Update? Me? How novel!
I haven't updated here in a long while. I guess I was saving it up for today, when I could buy twenty-four advent calendars and start. I have to buy twenty-four because once I start opening windows, I JUST CAN'T STOP.
The Good
I've been at my job for a while. Some folks call that stagnation. I like to think of it as consistency, because I just love consistency. Also, I'm addicted to perks and I'm not shamed to admit it. Any job where 30 days of paid vacation is standard issue is worth at least considering, and when Christmas means a lot of presents being given in the form of bottles of alcohol, hey, I'm game. Sure, it's not pulling in six figures, but it has its moments.
In any event, recent events have brought to light a radical new word in my employment dictionary: PROMOTION. While the wonders of bureaucratic paperwork are indeed a miracle to behold, it still has come to pass that, with a person above me retired, I am the next in line to take his place. Most qualified, even. Climb the ladder! Make the pie higher! All part of my evil plan to take over the world. Or at least 192 countries worth.
You know what? This good story's boring. Let's move on into something else...
The Bad
So the chap who retired (in the previous paragraphs) more or less did a similar job to what I do right now. One of the aspects of that job is processing a lot of people data. So we end up seeing a lot of pictures of a lot of people. Really, a lot.
This, of course, leads to such base pleasures as "scoping". That's right. I look at who's hot and who's not in the local diplomatic community. So did he. He's gay, and would check out the Greek, Latino and Eastern European males. I liked the Swiss ladies, as well as the Eastern Europeans. Oh Eastern Europe, you can do no wrong.
But that's irrelevant. One day he's processing one of these people, and is talking about him. "Check this guy out. Thirty-five years old, kind of handsome, single. He must be gay."
There's a short pause as I calculate and respond. "Hey... that describes me."
He winces. "You're thirty-five?"
"It happens."
"Oops."
And there you have it. Old, Single, Not Gay. That's me in a nutshell.
This story is only moderately interesting. Let's try and finish it up.
The Ugly
This story involves potty humour. You have been forewarned.
So there I am. Gotta use the bathroom. It happens. Office buildings and public restrooms are what they are, so I head off, choose stall, take a seat. Everyone's done this sort of thing before; we don't need to go into details.
About half a minute later, I hear the door open. It stays open, and several people are apparently standing in the doorway, having a conversation.
All the voices are female.
After about five seconds of this conversation, doubt begins to creep into my mind. I look around the stall, trying to convince myself that it's the same stall I've seen before. I look for marks, patterns in the floor tiles, damage to the ceiling, anything. But somewhere deep inside, my brain is wrestling with a terrible possibility:
Have I somehow, through some bizarre error in judgement, gone into the ladies bathroom instead?
They're still standing there, talking. No discernable male voice has joined the choir. I try to peer through the crack in the door to catch a glimpse of the wall where urinals, a clear sign of manly bathroomness, would be. But I don't have enough of a field of vision.
I am trapped.
I'm sure that I can't possibly have gone into the ladies' room. No way in hell. But who is at the door? Why are they there? Am I wrong?
Finally, the door shuts. I hear footsteps. And then the unmistakable sound of zipping and wizzing into a porcelain receptacle.
At this point, I figure three things: A) I'm obviously in the men's room, as I have always believed; B) this is the ladies' room and there is a woman pissing in the sink; or C) this is the ladies' room and there is a man pissing in the sink. No matter what, if I step out now, I figure everything should be just fine. Even if it's B, in which case our mutual embarassment should cover our mutual asses.
I was so relieved to find that it was A that I almost had to pee again.
The Good
I've been at my job for a while. Some folks call that stagnation. I like to think of it as consistency, because I just love consistency. Also, I'm addicted to perks and I'm not shamed to admit it. Any job where 30 days of paid vacation is standard issue is worth at least considering, and when Christmas means a lot of presents being given in the form of bottles of alcohol, hey, I'm game. Sure, it's not pulling in six figures, but it has its moments.
In any event, recent events have brought to light a radical new word in my employment dictionary: PROMOTION. While the wonders of bureaucratic paperwork are indeed a miracle to behold, it still has come to pass that, with a person above me retired, I am the next in line to take his place. Most qualified, even. Climb the ladder! Make the pie higher! All part of my evil plan to take over the world. Or at least 192 countries worth.
You know what? This good story's boring. Let's move on into something else...
The Bad
So the chap who retired (in the previous paragraphs) more or less did a similar job to what I do right now. One of the aspects of that job is processing a lot of people data. So we end up seeing a lot of pictures of a lot of people. Really, a lot.
This, of course, leads to such base pleasures as "scoping". That's right. I look at who's hot and who's not in the local diplomatic community. So did he. He's gay, and would check out the Greek, Latino and Eastern European males. I liked the Swiss ladies, as well as the Eastern Europeans. Oh Eastern Europe, you can do no wrong.
But that's irrelevant. One day he's processing one of these people, and is talking about him. "Check this guy out. Thirty-five years old, kind of handsome, single. He must be gay."
There's a short pause as I calculate and respond. "Hey... that describes me."
He winces. "You're thirty-five?"
"It happens."
"Oops."
And there you have it. Old, Single, Not Gay. That's me in a nutshell.
This story is only moderately interesting. Let's try and finish it up.
The Ugly
This story involves potty humour. You have been forewarned.
So there I am. Gotta use the bathroom. It happens. Office buildings and public restrooms are what they are, so I head off, choose stall, take a seat. Everyone's done this sort of thing before; we don't need to go into details.
About half a minute later, I hear the door open. It stays open, and several people are apparently standing in the doorway, having a conversation.
All the voices are female.
After about five seconds of this conversation, doubt begins to creep into my mind. I look around the stall, trying to convince myself that it's the same stall I've seen before. I look for marks, patterns in the floor tiles, damage to the ceiling, anything. But somewhere deep inside, my brain is wrestling with a terrible possibility:
Have I somehow, through some bizarre error in judgement, gone into the ladies bathroom instead?
They're still standing there, talking. No discernable male voice has joined the choir. I try to peer through the crack in the door to catch a glimpse of the wall where urinals, a clear sign of manly bathroomness, would be. But I don't have enough of a field of vision.
I am trapped.
I'm sure that I can't possibly have gone into the ladies' room. No way in hell. But who is at the door? Why are they there? Am I wrong?
Finally, the door shuts. I hear footsteps. And then the unmistakable sound of zipping and wizzing into a porcelain receptacle.
At this point, I figure three things: A) I'm obviously in the men's room, as I have always believed; B) this is the ladies' room and there is a woman pissing in the sink; or C) this is the ladies' room and there is a man pissing in the sink. No matter what, if I step out now, I figure everything should be just fine. Even if it's B, in which case our mutual embarassment should cover our mutual asses.
I was so relieved to find that it was A that I almost had to pee again.