Abnormalities of Life

I work in a building owned by the Federal Government. Because of that, we have screening vestibules located at each entry point. They are set to rather low sensitivity at full-time employee access points, but are used as a precautionary measure nonetheless.

This morning, the woman next to me must have made a half dozen pass-through attempts before she realized that she needed to remove her belt. In my early-morning stupor, I did not think much about the situation.

She and I boarded the elevator at roughly the same time, as did a coworker of hers. I work for a different company, so my anonymity is somewhat safe. As I watched her board, I noticed the abhorrent green, orange, and pink flowered frock she chose to display today. My eyes widened while cringing in fear at the same time. And then I saw. . . it! She held her belt in front of her coworker and proclaimed "it didn't like my belt".

The belt was a black elastic band with gold sea shells placed all around it. It had so much overly-ornate metal, that I'm surprised she could carry it. No wonder the machine didn't like it.

Unfortunately, I think she saw me silently lip that to myself, as I followed that comment with "can you blame it? I don't like it either".

I really need to learn to cover my mouth when mouthing inappropriate comments about them!

The following is an excerpt from a recent office-wide e-mail regarding a fire drill. The message was sent from the office manager as a response to a barrage of questions from the brain-dead stiffs I cohabitate with for 8 hours each weekday:

1. Yes, I know it is very hot outside.
2. No, we are not going to go out there.
3. Yes, as stated in the building notice, we are to report to the stair towers.
4. Yes, it will be hot in there too.
5. No, I can't control any of this.

Yes. . . People seriously asked these questions. They do all of the time. I don't even have a smart ass remark this time.

So I needed to purchase a new book of stamps. Not realizing that this can be done online, I decided to walk 2 blocks from work to a nearby post office. I put my money in the machine and as I ordered, I heard the clink clank of the change return. After nearly 20 dings, I realized that something was wrong. I was only to get $16.60. Unless I was being paid in all pennies, it should have stopped.

As I reached down to investigate, I then noticed the sign that says "all change returned in $1 coin increments". I hurriedly tried to cancel my transaction and pay the old fashioned way, but it was too late. I then had to go and wait in a 20-deep line only to be told that the post office could not make change.

The man behind the desk was a direct descendant of the Chinese post office worker from the Seinfeld episode that dealt with ethnic stereotypes. From the looks of it, Jerry was right on.

Mr. Fu Man Chu could not help me and was very belligerent over my failure to comprehend a sign posted two feet from the ground. I'm 6'4" and don't tend to look down. Why would I notice that. He looked over me and just moved right on. Luckily, the nice lady at Wachovia was able to help me out.

Is it wrong that I pictured the guy with an oozy that shot Sacajawea coins throughout our dear metropolis?

I'm moving. Not far, but upgrading from apartment to condo. I'm reaping all of the benefits and difficulties that come with a new neighborhood.

As I walked to my car to grab some things the other day, I saw several children eating ice cream. It is a hot July evening, and I would like nothing more than a Nutty Buddy, a Strawberry Shortcake, or a Chocotaco. Unfortunately I didn't see the ice cream man anywhere in site. Nor did I hear the faint music of his truck.

The next day as I stand outside working on something, I hear a fire alarm go off somewhere in the complex and my "new homeowner mentality" kicks in. I had not yet switched my insurance coverage, so if it becomes a full-on blaze, I'm in trouble. The sound goes away and I return to my previously realxed state.

Moments later, I again see three or four kids with ice cream, still with no ice cream man or dispenser in sight.

It wasn't until a few hours later while walking to my car to leave for the evening, that I noticed that the mystery creamer and the annoying alarm were one in the same. Gone was the fun calliope of childrens from yesteryear songs spewing from the speakers of Mr. Good Humor. In its place is a collection horn loud enough to wake the dead from yesteryear.

In 2003, Montgomery County discussed limiting noise emission from ice cream trucks and similar mobile businesses; but that was when it was music. The banning failed public opinion surveys and trucks were allowed to play music freely and clearly once again.

So why a horn instead? Maybe to alert children of the frozen decadence en route from afar. Perhaps because it is a definite attention-getter. But most likely it is because the 17-year-old kid things it is cool to make an entrance only a dalmation's mom could love. I like firemen, but Mr. Iceman, you in your pipsqueakishness, couldn't be further from it. Come back with real music, and while you're at it, several ice cream sandwiches to ease the pain of the alarm.

I work in the design industry. There are more left-wing thinkers per capita than in almost any other industry around today. In that capacity, I have seen all type: the Goth, the Metrosexual, the Grunge Guy, and the Uber Preppy to name a few. I consider myself pretty openminded with a taste for the latest in pop culture trends, but even I still shudder at the thought of a 1980's fashion revival.

Polos made a huge comeback, and it has been a good one. If I had a negative comment about them, it would be very hypocritical, seeing that I am wearing one as we speak. Most of the other fashion icons of the year have not faired as well (paint-covered jeans? Yuck!) Perhaps the most disturbing of all these products is by far the colored pant.

I walked the long way back to my desk from the vending machine to try and fight the lunch coma that was quickly consuming me. My eyes quickly widened when, to my amazement, I ran into a guy wearing pink pants with a red and white striped belt. I wore that at one time; I was six, it was Halloween, and I was dressed up like Raggady Andy.

I like pink. I wear it often too, but I choose my uses of it, and each one is a shirt of several varieties. Your shirt is always the place where you advertise your personality with your color, cut, and message (if applicable). So now I want to know Mr. Pink, what made YOU choose to wear pink PANTS? Are they white pants that made whoopie with your favorite red tee and have the love stains to prove it? Most likely not. J Crew even sells them like that! Along with salmon, light lime, and easter yellow too.

Call me old fashioned, but I prefer my pants to not share the same color pallate as a box of Tums.

I'm not sure who invented the rules to the modern men's room, but whoever it was really did it well. It is so well that everyone knows the rules without having ever been told them. We all know the rule--but ladies, if you don't I'll enlighten you.

We don't know where it came from or how it came about, but we know it. When walking into a restroom to urinate, you exercise the following procedures:

1. Look at the number of stalls and urinals.
2. Choose your preferred option.
3. If it is a stall, don't make it stink or make too many noises while you are in there.
4a. If it is a cluster of urinals, go the further most one. If someone is already there, go to the furthermost point from him.
4b. The next person will go to a spot and leave at least one empty urinal in between.
4c. This continues in a similar fashion until every other urinal is in use. At which point you go the stalls and refer to rule 3.

There are few exceptions to these rules, but they include:

1. If walls exist between urinals, you can collocate next to others.
2. If a line starts to form, you can collocate next to others.

These rules are absurd, but simple enough, right? Well, not to everyone. Take Joe.

Joe is an elderly employee at my company's print / reproduction shop. He's a soft spoken and tiny little guy. You'd never notice he was here, until you hit the restroom. Our restroom has three urinals and four stalls. Following the simple rules should tell you that urinals 1 and 3 are used most often. The third-sixth person to enter the restroom at the same time will then utilize the stalls. The seventh person will then use the center urinal.

Our restroom never has more than 3 people at any given time (except for burrito day at the cafeteria-but that's entirely different). So why must Joe be the first guy in line and go the the center urinal? This forces you to choose between breaking the urinal distance rule and using a stall unnecessarily. For those keeping tabs, I broke the rule.

I know I'm ridiculous with my analysis of this, but it completely throws my entire system out of whack.

If you're out there Joe, be warned! Some day I'll turn to my left or my right and pee on you just to prove my point.

We've all been to those gag gift stores and have inevitably seen those shirts with an arrow pointing one way or the other and the famous lines "I'm with Stupid". If you haven't, you aren't missing much, but the gist is that you are pointing at the person walking next to you, making him or her the butt of the joke. Hilarious right? The jury is still out on that one...

Well at lunch today, I saw someone walking by himself with one of those on. It was sad enough that he was alone with no one on his left at which to point. This makes the shirt infinitely less funny. But he then proceeds to walk into a street sign while peering into the window of the newly-opened Quiznos sub shop and gets himself all out of sorts.

I was so tempted to ask if I could borrow his shirt and wear it with him standing to my left. Or maybe I'll get creative and lay on my side to point up at him.