Lately I've been a much nicer person at work. This does not, however, change the fact that I turned in several different client's paperwork to the county funding agency with the EXACT SAME birthdate on each of them. It reminds me of the little poem...
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good
She was very good.
And when she was bad,
She was horrid.
I seem to be swingin' both ways between good and horrid most of the time. Hopefully the crimson tide will come swishing along soon and smooth things out. Yesterday I read a craft article in BUST magazine www.bust.com that featured an embroidered tampon holder with "BLOODY HELL" stitched on. Love that.
And in regard to that lovely time of the month that each woman lives through for 20 or 30 years. During the Vagina Monologues, there was a lot of talk about how we wanted to get our periods as young girls... couldn't wait!! As I recall, it was disturbing to know other girls who got it first, and who developed earlier, etc. I was very happy to be "normal" and to get that little gift. The excitement of THAT wore off quick, and then it became an excellent excuse for not doing things.... especially with male teachers. The word "period" went a long way with them in making them a bit pale and agreeable to whatever "break" I was suggesting for myself. (Although not nearly as pale as Mr. Schwartz in 5th grade when I asked him what a "hard-on" was. That was fun.)
A friend of mine has a 13 year old who "started" this fall. That Monday she announced at school that she would, unfortunately, be unable to complete her math assignment because she was having her period. Shit, I wish I had thought of THAT when I was young.
So the point of all of this is that I guess maybe it's a big deal to be DONE with it, too. I was sitting in my book club the other evening, and we were discussing a nice southern novel dealing with integration and racism. For some reason, one of my comments inspired one of my fellow book-club attendees to ask my age. Like a deer in the headlights, I thought: "Oh, I am the youngest woman here." Well, at 35, that's soon to be more of a rarity... better dig it while I can. I don't know many of the women at this book club well, as we meet monthly and often I skip it, and I was invited to join by my boss, and she knows them better than I do. One woman who attends regularly is always so sweet in the meetings. She is sometimes shocked and dismayed by events in the books. She seems so... wholesome. Anyway, in the middle of this discussion about racism, she whipped out from under her chair a big bag of Super Kotex and Super Tampax. And announced proudly and gleefully that I could now have them, as she did not need them any longer. Super!
(Who knew that you could download your very own Kotex Fits. Period. Advertisement for your desktop!! Neato. http://www.kotex.com/na/funspot/downloads )
And speaking of my boss... My sloppy paperwork of late has caught up with me and she proposed a paperwork initiative today in our staff meeting. She was very very serious about it. She reviewed it thoroughly... it had some long title, but the upshot (that one's for you, Beth.) was that we need to turn things in on time, and she probably needs to look over what we turn in to attempt to minimize stupid mistakes like handing in forms with the same birth date over and over again on them. Okly dokly. She sent us each an electronic copy of the dates to remember and the protocol. With this title:
Barb's Improvised Goal Promoting Accuracy in Notation, Improving Needed Timeliness, Honing Excellence and Securing Success.
Not everyone in my office "got it".
You gotta love having a boss who works to support you in doing a better job, is available if needed, and if all else fails, will just poke fun of the situation. She has a rather twisted sense of humor, and the rest of her immediate family either reflects it or has caused it, I'm not sure which.
Today I sat at my desk having PMS, eating Girl Scout Damn Cookies and drinking pickle juice. Who wants chocolate and salt?? I do!
My poor, poor co-worker Beth is still kvetching because I might have possibly used her scissors to dig the last Vlasic Zesty Dill out of the jar earlier today. She made me wash the scissors, with soap, and she claims they still smell like pickles. Wait 'til she smells her scissors on Monday.