Quote of the Week

I went to a comedy show in Ocala with Scott and Jess (the other tech writer from the quiet office). The headliner was Bruce Baum (you’d recognize him if you saw him), but I think that Scott and I were really going to see Terry Jaymes of Lex and Terry morning radio show fame.

The crowd was very, uh, varied. It ran the gamut from me to rip-roarin’, drunk beyond reason rednecks. Somewhere in the middle was the guy who sat in front of us. He was slightly necky, but nice. He was wearing a Bruce Baum t-shirt (come on guy, don’t wear the shirt of the band you’re going to see), and he kept turning around to talk to us and commiserate about the annoying drunk yellers around us.

I guess he is also a Lex and Terry fan because before the show started, he spotted Terry in the hall and ran out to shake his hand. When he came back into the room and took his seat, he turned around and looked at Scott and I.

“That was Terry! He looks different than on the radio,” he said excitedly.

“Yeah,” Scott said, “He looks different on my radio.”

The guy stopped and laughed, “Oh, you know what I mean.”

I laughed and Scott said, “Wow, he could have either hit me or laughed. I was hoping since I’m holding a drink that he’d laugh. Whew.”

Oh yeah, quote of the week.

Game Day

In honor of the impending Superbowl, I’m taking this opportunity to talk about how weird I think that guys are about sports. Many of you, gentle readers, may recognize yourselves in the descriptions below. That is probably because I’m referring to you.

I like sports in a very girl-watching-sports-with-her-friend kind of way. I watch the sports my friends like, and generally I like the teams my friends like (much to the dismay of my father and brother). I have seen sporting events on television when I am alone, but not often and not for very long. I can’t bring myself to stop my channel surfing on a game. It isn’t my deal.

Katie had an interesting theory about men and sports. Men remember sports statistics the way that women remember the dating history of everyone on 90210. (Granted, she did come up with this theory when 90210 was still on the air and fairly cool, but you get the idea.) Men watch sports like women watch chick television. We know all the sordid details about Dylan and Kelly’s affair when Brenda was in Paris. You know who kicked the game-winning field goal in that game that one year. It is the same thing; there are just more characters in football.

I have a friend who refuses to answer the phone during sporting events. It is a rule. He is strict, too. He won’t even accept phone calls from his family during a game. I don’t even think he screens during sporting events. I think he just flat out doesn’t answer. Aunt Ethel is sick? Tough cookies, game’s on.

I think it is funny when boys yell at the TV. I think grunting or yelping in frustration or yelping and grunting out of joy make more sense than yelling actual words at the television. Coaching from the couch has always been humorous to me. I recently had the pleasure of watching a Pats game with Scott who directs the players from my loveseat and congratulates himself when the coaches on the field are clever enough to pick the same play he did. Good job Bill Belichick, that is exactly how I would have handled that one myself.

It isn’t just the armchair coaching that garners self congratulations. Team accomplishments earn every fan a high-five. When I had season tickets to see the Gators play, I high-fived my share of sports fans. I hugged a stranger in the Swamp once. There is a lot of touching involved in sports. There is a ton of butt patting on the field, some back slapping, manly hugging, some lingering tackles, some friendly dog piles, some group dancing. If you didn’t know how manly athletes are, you might be wondering how manly athletes are.

It turns out that the joy of being a sports fan doesn’t end on the field, in the stadium, or even in my living room. Scott and I were at the movies, standing in the lobby. A guy, around 25 or 26 years old, came and stood oddly close to us. He nodded toward Scott’s Boston Red Sox sweatshirt.

RG: Red Sox alright!
Scott: What, oh yeah. (Looking down at his shirt)
RG: I love the Red Sox!
Scott: You from Boston?
RG: No, I'm from Sarasota.
Scott: Did you used to live in Boston?
RG: Yeah, I lived in Springfield until I was like 3. I've always been a Red Sox fan.
Scott: That's cool.
RG: Yeah.
Scott: Take it easy.
(Random Guy’s Friend comes out of the bathroom, and the two of them walk toward their theater.)
RGF: Do you know that guy?
RG: No, Red Sox, man. (Pointing to Scott’s shirt).
RGF: Red Sox alright!

Then the Random Guy and the Random Guy’s Friend high-five.

Wait; let that digest for a second. They high-fived. In the movie theater. Over seeing a Boston fan.

So I’m ready for Superbowl Sunday. I’m planning my couch coach strategy. I’m warming up my high-five hand (don’t you wonder how?), and I’m preparing my palate for some of Scott’s Superbowl Jambalaya.

And if you and I can’t be together on that Sunday, watching the Pats beat down the Eagles; remember that we are together in spirit. Give yourself a high five from me.

I'm that lady...

I have officially become a stereotype. I always considered myself slightly difficult to stereotype, mostly because I am really odd and fascinatingly quirky. (Uh huh, that’s right fascinatingly quirky) I don’t think that I could be lumped into many groups. Most people don’t have multiple friends with a cool name, a bed fetish and bad dye job. I haven’t found a group that is really into the smell of their own pillows. I don’t know anyone else who ponders the inch of tissues or pound of towels. But somehow, even with all my quirks, I have become a stereotype.

I am that lady who works in an office, listening to the radio all day trying to win radio contests.

Correction: I am that lady who works in an office, listening to the radio all day that WINS radio contests.

It is true. Since I entered the real world and started listening to the radio (with my headphones in the quietest office on the planet) I have won three radio contests. The first was exhilarating. I won a Rock 104 t-shirt and the chance to win a trip to Amsterdam. (I didn’t win the trip, but that is ok, because as I’ve been told multiple times since, a trip to Amsterdam would be wasted on me because I wouldn’t use it to get wasted in the Netherlands). I won a CD from the Christian music station. And in my most stunning victory to date, on Friday I won two tickets to a concert that I actually wanted to see.

Yes, I remained glued to the radio the entire day, listening for every hint that the “cue to call” was coming. I memorized the number for the station. I pre-dialed my cell phone and left it sitting on my desk, ready to hit Send when the moment arrived. Each hour, the station would give away a pair of tickets…to someone other than me. I was close twice. Caller 10 the first time and Caller 8 the second. (Obviously, Caller 9 would have been the big winner).

Let me paint the picture for you. I’m sitting in my silent office, my headphones sitting snugly on my ears, when I hear the cue. I dial in a flash, holding my cell phone to one ear and my desk phone to the other.

Random DJ guy: Hello! Who’s this? (in the requisite amazing radio voice. For those of you who know me well, you know how dizzying I find a good voice, and amazing radio voices are at the top of my list of good voices)

Me: Paige? (I didn’t intend for this to be a question, but I was trying to whisper excitedly in my quiet office, and all my words seemed to come out with the unintentional octave raise that the end)

RDG: Hello Paige. Do you know the name of the afternoon DJ?

Me: (thinking). Sweet Mary, I have no f-ing idea. (Note that I had the foresight not to actually say “f-ing” on the Christian music station.)

Me: (aloud). Um, is it Dan? (This really was a question. I had no clue.)

RDG: Do you know Dan’s last name?

Me: Brodie?

RDG (probably Dan Brodie, but that is a guess): That’s right. Congratulations! You just won yourself a pair of tickets to that big show over in Lakeland.

Me: Oh wow! That is great. I’ve been trying all day. (Remember, I’m still whispering, so while I am a stereotype, at least I’m not the stereotype of the girl who wins radio contests and gets WAY too excited on the phone.)

RDG: Trying all day? Well congratulations Paige. Do you know who’s going to be there?

Me: Of course, Steven Curtis Chapman, Casting Crowns, and Chris Tomlin. (Big pause) And me.

RDG: Ohh! Haha. Yes, that’s right. You’re going to be there. Haha (He was obviously very tickled by my clever response) And you could be there too if you stayed tuned for your chance to win next hour.

Me: (stunned silence because up until he addressed the listening audience, I assumed that we’d been talking off the air.)

RDG: Well Paige, obviously we just recorded that. We’re going to play that back in a second; hang on and you can listen to yourself on the radio.

Me: (Immediately laughing my butt off as I listen to myself whisper in excitement on the radio).

So it is official. I’m that radio-listening, contest-winning office worker. There is still some hope for me. I haven’t resorted to trying to win things I have no interest in doing, but I’m sure that is the next step. I’m asking you, as my friends, if I ever get there, please help reel me back in. I can handle being a stereotype, but I don’t want to go overboard.

I only go overboard when it comes to my bed and handwashing. That isn't OCD, ist it?

Removing all doubts

Four thirty in the afternoon is my favorite time to use the restroom at work. Yes, I have a favorite time to use the restroom at work. I will postpone bathroom use, crossing my legs and praying, just to wait until 4:30. (uh, exaggerated story) Why, you may be asking yourself, does Paige enjoy the bathroom at 4:30? Well, at approximately 4:15, Marcia, the extremely nice custodian in our building, cleans the ladies room on my floor. Using the bathroom at precisely 4:30 almost always guarantees me the blue bowl. The blue bowl is the sign of the cleanest bathroom possible.

Your bowl is pristine when the water is blue. The toilet seat is still up, and the water glistens aqua blue and germ free. No one has used this bowl, I can tell myself with confidence. Sometimes on my way into the bathroom at 4:30, Marcia tells me to watch my step on the freshly mopped floor. “Watching my step” is another sign of the cleanest bathroom possible. A blue bowl and a watch-your-step warning from Marcia means a good day for me.

Up until now, gentle reader, the blue bowl has been my personal and private joy. I don’t talk about it. I think that the bathroom is a private place, and there is little need to talk about what goes on in there. (Unless you are my brother, who gets his personal and private joy out of discussing his bathroom goings-on with those who show interest. Odd but true, some people show interest…)

On Friday, I slipped into the bathroom at the appointed hour, slid the lock into place on my stall and gazed upon the blue bowl. Behind me, I heard the bathroom door open, and someone come in.

“Oh my goodness,” I heard from the other side of the stall door. “I love a clean bathroom.”

It was the director of our quality assurance department (this is no Vern, mind you). She launched into a dialogue about how she’d love to have a maid just for the joy of always getting to use a fresh bowl. She waxed poetic on the delight she feels when her bathroom sparkles. She talked about the thrill of having a maid who’d clean while she was at work and again while she slept.

Personally, I have no desire to talk while I am in the bathroom. I like to pretend that no one else is in there. We are both partially naked; what makes you think this is a good time to chat? I didn’t respond to the bathroom chit chat, but she kept talking right through the flush and into the hand washing. I think that under-stall chat should be forbidden.

I went into the restroom the other day and saw someone’s mug of coffee sitting on the counter. Is it just me, or is that odd? Do you take beverages into a public restroom? Or even your private bathroom? I don’t see a reason to ever bring refreshments.

My other bathroom pet peeve is people who don’t wash their hands. I can’t imagine even entering the bathroom, especially a public restroom, and leaving without washing my hands. It seems like common sense that you’d want to wash your hands after hanging out in there. I asked Scott is boys wash their hands after peeing.

“Sometimes,” he said walking out of my bathroom.

Immediately my mind starts turning. Did he just wash his hands? Do I need to Lysol my place because boys only wash their hands “sometimes”? He picks up my glasses from the counter and puts them on.

“Don’t touch my glasses!” I yelped. “I put those on my face. I don’t want the last thing you touched to touch my FACE!” Gross. Scott just laughed. Yes, Scott, I did disinfect my glasses after you left. Just in case that was one of those “sometimes.”

I had a roommate once who wasn’t a hand washer. I took to Lysol-ing my apartment regularly after she confessed (a little too proudly) that she didn’t wash. We don’t live together anymore, but she is required to wash upon entering my apartment or touching any food products in my presence. I feel very motherly when I remind her to wash as she is walking out of the bathroom.
Well, if you didn’t think that I was odd and quirky after reading about my bed obsession, I thought I would write about the bathroom and remove all doubts.

Dumb girls

I’ve noticed that boys are amused when girls are dumb. This isn’t a new realization. This dates back to sixth grade at the baseball field, when Lisa S--, in full-on flirt mode, asked Chris C--, “Which end of the bat do I hold?” He was falling all over himself to show her the correct positioning of her fingers around the narrow end of the bat. Very impressive maneuver, Lisa, very impressive. (To this day, my mom still refers to dumb-girl behavior as “Which end of the bat do I hold?”)

I had a friend who managed a Tire Kingdom. He told me that he would rotate my tires for free if I brought my car into the shop. (Ahh, it is good to have friends in high places.)

“You know, when I was younger,” I said to him, “I didn’t know why someone would have to get their tires rotated. I thought they rotated when you drove.”

The silence from his end of the conversation was only momentary -- momentary silence followed by ear-splitting yowls of laughter. “Rotate when you drive! I love it,” he cackled. I felt dumb, but entertaining. The next day, my don’t-they-rotate-when-you-drive theory became legendary at that Tire Kingdom. In fact, some of the tire monkeys probably still get a laugh out of it.

When we were 16, my friend Sarah’s dad asked her what kind of gas she put in her car. He wanted to know the octane.

“I get the oldest stuff,” she said. “The stuff they drilled in ‘87, I think.”

Yes kids, she actually thought those were years.

So the next time the dumb girl in your life shares a confused tidbit with you, just lean back and laugh. The entertainment factor is the best part about knowing a dumb girl.

Knowing your strengths

“Are you good at setting watches?” someone at work asked this morning. What an odd question. I can honestly say that no one has ever asked me such a thing before. I have never contemplated my watch-setting prowess. I had no idea how to answer. I don’t know if I am good at setting watches. I was absent the day they administered the watch-setting test.

“I’m not sure if I am good at setting watches,” I admitted.

“Oh,” my coworker replied, disappointed. “I am very bad at setting watches.”

What a great thing to know about yourself. Don’t you wish you knew your own strengths so intimately? To know down to such minute (pun totally intended) detail the things that you are good and bad at doing?

A friend said to me recently that his roommate is “efficient with dishes.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but my interpretation is that the roommate makes entire meals in one pot and reuses the same glass all week long. That is an interesting quality to note in someone else. I have never gauged someone’s dish efficiency. I wonder what the scale is for that sort of thing.

Someone recently told me that he was “bad with pronouns.” In those complex sentences where pronouns are flung about all willy nilly, he would often get confused and refer to the hims as hers and the shes as hes. I don’t think I know anyone who hasn’t done the he/she flip flop when saying something like, “She told him that he was going with her, but he shouldn’t have been the one telling her. I mean him. I mean...you know what I mean.” I only know one person who has gone so far as to brand himself “bad with pronouns” after such a sentence. It seems a little harsh.

Personally, I’d cut you a break over a little pronoun mix up. And I am a grammar Nazi, so the fact that I’ll let you off the hook means a lot. But don’t try to get away with using a pronoun without a clear antecedent. That is when I’ll come get you.

Hair today, blonde tomorrow.

I don’t take pristine hair for granted. I realize that nice hair is a delicate balance of maintenance and a good stylist. I don’t ignore my hair or pay it too much attention. I blow dry, but gently. I don’t use hairspray. I don’t curl. I get haircuts regularly to keep my ends healthy. I condition. I’m generally good to my hair, and it is generally good to me. I’m aware that my hair is fragile. One false move with a pair of scissors and my generally decent hair could be a goner. I don’t take pristine hair for granted.

Excuse the cliché, but I never thought this could happen to me. I’m careful. I’m a good girl. I don’t mess around with flat irons or hot rollers. I keep my hair clean, and I stay out of trouble. What I should have stayed out of though, was the salon.

I got my hair cut. A beautiful, bouncy little cut. Shoulder length with body and sass. (Sassy hair is a person goal that I rarely attain). Feeling confident in my stylist, I asked for highlights. A little dash of light to add some punch to my new sassy cut.

“I’d like to see a difference,” I told Tami The Stylist. “I want to be able to tell that it is different.”
“Nothing too light,“ I added. “I don’t want white.”

I don’t want white. I said it as a joke. As if Tami could ever imagine that white streaks would compliment my normally dirty blonde hair with auburn highlights (yes, Dad, I have auburn highlights).

“You look so hot,” Tami told me confidently as she turned me away from the mirror and began to dry my hair, “You aren’t going to walk out of here. You are going to strut.”

The result of hours of bonnet wearing, hair pulling, bleach applying, hair dryer sitting torture was a disastrous mess of bleach blonde, white stripes on one side of my head and a chunk of fried white strands on the other. It looked like Tami The Stylist had pulled the hair on the left side of my head into a ponytail, applying Paris Hilton bleach blonde liberally then painting the other side of my head with a zebra pattern of bleach.

“I’m not happy,” I said as my fingers searched for some sign of my natural hair color in the shock of white on the left side of my head. No luck.

“You just aren’t used to looking this sexy,” Tami lied. “You are just surprised.”

“No,” I promised, “I’m not happy.”

I left with a promise that Tami The Stylist would “tone” the color if I slept on it and still didn’t like it.

I didn’t like it.

I went home and immediately climbed into bed. I pulled the covers over my head and called friends for comfort. Most didn’t believe the extent of the disaster now growing from my head. Friends and family alike demanded pictures. Scott offered me a hat. Someone suggested I get a scarf. I cried. (Uh, thanks J and J for listening to me cry. I appreciate your sympathy).

I tried several barrette maneuvers. I tried a little something involving headbands. I experiments with kerchiefs. I accomplished a complex cover using a makeshift scarf that I knitted before a ski trip last year, but it was too hard to make it stay on. I considered a skull cap and a baseball hat. I decided on a visor. With careful placement, I could tuck the worst of the white under the visor and the rest inside a messy bun low on my back of head.

I wore the visor all Saturday night, taking it off only to make Scott my witness as to how bad my hair was. He laughed so hard that I thought he might fall off the couch. He doubled over from the power of his guffaws. It was very supportive. Thanks Scott.

My sense of humor started to return, slowly. I posed for pictures, holding my bleached hair out from my head like little white wings. When I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, my head was white from the center of my forehead over to my left ear and dirty blonde with auburn highlights from the center of my forehead to my right ear. It was baaad.

I went back Sunday morning. I was kind enough not to wear my hat into the salon. I thought it might make Tami The Stylist feel bad. She worked miracles. In less than an hour, she had tamed my follicle nightmare into a sassy, honey-colored do.

“Next time we do this,” Tami said confidently, “I’ll have a better idea of what you like.” She looked at me in the mirror as stylists often do. I looked back as girls who’ve had recently traumatic hair experiences often do.

“Maybe we’ll wait a little while on that,” she said. I smiled and left.

I went grocery shopping and left the visor in the car.

Morning Person

I got new sheets for Christmas, two sets of them actually (thanks Mom, Dad, Clint and family). Four hundred thread count slices of heaven. If I spoke obsessively of my bed before the holidays, I’ve now gone over the edge. What comes after obsessive? That is where I am now.

I washed my sheets immediately after getting back to town after Christmas. I made my bed with warm, soft, delicious linens and vowed to sleep for weeks. I warned people not to call me after 9 p.m. because with sheets like these, who would choose a late bed time? Having four hundred thread count sheets makes me feel like I’ve been cheating myself out of luxurious Z’s for my life up until this point.

I find an unmade bed very appealing. When I spy my bed from the kitchen in my apartment, with the pillows mushed into the shapes that fit my head and the blankets crumpled seductively to the side, I have a hard time remaining vertical. My bed beckons me with its sloppy comfort. Add to that allure of four hundred thread count sheets, and I am a goner. I have taken to making my bed, just to make it slightly less desirable so that I’m able to get things done in the evening without being enticed back to slumber.

I’m a big fan of my bed, my pillows especially. When I was a little kid (not much more than a baby really) I used to suck my thumb. I would curl my fingers around my nose, with my thumb slipping wetly over my tongue. In the space between my curled fingers, I would clutch a tuft of my pillowcase. Through the night, I would breathe through my pillow case, inhale the scent of it really. I loved the smell, a mixture of little girl playtime and my shampoo. I still love my pillows, and I still love the smell. When I change my sheets, I always shower at night and go to bed with wet hair to season my pillowcase with that Paige and shampoo smell that I love so much. There is comfort in burying my face in my pillow and inhaling that light, sweet smell of sleep. (On a side note, there are several amusing pillow-related anecdotes that you could rustle up if you know which of my friends to talk to, but that is another story. I’m telling you that just to illustrate that I really do love my pillows. How many people do you know with amusing pillow anecdotes?)

Not wanting to get up in the morning comes with the territory when you enjoy your bed as much as I do. Mornings are tough for me. I love the sweet sin of reaching my arm into the chilly abyss between me and the alarm clock, punching the snooze button and retreating into the delicious depths of my warm bed for 9 more minutes. I have perfected the art of morning bargaining. I’m 25, so I’ve had some time to perfect my technique. I know now that I can trade shaving my legs in the morning for 4 more minutes for sleep. Not drying my hair buys 11 minutes. Wearing a dress (one piece of clothing rather than having to choose an outfit in pieces) is worth at least 8 minutes more sleep. The big score is when I showered the night before (like when I change my sheets), I can get away with a whopping extra 30 minutes of sleep. If I do all those things on the same day, I could nearly get up fifteen minutes after I’m due at work and still get there on time. Wait, that probably doesn’t work.

If you need some tips on pre-awake bargaining or you want some suggestions on the best way to make your bed as irresistible as mine, just give me a call. Make sure it is before 9 though, otherwise I’ll probably be in bed.