That's from Dilbert. It's also my motto.

I've been reduced to posting PDFs as content on my day job's web site, because... uh, I don't know why because.

Because nobody will part with actual content? Because people think that scanning some piece of crap that was printed off a dot matrix printer and posting it is a good idea?

I leave for a week of training on Sunday. I'll be tripping out to the left coast. It's not that I hate to fly so much, as the terror I feel about ceasing to be flying. But it's a long flight, and I have money for alcohol and a bag of knitting, so I should be OK. Just call me Madame Defarge.

Not that I have much of a choice.

I'm starting to live in the zen moment, not because I have evolved and meditated to that point, but because I am practicing avoidance with every breath. Spending one's time not thinking about stuff leaves one with very little except the moment.

I'm a brain wave away from catatonic. Numb. Crazy.

Sucks.

Up front, I'm telling you this is a rant about bad bathroom behavior. If you don't want to read about nastiness in public places, come back tomorrow.

Item 1

Random young(ish) bum, pissing into the bike lockers at the train station, in broad daylight. The bike lockers are right on the main street, too, not buried behind the station, somewhere in the parking lot. OK, you're a drunk, or a junkie, or maybe just mentally ill, so the public pissing thing is a gimme. But pissing in the bike locker? On the bike locker? That's just nasty. Because he's doing it on the front side, on the door side of the lockers. Which means that there's going to be some pretty foul bikes in there. Thanks a fucking lot, pal.

Item 2

There is a huge difference between "ladies" and "women". I don't care what the sign on the door says, if you need to see a poster on the inside of the stall door with this bit of doggerel :

"If you sprinkle,
when you tinkle,
Please be neat,
and wipe the seat."

then you are not, and will never be, a lady. You are probably not even a dame. You are a pig.

One of the unforseen side effects of the office move is that I no longer have a private bathroom. I share with all the females on this floor, and let me tell you, I have no desire to ever set foot in any of their houses. Ever. If the way they use/abuse the public latrines are any indication of how they live, then the basest untouchable in the farthest reaches of inhabitable space could give them some lessons in manners.

There seems to be no knowlege of indoor plumbing, or the concept of a flush toilet. Every single stall has a reeking toilet, with evidence of numerous uses without the benefit of a single flush. Every seat is wet. The floors are wet. The sink surrounds are wet. There is dirt and filth every where. The room itself reeks. This isn't a matter of poor housekeeping, this is a matter of disgusting habits and a total lack of concern for other people. A blinding disregard for their own health and cleanliness.

I have never, and I mean never, in my twelve years at this institution, seen a more revolting sight than the ladies' loo on this floor. That includes the public access bathrooms in the main lobby.

This is a professional office floor. There aren't junkies wandering in from rehab here. You couldn't tell that by strolling into the loo.

I could just throw up. Except nobody would even be able to tell.

It's primary day here in the Sunshine State, and I went out bright and early to exercise my civil liberties while I still have them. There was nobody and I mean nobody in the polling place except election workers and they almost cried tears of joy when they saw me and the RLA stroll in.
I'm swanning around the office in my "I Voted Today" sticker, feeling all holier than thou.

But it's a sham and a lie. I did vote, I cast an electronic ballot with no confirmation of any sort other than the ATM ballot screen showing an electronic "Thank You for Voting" message. I can only go on faith that my vote was recorded and recorded correctly.

There isn't a big turnout today because the Democratic candidate has been anointed by the voters in the states that hold their primaries earlier than Florida. There was only one item on the county ballot today besides the pointless exercise of Presidential nominee, and that was the question of whether the county mayoral election should be held on primary day or later. Not an especially pressing question, so the voters aren't turning out.

There I stood, in the half-box of the voting station, not really a booth, anymore. Not like the big ole lever-driven, cloth-curtained booths of my childhood. No. A spindly, waist-high table with an electronic tablet and three "privacy" flaps on the sides, coming to shoulder height. Depressing, really. Kind of like the choice I was faced with.

As usual, I was of three minds about it all. On the one hand, the candidate I wanted to vote for was still on the ballot, just no longer in the race. I could cast a vote for him. On the other hand, that would be a futile gesture, a symbolic vote. On the third hand, I could vote for The One, the one that the voters in other states had named our candidate. Doing so would push the numbers in this most watched of states, and give the pollsters and pundits something to say, an avenue of speculation for what will happen in November. Satisfying as that is, in and of itself, I wanted to be able to vote for the candidate of MY choice, without feeling like it was a waste of everybody's time. Unfortunately, that was not an option.

So I did something I have never knowingly, or willingly done before. I threw my vote away. I voted with my heart and my conscience, and voted for General Clark.

Besides, considering the turnout, I should be able to tell, when the precinct results are in, if my vote was cast and counted. It'll be the one and only vote for the General.

I am thinking about getting a personal trainer. I've had them before and liked having the discipline of someone standing over me making me do another 5 crunches before I broke down and cried.

The problems I had with my earlier trainers were that they were very young; graduate students in fact, and I was working out at the University gym where I (the competitive creature that I am) started to try to match or outdo the people next to me. This resulted in some major surgery to my shoulder after I got a little too butch.
Now I can identify between pain as in oooh, muscle is overworked and pain as in, hmmm, that's a torn rotator cuff. Trust me when I say that isn't a lesson you want to learn first hand.

I've since changed my ways when it comes to gyms. I look for a gym that has women who wear matching outfits and makeup. I know that they aren't going to be doing anything that will cause me to compete to self injury. I won't go under the knife to look like they do. I won't starve myself to be as stringy-thin. It's safe for me there.

So today I interviewed a potential personal trainer. I like her. She's lean, but not stringy. She's not too young, and although blonde, it isn't bleached blonde and in a pony tail. She's from the hood and understands my world view. I told her I want to get leaner, fitter, more flexible and able to ride my bike twenty miles without collapsing.

She talked about women's bodies and their changing needs as they age. I wasn't even offended, because it was coming from a woman of a certain age her own self. What do you think? Keep on at my current gym, or go for the whip and chair of a personal trainer?

I thought it was going to be "Crazy Random Drunk Old Man On the Train" day. There were two different ones between home and the hospital. One sat near me, but left at the next stop, and the other got on a few stops later and plunked down next to another woman and proceeded to chat her up. I don't know how that happened. Most of the time, that's my lot in life. Crazy random guy? They'll sit next to me and fall in love.

The most amazing thing happened when I got off the train, though. I had someone thank me for holding the elevator door for them. Then, in the office elevator, another guy held the door for me. And was polite about it. And talked to me. I was two and two on the day at that point, and held my breath, waiting for the other shoe.

Another random crazy guy? No. The next elevator ride included yet another polite man who held the door and said hello.

I must be dreaming.

But I'm not. The new office? No windows? No air conditioning, either. At least, not yet. I'm dying in here. But I have my diploma up, some of my awards, and a piece done especially for me by the RLA.

The only person to comment on my reorganization was a secretary who seems to be suffering under the delusion that she outranks me, and/or that I actually care that she's giving me the nose in the air, sniffy puss-face.

"You were told not to get rid of the other desk."
"No, I was told not to cost the hospital any money getting rid of the other desk. And I didn't. I also didn't get rid of the desk, I merely reconfigured all of the pieces."

Neener neener neener.

Time to pretend to do some real work.

Okiedokie. I'm done weeping and rending my clothing. Well, I'm not, but it doesn't make for such a good read. Having come out of the shock and awe sadness of the past weekend, I am beginning to notice things like appallingly bad manners, bad style sense and stupidity disguised as management. Those are three separate things, although I do tend to notice a little bit of overlap now and then.
Bad Manners

For the last time, people: If you are standing in an elevator, and a total stranger is heading towards you, making eye contact all the way, the polite thing, the nice thing, the courteous and right thing to do is to hold the fucking door, not press the close door button. Not stand there next to the door or the door open button and let the door shut. What, it'll break your arm to hold a door? You might get to the next floor a nanosecond later than otherwise? Who cares? Hold the fucking door. It won't kill you to be polite. I, on the other hand, may cause your head to spontaneously combust through the sheer force of my will if you let that door close on me one more time.

And this is for the woman in the white lab coat at the Metrorail this morning: Hey! The people on the inside get off or out, then the people on the outside (that would have been you) get in. You don't strong arm your way into an elevator first, preventing the occupants from exiting. In any culture, that's just bad manners.

Bad Style Sense

Hey, Fab Five, do me a favor and take a minute to talk about the importance of clean, shiny shoes. You've taught men how to shave and open a bottle of wine, how about shining their shoes? Guy in cheap aftershave and the Armani suit sitting next to me on the train? It was all working (well, except for the cheap scent) but the shoes were scuffed and shineless. The heels were probably worn down, too. I didn't look. Men, (and women) shine your shoes. 'Nuff said.

Stupidity Disguised

The office move is back on. I am assigned a single office, but with two full desks in it. Not that there's another person going to sit at it, but the director who caved in to the Toxic Manager doesn't want to pay to have the furniture moved. The reason I have two desks and one person is because when the director split the rooms and told us all to play nice, the Boy Wonder and I were going to work in the same office. But Boy Wonder decided to be Boy Diva and copped an attitude, and moved down the hall to another set of offices (away from the rest of the team) where he could have his own space. My manager let him do it. The director let him do it. O.K. He has a private office now, and so do I, so could we get the extra desk out of my space and let me arrange the furniture so that I am not sitting in either the doorway or with my back to the door?

And the answer is: "No." I said, "well, that doesn't seem too equitable (grown-up, corporate speak for "That's not fair!") for everyone else to get what they want, when they want it, despite the repercussions to other team members, but I can't have a desk moved out." Too bad. The director refused the request.

So I did the only thing I could. I went to the new office and proceeded to draw a blueprint of how I want the furniture laid out and then told all the other workers in the three groups that all extra pieces of furniture are available to the first taker, but they have to move it themselves.

As all of us corporate drones know, it's easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.

And so ends another episode of WWRanting.

Bite me.