*This entry has nothing to do with flying toads.

When you first begin working in a new office, everything seems bright and (hopefully) much nicer than your previous place of employment.

As time goes on, you begin noticing the little idiosyncracies of the building and equipment. This is normal.

If, however, you happen to work the night shift alone and have an over-active imagination...

You first go about your office in a state of bliss. "I have a new job, hurrah!" Eventually, a routine sets in and you begin to notice the office is, due to normal wear and tear, not as shiny and spiffy as you had originally thought.

Perhaps it begins with the carpet.

There are spots where the carpet appears slightly bunched up or loose. Perhaps there is even a slight tear. Of course, being a staunch realist, you know this is because of the hundreds of feet that tramp daily across the carpet in a myriad of sadistic footwear (take, for instance, high heels).

If, however, you are over-imaginative the carpet lumps take on an entirely different meaning. Suddenly, they are secret tunnels by which the office gnomes travel as they go about their secret office gnome business (which, if only your boss would believe you, involves deleting the important work that you swore you did on time*)

*Note: As I am perfect, I deny ever having an instance where my work was late.

After the carpet, perhaps you notice some smudges on the wall. Perhaps, in addition to smudges, there are also dings and scrapes. Perhaps a dent as well. As a staunch realist, you understand that these are also due to the large quantity of people that traverse the halls carrying/pulling/pushing assorted (also sadistic) luggage/boxes/files/dead bodies (no, wait...)

If, however, you are over-imaginative: You begin to wonder if perhaps this particular banged up hall was the site of an epic battle (office gnomes vs...?) Perhaps your company is actually in the business of cloning dinosaurs that were loose one weekend and had a battle royale in this very place.

...Of course, they would have to be very small dinosaurs.

BryM's rant about Miss Bigglesworth spewing up cat hairballs on the carpet instead of the tile brought to mind a few irritating aspects about my own furry "children".

Sam:

As many of you know, Sam is my german shepherd. He's going on three years old now and still seems to retain the puppy ability of occasionally confusing me and driving me irrationally insane.

He has recently decided that when I take him out for his interval walks to use the bathroom, that he will not under any circumstance do what he is outside to do. After three flights of stairs to get downstairs, he mills around on his leash and feigns interest in anything from a blade of grass to the stars overhead. As a result every night I now have to trudge back up three flights of stairs only to be interrupted during dinner by him doing a frenetic potty dance fifteen minutes later.



Patchouli:

Patchouli is the most recent pet addition to my household. He's shy of a year old and is probably the most stubborn feline I have ever been owned by.

This past month he has decided that the entire household needs to know when he uses his litterbox. As it is housed in the bathroom that connects to my bedroom, I'm aware of this action of his at all hours of the night.

He will meander casually down the hallway while meowing softly. As he nears the bathroom his yowls increase in pitch and volume until, finally ensconced in the litter box, he emits such earpiercing squeals while retaining the most confounded look of concentration that I have ever seen cross the contenance of a house cat.

BryM, if our pets ever met it would be the doom of our combined households.

Perhaps it is simply that I have been so busy for the majority of my life that I am incapable of refraining from this state of being.

Recall, please, that I decided to go part-time at my place of employment so that I could further concentrate on school.

By going part-time, I expected to have more free time in which to apply myself to my current studies.

It went well for the first week and then I found myself pacing around. I'm used to multi-tasking and handling multiple projects at once. This additional 15 hours a week was beginning to drive me insane.

After rearranging the living room and cleaning every possible surface in the house, I reached the conclusion that I would have to increase the amount of things to do for myself or risk developing even more psychiatric disorders than I already possess.

I increased my future class load by an additional class. That should do it, right?

Classes don't start for the summer semester until the middle of next month. Since I'm still in the spring semester and it only consists of 8 credit hours of class work I'm left with some free time on my hands still.

What to do?

I have now started working on four...wait...five different stories (all with varying submission times) to attempt to publish more. Unfortunately, the submission deadlines are awfully close and I'm deluged now in work (self induced work, no less).

The only problem is that I've always dreamed of publishing (I have twice now, but I want to do this for a living - Damn you, KHAN!) and can't bring myself to drop the load I've started.

I live now with one peace of mind - that nagging sense of "What should I do now with this time?" is definitely, most assuredly, dead.

It's bad enough that I have to use a stool to reach anything in my house. Standing at an amazonian (note: sarcasm) 5 foot 3 inches, most objects that reside higher than my kitchen counter are out of reach without some type of elevation on my part.



This slight against my cooking persona is only increased when I find myself experiencing severe difficulty in opening a jar of spaghetti sauce.

Homemade lasagna was on the menu - all of the veggies were chopped and prepped. Everything was ready to go except the sauce.

I used a rag. Nothing. I ran it under hot water. Nothing. I glared profusely at it (surely that would work, I thought). Still nothing.

Just as I was about to rain brimestone down upon it, I received a call from a friend of mine who was stopping by that night. At last! I could foist the damnable thing off on him.



That jar was truly made of the devil.

He twisted it. Nothing. He used his shirt. Nothing. He glared at it (surely that would work, he thought). Nothing.

Finally (finally!) the combined hate emanating off the both of us must have been enough to crack it's sealed resolve.

This incident brought to my realization the following:

I need a life.

Well, after an eventful week, here's the low-down:

-The parents are okay. A new door and security system has been installed.

-I ran around like a lunatic thinking that I had an exam this Tuesday only to find out that it's next week (and there are now TWO of them on the same day for the same class)

-I had the joyous (note: sarcasm) experience of dissecting a pig in all of its formaldehyde glory on Tuesday. I've done this before when I was in an advanced anatomy course, but back then I wasn't vegetarian. Now...it was not an enjoyable experience.

Side note:
Actually, I have noticed a lot of changes in my reactions since becoming a vegetarian. I'm assuming it is due to a loss of certain hormones and chemicals within my body that were produced/introduced due to the meat. Does anyone know specifically?

For example:

Then: I used to love horror movies. Gory? Bring it on.
Now: Um...yes...I'll be...over here and trying not to heave.

Then: What? You have a problem with me? [insert angry statements]
Now: It takes a lot more to make me angry and upset. Now, even if I am upset, I'm more likely to shrug it off and meander elsewhere.

Then: Mmm. Smells great. What's cooking?
Now: Is..is that hamburger? I know this is probably just a learned behavior response at this point.

Where was I?

Buggers. I have no clue. Alas, back to work.