My Baby Takes the Morning Train
Actually, my baby doesn’t take a train at all, but I do!
Like I said earlier, I started a new job [some of you may be thinking, "Wait a minute...you just started a new job in December..." It's true, I did, but it turned out to be a bad fit for me in a number of ways and since my mantra has always been that life's too short to be miserable, I ske-dattled].
My new job is in a location that finally allows me to take advantage of the biggest advantage about my home’s location: the lightrail. And since my last job’s commute resulted in at least one near-heart attack every day, I concluded that a commute with next to no thought required on my part would be a good thing. I can read my fashion mags or Kindle; I can listen to music; I can zone out. I don’t have to worry about what other drivers might do: driving slow in the fast lane, tailgating, weaving in and out of traffic, etc. I don’t have to contemplate whether I should take backroads or the main road, 494 or 62, right lane/center lane/left lane.
My biggest concern now is at what time can I get onto the elevator in my condo and make it to the ticket machine in time to catch the train.
I also get to feel more “one” with the people, especially when I’m grazing up against them, falling into them or standing close enough to smell them. OK, that aspect of public transit isn’t overly glamorous [is any part of public transit glamorous?]. I do enjoy my morning commute (since I’m one of the first on the train, ensuring that I get a seat for the next 27 minutes). I can sit comfortably and watch as other public-transportation-riders get onto the train — then judge their outfits, hairstyles and accessories. I like guessing where people work and what they might do.
I also enjoy eavesdropping, then judging people based on those conversations. One woman recently had a particularly annoying voice, so it was almost painful to listen to her talk. I cringed every time she spoke. Two other women were talking smack about their coworkers, which was great. I mostly overhear teenage girls on their way to the mall, or disgruntled corporate types who like to complain about everything from their office cafeteria food to how slow their Microsoft Outlook was for the day.
I’ve never been concerned for my safety while on the train. I have, however, been concerned for the future of humanity.
New Office Bathroom Observation #1
So I recently started a different new job. Long story. Either way, I’ve been at my new job for a little more than two months, which means I’ve had ample time to analyze the bathroom.
The bathroom has seven stalls. I have selected one to be my “go-to” stall. The criteria that must be met in order to qualify as “go-to” can be long, but since we’re all busy (and, quite frankly, who wants to read extensively about my bathroom observations?), I’ve summed it up with the key points.
- The seal around the stall door is tight. Have you been in a bathroom stall and after committing to that stall, realized there was a gap between the stall door and the stall walls? Like, enough of a gap that you could probably identify a coworker entering the bathroom if they walked past your stall. That’s what I’m trying to avoid. I’ve noticed the other stall doors have quite a bit of space between the door and the walls of the stalls. That makes me uncomfortable. I assume no one wants to identify me while I’m in the stall, but those door gaps make it pretty easy to do.
- The stall is not visible from any position in front of the mirror. So with some of the other stalls, depending on where a person stands in front of the mirror over the sink, people can see the stalls and therefore see through the gaps into the stall. That makes me paranoid. It mostly grosses me out.
- The stall is slightly larger than a normal stall, but not quite large enough to be considered the handicap stall, so I don’t feel guilty
I truly hate super-tight spaces, especially when those spaces include swirling water that sometimes splashes out, potentially carrying traces of fecal matter. Ick! I hate the idea of touching any more surfaces in the stall than I have to, and cramped stalls that require the acrobatic skills of a cirque du soileil performer to get out of make me want to wash my clothes in antibacterial soap. There is one large, mega-stall, but I would reserve using that for clothes-changing situations or when all other stalls are occupado.
While I will always prefer this stall to any other in this bathroom, it’s not without its flaws.
- The toilet is a little higher than a typical toilet, so my feet tend to dangle a little. [The designated handicap stall toilet is even higher, and I did witness a coworker's feet truly dangling.] This grosses me out. When my feet are dangling, it means there’s potential for my pant legs to slip under my shoes — since my shoes aren’t planted securely to the ground — and when I get up, I’m standing on my pants. That means bathroom floor germs are getting all mashed into the fibers of my pants. Ick.
- The toilet has an extended flush time. I actually feel a little guilty using this toilet because it seems like it’s pumping enough water to fill a pond. I’m able to fix my outfit (tucking shirt in/ensuring shirts aren’t tucked in, buttoning, zipping, etc.), wash my hands and begin drying my hands, all while the toilet is pushing water around in its tank. I’m hoping the water is actually just swirling around a lot, not necessarily cycling out.
I’ve heard that the bathrooms on other floors have different layouts, which makes me curious to explore…but I’m more lazy than curious, so I probably won’t have anything to report on that front. As if you are all glued to your computers, anxiously awaiting my report on the multiple bathroom layouts at my office building.
Why I Hate Laundry
It’s not that I actually want to stay up and write this right now – it’s mostly that I’m doing laundry because my black dress pants needed to be washed. Since I just put them in the washer about 20 minutes ago, I’m going to have to stay up another 30-40 minutes to take them out of the washer and hang them for drying.
I wouldn’t say that I have a lot of nice clothes. I have a lot of clothes, that part is true. Most of my clothes are pretty cheap, though. This means that they are probably not the highest quality, which means they will fall apart much faster than some more expensive clothes (although I think some more expensive clothes will fall apart just as fast). Anyway. Since these clothes are destined to disintegrate rather quickly, I don’t dry most of them. Instead, I pull them out of the washer and hang them on a clothes-drying rack I bought at Walmart for probably less than $7.
This process makes me hate doing laundry.
My boyfriend’s clothes are simple: put in washer, put in dryer. There is no sorting of dry-able clothes versus must-hang clothes. Honestly, he rarely even sorts by color. It’s just one big category titled “dirty clothes,” and is therefore all washed together and all dried together.
What a wonderfully simple life he must have. 
I sort my laundry based on type (jeans/shorts, workout clothes, nicer stuff). “Nicer stuff” encompasses sweaters, t-shirts (the kind I wouldn’t mow the lawn in – if I had a lawn to mow), dress pants, unmentionables and dressy socks. It’s basically all the clothes I wear for work or for impressing other humans. Nicer stuff is then broken down into whites and colors. I know some people break it down even more to white, lights and darks, but that’s not really necessary with my clothes. Maybe because they are cheap, I don’t know.
My workout clothes (which also gets combined with some towels) is my favorite kind of laundry to do. It’s all washed and all dried together. There is no sorting involved. This is not the case for “nicer stuff.” Those clothes are washed together, but then must be sorted upon exiting the washer. Those that can be dried are thrown in the dryer while the remaining items, typically 65-70 percent of the load, has to be put on the clothes rack. I hate this.
I have quite a bit of furniture and a large bed packed into my bedroom, which makes for tight spaces of walking room. The clothes rack takes up a large amount of that space, and is just awkward enough to cause frustration when I’m trying to place my clothes on it. For whatever reason, 80 percent of my shirts are exactly the wrong length to lay nicely on the rack. One end just can’t hold on, so it hangs over and sometimes creates a stupid crease in the center of my shirt right at my rib cage. Because I have so much clothes, I have to layer clothes on top of each other. So even if I somehow manage to get the bottom layer of shirts to lay across the clothes rack correctly, my second or third layer of clothes will ruin this. I’ll then stand there debating whether or not to fix it.
I also hate putting laundry away. This means the clothes rack, with the now-dried clothes, will sit there for at least two days. Again, there isn’t much room in the bedroom, so it creates an awkward obstacle for getting into my dressers. Because the rack is cheap and has 87 layers of clothing on it, it’s also hard to move.
You would think this would motivate me to put my clothes away sooner or buy clothes that can be machine dried. It doesn’t. It just makes me procrastinate on doing laundry and then I end up in a situation like this.
Tonight, in an effort to make the evening slightly better than it could have been, I chose to wash my black dress pants with some of Dan’s clothes. This means I only have to pull out my pants to hang and all the rest of the clothes can just go into the dryer. Not only does it make my night easier, I look like an awesome girlfriend for doing his laundry without him even asking.
Today’s Ethical Dilemma
When I was in college going for my degree in Journalism, ethics were a major topic in a majority of our classes. Our professors would throw out a number of scenarios for us to contemplate and we’d banter back and forth about why we’d make a particular choice. Then we’d wait for our professor to go over all the pros and cons of those decisions, based on their ethical implications, and we’d all nod our heads in some state of revelation.
Since I didn’t end up a journalist at some newspaper, breaking stories about CEOs or Senators and their bribes or mistresses, I don’t face many ethical dilemmas in my day-to-day life. In fact, the only times I’ve had to think about the most ethical behavior has been while walking my dog.
I always bring multiple doggie bags with me and Dig on our walks because I know he likes to relieve himself while we’re out. Since I live in a somewhat high-traffic area, I really don’t want to be that person who doesn’t pick up after her dog. Especially because I’m within eye-sight of my neighbors at most times. Not much of a dilemma here — I pick up his shit.
The ethical dilemma comes into play when I see a worm writhing on the sidewalk, inches away from the grassy goodness. I know that worm is not enjoying his experience on the cement. I know that he needs the grass/soil to survive. I also know that there are ant populations the size of Minneapolis and St. Paul at every crack in the sidewalk. Seriously, there are so many ants. Anyway, I know those ants would carry that worm to a certain death if they got to him before he reached the grass.
So I’m walking Digger and I see this worm writhing on the sidewalk. We pass him, and all I can think about is how easy it would be for me to assist him in getting to the grass. Then I start thinking about the ants, and how they need food to survive, and is it really my place to play God and spare the worm? Or would God be proud that I was working to save one tiny creature (especially when the ants seemed to be going to town on the half eaten apple sitting on the sidewalk). By the time I’ve thought this all through, I’m probably half a block away from the worm.
But it eats away at me for the rest of my walk. I mean really, how much work would it be for me to move him over? Not much. So I make a loop at the next block to come back to the worm, who is still there, trying to dig his way into the cement. I pick up my pup, who has taken a liking to dead worms and would probably like a living one, find a leaf to scoop up the worm and carry the guy to safety.
Then I go back to my walk, mentally patting myself on the back and thinking about all the good karma that will come my way.
I’m sure that the worm was later eaten by some type of grass-dwelling, worm-eating beetle seconds after I moved him from the sidewalk. I can only do so much.
On the Road Again…Again
Sorry for the last post — I always seem to need a pity party for myself before I pick myself up and be a normal person again. Unfortunately you had to go through it with me!
Yesterday I decided to slack off in school so I could dedicate some much-needed time to catching up on my magazine reading. I have a stack of about six unread magazines right now and they’ve been taunting me for quite some time. I picked up Women’s Health, and found recipe after recipe of easy-to-make and relatively healthy snacks and dinners. Since a dinner would be a bit of a leap for me, I opted to attempt a dip and homemade chips.
The dip was a cucumber dill dip. Upon first taste, it was pretty good. It might have been missing something (probably the white wine vinegar that I left out), but was still something I’d eat. The recipe called for low-fat sour cream, but I substituted plain, non-fat Greek yogurt. I was instructed to put the dip in the fridge for two hours to let the flavor intensify, so maybe I won’t regret leaving out the white wine vinegar. It was a pretty simple recipe — let me know if you’re interested! (I tried to find it on WH’s website, but it’s not posted.)
The homemade chips were even easier. I bought six-inch tortilla wraps (I used white corn, but yellow corn might have been better — not sure). I cut the tortillas into six triangles and laid them out on a cookie sheet. I sprayed a little canola oil on them, then sprinkled chili powder, cumin and sea salt over them. Fifteen minutes later, after sitting in the oven at 350 degrees, I took ‘em out and let them cool. I’ll say that the flavor is pretty good, just something about the consistency of the chip that seems off. I probably should have let them sit in the oven for another minute or two. Either way, still tasty.
I’m not sure I can consider these recipes since “recipes” sounds like something where you have to do a lot of mixing and baking and a lot of other work that someone of my laziness level might not do. Well, not today, but eventually.
Draining
I haven’t felt like myself lately. The things I normally love — reading fashion magazines and websites, reading health and wellness magazines and websites, shopping, reading celebrity gossip websites, running, writing this blog — are all things I haven’t done in awhile. OK, so I have plenty of good reasons to not shop: my closet is full and I have a car payment, a mortgage and utility bills that continue to appear in my mailbox (yes, I still get them in the mail and send in my checks via the mail because I support the postal service). So we’ll say that my slow-down in shopping is actually a good thing.
But I really miss reading. I still do some reading, namely for school. The last two classes have been pretty awful subjects as far as reading entertainment (epidemiology and biostats! ick!). My current class is about management in healthcare (read: a book about management with the words “nurse” and “doctor” thrown in so it’s somehow loosely tied to my master’s program). It’s pretty common sense stuff, like “communication is important” and “being an a-hole won’t result in a positive work environment.” But I miss the reading I actually enjoyed, where I felt like I was learning something, whether it was an article on fiber-filled snack foods or a blog about how to wear stripes with floral patterns. I have a pile of books I purchased from Amazon months ago, maybe even a year ago, that I still haven’t gotten to. Or I’ve read half of the book, then had to stop because of class.
I just miss the things that I used to really look forward to. Is it that I don’t have extra time? Probably not. I mean I do have a puppy, and he feels somewhat time-consuming, but I think I would have time to read. And yeah, school takes up some time, but it’s not an overwhelming amount. I just feel off and like I don’t want to expend any energy doing anything other than the basic things: sitting on the couch, turning on the TV and the DirecTV receiver, eating a bowl of honey nut cheerios (actually toasty O’s or whatever the malt-o-meal version is).
Yeah, that’s right, I eat cereal for supper on a regular basis. Like three nights a week. And I eat it for breakfast too, every day. I am just SO lazy right now. I know that there are healthier, and probably more enjoyable things to eat than cheerios or fruit loops. But I just want to be able to make something in as short of time as possible so I don’t waste energy. When I decide I want to eat, I want to start eating in less than 3 minutes, and cereal tends to be the thing that satisfies my wishes. Sure, you’re thinking, “Lindsey, eat an apple or some other fruit, maybe a vegetable.” I know, I know, I should. But that means I probably have to do something to prepare that fruit or vegetable, like wash it, or cut it up, and that will probably involve a cutting board and a knife and more than 3 minutes.
I just feel blah.
I think it’s a combination of being slightly exhausted from my pup–he has a mild case of Giardia, which is some type of bacterial thing that he probably acquired on a walk through the goose-dropping-central streets of Bloomington. It has been a very messy, smelly, sleep-deprived week. This is the moment where I start to regret getting a dog.
Ever since getting my poop-machine of a puppy, I really haven’t been running much. Some weeks I might be able to get two jogs in, but usually it’s only one or even none. And when I do run, it is a pathetic excuse for a run compared to what I used to be able to do (I’m not pretending like I was some big-time marathon runner, but I was really happy with what I did). I’m feeling like all the things that were important to me: fashion, health/wellness, running–have been shelfed and I can’t seem to get them going again.
But my puppy isn’t solely to blame.
Anyway, I just want to apologize for not writing. This wasn’t supposed to be a pity party. More of an “explanation party.” I’m hoping I can turn my frown upside down and begin eating actual meals for supper again.
I’m Sorry, So Sorry
Yikes! It has been a long time since I wrote! And it was a long time since the time I wrote before that time.
My only excuse is a 6-pound bundle of fur who leaves me with little time or energy for 1) experiencing things worth writing about and 2) being creative. I also haven’t had a good run in almost two months, so it’s not just my blog that’s suffering.
I’ll be back.
Finally a Post Unrelated to Dogs
Chris Brown’s “Yeah 3x” (I’m sure that’s not how it’s supposed to be written) song sounds like the worst dating experience ever. Whenever I hear it, I start to feel sorry for the girl in the song. She’s obviously on a date with an alcoholic. Here’s what’s happening, as interpreted by me.
So this girl meets this guy, maybe at a grocery store, and he seems cute. He’s chatting her up and since she hasn’t really met anyone decent for awhile, she throws caution to the wind and decides to give him her phone number. He calls a couple days later and says that he’d love to get together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t ask her on a real date. Instead, he says she should meet him and his friends at a bar. This isn’t the way she’d like their relationship to start, but oh well, she’ll give it a try.
She walks into the club and instantly feels like this was a mistake. There are skanky girls everywhere, and the guys are all wearing their hats sideways or popping the collars on their polo shirts. She finds her new beau and stands uncomfortably with him and his friends, who are all pounding down the drinks. She’s got her arms crossed and is looking around the bar, hoping to see someone she knows who can rescue her. Our gentleman can tell she’s not having a good time.
“Girl, don’t feel outta place,” he says.
She can tell he’d been drinking since well before she arrived, so she asks him if he’s drunk.
“I’m in love with this feeling,” he tells her.
Great, he’s wasted, she’s thinking.
“I hope that this will last awhile, we should make it last awhile,” he says before heading toward the bar for another drink.
“You like to drink–so do we,” he says.
I don’t remember saying I like to drink, she thinks. She’s also wondering why he invited her to hang out with him and his friends, when it could have been just the two of them, at dinner or a movie. Her daydreaming is interrupted when Rico Suave gets to the bar.
“Get my bottles, bring ‘em to me!” he yells to the bartender, his speech slurred.
Oh my God, why am I here? This is awful.
“I wanna see ya tonight,” he says, trying to be smooth while pushing her hair behind her ear, but due to his double-vision, pokes her in the eye, repeatedly.
She shudders and tries to readjust the contact in her eye that he pushed out of place.
After he takes a swig of his drink, he pulls our girl close and says, “Up in the moment, can’t believe you’re so beautiful.”
“I think you’re drunk,” she replies, gagging from the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Feels like I’m in a dream,” he says, just before he almost falls over. His friends laugh and say to each other, “Homeboy is SO drunk right now!”
Our lady decides she’s had enough and that this relationship will never go anywhere. She tells our dreamboat that she’s leaving, and he is NOT happy about it.
“All the pretty young things at the party, let me see your hands up,” he yells at the crowd, hoping to get the attention of other women.
“And if they mad and don’t want to party,” he says as he looks back and points at our girl, “tell ‘em shut the F up!” And the crowd instantly starts booing at her, banishing her from the club.
I don’t know how any part of the song sounds like an enjoyable experience for the girl. I don’t know how any part of the song makes a girl swoon for Chris Brown. If anything, it makes me think he has a drinking problem and issues in dealing with reality, which he escapes through alcohol. Swoon!
Adventures in Puppy Training: He Likes the Taste of Flesh
Digger has been super well-behaved and I have rarely had to say “No!” to him. Until he started biting fingers.
What’s strange is that he didn’t do it at all for me and Dan the first few days we had him. Then I had a girl friend over and he bit her fingers a couple times. That same night, my brother came over and you would have thought Dig hadn’t eaten in days because he was ALL OVER my brother’s fingers and arms. And it wasn’t like he was just nipping at them — he was sinking his teeth in on them and not letting go.
Another girl friend of mine — who also has a maltipoo — came over a couple days later and it was the same story: finger-loving fun for Dig.
I was so embarrassed. I completely realize that biting fingers is probably a normal puppy behavior thing, but Dig had been so good with me and Dan — he hadn’t bitten our fingers at all. Instead of sticking with that same awesome behavior, here he was mangling the fingers of our friends and family. I had to keep saying, “He never does this — I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” which is what people usually say when it’s something that always happens and they’re trying to pretend it’s a new thing. So if I had been my friends or my brother, I would have been thinking, “Suuure, Lindsey. Yeah, this seems like a totally new habit. The way he’s ripping my fingers out of their sockets completely feels unnatural to him.”
So I did some research about how to get your puppy to stop biting people’s fingers. I’m supposed to say no, then I can either replace the finger with one of his actual chew toys, or the person who was bitten can say “Ow!” and pretend to cry so that he sees the person was hurt. None of this has worked so far. He seems completely heartless, or my friends and I are just really poor actors. He apparently prefers the taste and texture of flesh compared to the plush stuffed-tomato with built-in squeak and denta-twist chew bone.
My friends reassured me that it was OK and that they didn’t think any less of Digger, but I don’t believe them. I’m pretty sure my brother plans to never visit again. My parents and Dan’s parents have tried to convince me that once he passes his teething stage, he will be better and that his current behavior is completely normal.
Until then, no finger — and possibly toe — is safe.
