. I was officially dubbed "the girl the threw up because of the elusive nasty smell." And it happened again. It was raining and stinky. I stopped in the middle of the road on the way to the parking lot and puked a little and walked on. Um ... sick.

So yeah, there's all of that. Just don't fart in my car and we'll be friends.

It's so not the thought that counts

I don't pride myself in much, but one thing I know I'm "gifted" with is my supreme gift-giving skills. (The quotes stand for puns.) I love love love to give gifts. There's nothing quite like the feeling of satisfaction after finally finding the perfect trinket or item for your friends and loved ones.

But, like any journey to greatness, I recently stumbled on the road to gifting success. Sure the idea was there, it just didn't pan out. And anyone that tells you "it's the thought that counts" is full of crap and they probably haven't received an awesome gift in their lifetime. Sure, saying that is a nice gesture to someone that tried, but I know what you're really thinking in that head of yours.

So what was this setback? While shopping for my buddy Bop (congrats on the mention two days in a row), I decided it would be fun to get her a fish. Why? You see, last year when Bop went on a 10-or-so day vacation to France, her team - including me - decided she needed a nice, bright welcome on her first day back. After much thought, we came to the obvious conclusion that her cubicle, and every single thing inside of it, should be wrapped in aluminum foil. The process and aftermath could - and should - be a blog in and of itself. But I'll just leave you with this and get on with things:



In the midst of wrapping everything in site in foil, we had the genius idea to make Bop think that we had also wrapped her fish in foil. No betas were harmed during this prank, however, so we actually transferred the fish to a coworker's vacant fish bowl and molded some foil in the shape of a fish and plopped it in her own little bowl. Don't be jealous of the cleverness. (Unfort, I don't have photo documentation of this. Use your imaginations, please.)

I'll admit it was pretty rude of us, but we never got around to returning the fish to its rightful owner. So it was kind of involuntarily adopted. (Sorry, Ben.) Enter the awesomeness of buying Bop a new fish for Christmas.

Not only did I want to buy her a new finned friend, I wanted her new buddy to have a fetch home. (I just said fetch!) So I searched and searched the world wide web for a bowl that would fit Bop's personality. Finally. A match was made.



I wrapped it. Gave it to her with the addendum that we would soon visit the pet store so she could pick out her very own fish to live in this office within an office. So we finally find the time to use a lunch hour to pick out a fish, and Lionel Fishy is born to Bop. Done deal? Nope.

After taking the new bowl out of the packaging, Bop noticed it was cracked along one side and across the bottom. I called customer service and was told this product was currently out of stock. (I have since learned it's back in stock ... but is it now a moot point?) I wasn't going to give up. I purchased some epoxy in hopes that I could seal the crack. Suffering through a skunk-like stench, I made many attempts to make the bowl leak free and Lionel friendly. But after about the tenth try, I realized my efforts weren't good enough. So Lionel would have to live in his tiny quarters until another solution was reached.

Two months later, on my birthday vacation day off, I receive an email from Bop ... mourning the loss of a friend. Lionel died. I mean really? I have GOT to be the worst gifter ever. One slip and my reputation has been tarnished. I only hope I can regain position as an awesome gifter. Her next birthday is going to be a doozy!

I also broke things.

In addition to my "what I did this weekend" post below, I forgot to mention that I managed to break two dishes: a porcelain mug and a tall glass. Almost a year and a half of owning my dish/glass sets, nothing broken. Not a one. Yet within two klutzo days, I'm now down to seven coffee mugs and five glasses. The mug doesn't bother me as much. I'm pretty much of the belief that coffee mugs are meant to be random. I like it when no one is the same. But the glass really gets at me. I immediately contemplated running to the nearest Target to replace it, even though I'd have to purchase a whole set of six. But either way, it will probably haunt my dreams. Exaggeration? No, not really.

I slept. I sudoku'd. I conquered.

That's a lie. I didn't conquer anything. In fact, I did the opposite. I succumbed to a beautifully lazy weekend, and I feel no remorse. You see, I took the day off on Friday. My company offers a "free floating vacation day" in celebration of your birthday. But instead of using my birthday vacation near my actual birthday - one month ago today - I used it near my bf's birthday so we could enjoy the time off together. Go ahead and vomit now. Done? Ok. So yeah ... there's never a good time to take vacation. It will always be inconvenient or "way too busy." But you just have to do it.

So I slept in. A lot. I really didn't want to on Sunday because I knew it would lead to a restless sleep in preparation for the work week. But I did. And it did. I couldn't sleep last night. But for some reason I woke up at a decently early time with only a couple snooze infractions. I think it's because I was making pot roast for the first time, and I was anxious to get things started.

I played a lot of Sudoku. See, my friend Bop gave me a new book for my birthday made up of difficult Sudoku puzzles. Um ... they're difficult. But I can't put the book down. I'll set it down after several pages of unsolved number mysteries, but I'm too competitive for my own good. I will not let this grid of numbers beat me!

I ate junk food, for the most part. The only decent meal was Friday evening - one of only two instances we ventured outside of my apartment. The rest was frozen burritos, chips and salsa, cereal and coffee. Typically I'd feel pretty bad about these food decisions but not this weekend. My taste buds welcomed the crap-for-me sustenance.

I saw a movie. It wasn't very good. But I didn't care ... because I got to eat popcorn slathered in movie-theater butter. Scratch that. I think it was equal parts butter and popcorn. Glorious. Plus, I got to see a seeing eye dog at the theater. He was cute. I wondered ... out loud ... if he wanted to come sit with me during the show. My friends thought not.

But now I'm back at work, waiting for my pants to dry from the pools (not puddles) of rain water that take over the parking lot. And I know I have massive amounts of work to do, but I'm still basking in the glory of a beyond lazy weekend. I needed it.

What's that under your nose?

Do you have poo smeared beneath your nostrils? Like right on your upper lip? Because that's the look you have on your face when you walk around. I sincerely hope the poo-scenario (or an equally stinky substance) is present because if that's your day-to-day look ... you're rude.

I bet you don't remember, but one time I was walking through a doorway one way, you the opposite. Near collision. As any decently-mannered, nay, common-sense-having human being would react, I said, "Oh! I'm sorry ... excuse me." You looked at me, borderline glared at me, and I was immediately gifted with mind-reading powers. In your head you said, "Damn right you're sorry. You're in my way." You actually said nothing, walked ahead ... but those actions spoke some powerful words.

Now, I'm teaching myself patience. Normally in this type of instance I try to dish out what we call "benefit of the doubt." It was a bad day, perhaps. (News flash, though, we all have them.) But I'm revoking said benefit because this type of encounter didn't go solo. It had many friends.

But something pushed me over the proverbial edge. This moment was wrong for so many reasons. So wrong that I began picturing you with a Hitler-style moustache. Yes, you were that bad. Just remember, to gain respect you must first give it. That's all the further I can go.

P.S. I've never formally met you, so you've got some work to do in the "impression" department. Good luck with that.

Sorry ... there's something I have to do

Dear Papa,

This isn't something I'd normally do, but I'm trying new things and I immediately thought of you. First of all, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was young and immature and couldn't muster up the courage to visit you during my last visit before you left us. "Next time," I told myself. But the cliché phrase caught up to me and actually happened ... there wasn't a next time.

I just couldn't bear seeing you the way I saw you months before. No ornery smile, no questions about my love life ... just a blank stare. I hope you didn't see me crying behind the smile I showed you … but I kind of hope you see me crying now.

I miss you, Papa. I miss your forceful - even crushing, some might say - grip around my knee. I miss your fat finger giving me wet willies ... no, I don't miss that. Instead, I miss your fat finger giving my cousins wet willies. I miss the anticipation of who's going to be the next victim of the old "butter knife handoff" gag. Against better judgment, I miss the light scent of scotch on your breath. I miss the pure laughter that would follow one of your inappropriately hilarious comments or stories. I miss the heartfelt tears on your cheeks when a talented Galloway gal would play "The Rose" on the piano. I miss the sloppy "goodbye" kisses, even though I tried my hardest to avoid them as a child. (Hey, I'm just being honest.)

I miss watching you eat your grapefruit in the morning ... which is coincidentally how I knew you were gone. I ate a grapefruit the morning you left us, thinking of you the entire time ... half with worry, half with the joy of memories.

But even though I miss those things, along with so many more, I'll never forget them. I'll always see you grinning at me from your corner chair at 132 8th Street. I'll always see the look on your face when cherry tomato juice miraculously made its way into your ear at Valentino's Restaurant. (Hey, some of us got your ornery nature, too.) I'll always see your magic with people ... the charismatic look on your face in the picture sitting on my desk says it all. I'll always see how you loved us. I'll always see you, Papa. I love you.

Love,
Molly Jane

The bold and the beautiful

I met you when I was only five years old. My mother tried to introduce me to a neighbor of yours, but you caught my attention and I immediately decided I had to have you. Your style, your flair, your unique personality ... I was entranced. Mom wasn't thrilled, but she told me from the beginning it was my choice and she stayed true to that word.

The rest was history. We were inseparable. School, church, weekends ... you name it. It was you and me together. We danced, we took a bow and we flaunted what people normally wouldn't. And this was no fling. Years passed and you were still faithfully by my side. Through skinned knees-a-plenty and long division, you saw me grow. And that's where the story gets sad.

I was growing older ... still very much in love with you ... and we were forced to part ways. I don't remember the exact day and its events, but I'm certain there were sniffles and tears.

I'm 24 now and here I am still thinking about you. You stood for what I was and what I hope I am still to this day: bold, full of life and tad on the obnoxious side, but in the most endearing way possible (hopefully.) So I want you to know, wherever you are, that I'm thinking of you, and I think of you often. You know how everyone has that handful of childhood stories that consistently are told to friends, coworkers and girlfriends/boyfriends along the way? In my handful, our story is top three ... easily.

So thank you pink-purple-and-green-ruffled-dress-with-bells-under-one-ruffle and-matching-ruffled-undies-socks-and-hair-clip. I picked you on my 5th birthday and you'll forever be an icon of the child I once was and the child that will forever live inside me.

Life's a beach

I've just done something for the first time in my life. While running my two-to-thrice weekly 2+ miles, I search for something to take my mind off my oxygen-constricted, asthma-ridden lungs. After recently booking a cruise to the Bahamas planned for May, this trip takes up a good chunk of my daydreaming itinerary. So recently I've found myself scheming my beach and buffet-eating time has aided in making my exercise regimen a breeze.

So what did I do that I've not done before? I packed my suitcase more than 24 hours in advance of a trip. In fact, it was two months and seven days in advance. See, something about me is that I absolutely loathe packing. In its peak, I tried to dissect the root of this hatred. While I realized an undertone of it most likely stemmed from the fact that I packed a bag every other weekend from the age of four on, I think generally it's just one of those things I've always - and will always - dislike for no supported reason.

So it's kind of a big deal that I mentally perused my closet and "threw" clothing, swimsuits and accessories into my turquoise and brown suitcase. Oh ... and I still haven't packed for my trip to St. Louis. I'm leaving tomorrow.

Top five signs you need a vacation

In no particular order:

1) You seriously contemplate canceling said vacation because things at work might combust upon departure ... not because you're that important, but that's just what seems to happen when anyone leaves.

2) Though drinking alcoholic beverages is kept to a minimum these days, a round of bar golf sounds like the best time a girl could ask for. (Proposition me with this activity at a normal time period, and I'd laugh in your face.)

3) You realize you need a tangible name for your "alter-ego", though it's not so "alter" these days. (I'm not so much the same person these days.)

4) You beg for someone to give you an exuse not to run after work because all you want to do is sit on the couch and watch ANTM, The Soup and other DVR goodness.

5) You're a little disappointed that your annual bout of bronchitis hasn't made a visit and you're secretly hoping you catch the life-altering flu that's going around just to get away from the office.

Honorable mentions:

You blog again immediately after posting a previous entry in order to avoid actual work.

Nothing can down-spiral a valiant effort to grow out your nails like a return from a client you thought was gone forever. One fingernail down, seven to go. (Thumbs don't count.)

You get pimples comparable to the size of your big toe thanks to a little thing we call stress. Ew.

It could be worse ...

But it sure as heck could be better, too. You see, I'm scared of complacency. Really scared. But it's creeping up on me, and I don't know how to distance myself from it. I don't just want to hide from it ... you know, like when you were a kid, playing hide-and-seek and thinking "well, if I can't see Daddy, there's no way Daddy can see me" - clearly, my forte in childhood games did not come in the form of hiding. But yeah, this complacency thing ... I want to defeat it. Much like H Pot defeated the Hungarian Horntail. (That just happened.)

Complacency hasn't completely taken over. It's more of a temporary, or what I hope to be temporary, bout of desensitization. That's just as daunting, though. Things are impacted that I don't want to be, and I'm afraid of the consequences.

I know, the vagueness is unfair. But I need help. Fast.