I'm Getting Paid for This?

On Sunday my Uncle who lives in Logan called to wish me a happy graduation and also to ask me a vital question -- do I still not have a car? That's correct, I informed him, no car for me. Then, he told me something that made my jaw hit the floor: he and my aunt had decided to get a new car, and to get rid of their van, and if I happen to be interested in it, they would love to give it to me! Would I be interested in it? Do bears pee in the forest? Yeah. Totally interested, where do I sign?

Which leads me to Friday. I went into work early so I could take a long lunch because they were bringing the van down to me, and I needed to get it registered, etc. When they showed up at 11 I told them I was taking a long lunch so we could look after everything, and they invited me to lunch; which they then paid for! Hello! I love relatives! My planned two hour lunch ended up being three. Thus, I changed my anticipated going-home time from 5 to 6pm. Sad, but deal-with-able.

Around 4:30 I was sitting in my office pretending to work when the Office Manager (what are we calling this position these days??) poked her head in, "Why aren't you out playing with the guys? They just got a new blade center (In other words, Mom: a really super neat super fast computer, etc. It's cool, go with me on this one), and a bunch of other servers."
"I thought we got those all taken care of last week when they came in?" I asked.
"No, more just came in today."

I jumped out of my seat and headed to the lab.

I joined the group of people milling about. The first person to speak to me was RayOfSunshine. "You can go home, if you want, Granola." (I should note, here, that RayOfSunshine is, apparently, sort of one of my supervisors. I'm not really sure who all I answer to, but he seems to be ok with telling me to go home early, etc, and no one else was telling me I couldn't.)
"Uh, why?"
"Because we're done for the day."
Oh. pause.
"Oh, yeah, you have to wait for your bus, don't you?"
"Pretty much." (The van isn't registered yet, and my aunt and uncle took the plates).
"Well, we're going to have a team bonding experience, if you want to join us." MyBoss proffered.
"Team bonding?"
"Yeah, we're going to play a game or two of Unreal Tournament."
"Sure. Uh, what's that?"
"It's a first person shooter. Have you ever played one of those?"
This lead to a series of jokes about how I am probably a crack-shot and just pretending to abhor violence and guns, etc (not that I have ever commented on gun usage, but, well, they just assumed based on other conversations). Which lead to the obvious question on whether or not I have ever shot a gun. I think they were all surprised when I assured them that I was, in fact, a decent shot, thankyouverymuch.

One of the guys (ok, he needs a name, I shall call him GoteeBoy, since he's the only one in the office with one) helped me set the game up on my machine, and we all commenced playing. I named myself, appropriately, Gun_Fodder. I was pretty much schooled, but it was fun! Oh, and when I left for the day, it was 5:15, with no need to make up lost time.

When I got home I told my roommates about it, and they laughed. None of us could believe that I got paid for 45 minutes of gaming.

Have I mentioned this week, I love my job!

Smokin' in the Girls' Room

As has been addressed before, I work in Corporate America. However, I also work in Utah. We, here, are a completely different world, and most of us like it that way. Few people smoke, and when they do they get to go out side and stand minimum of 10 feet from the door. These types of laws aren't unique to Utah, by any means, nor are they new. We've had 10 or 15 years to adjust to it.

Additionally, and completely related to the topic at hand, as I've mentioned before, there are about 6 or so women who work on the same floor as myself. This, in and of itself, makes me smile, and I've done some math, and if we were all creatures of habit, we could, conceivably each have our own stall in the washroom that no one else ever used. I don't think that's happening, but it could.

Now, armed with those two tid-bits of information I had to laugh when I stepped into my stall and looked at the seat just prior to putting down the crinkly paper cover so thoughtfully provided. There, on the seat, was evidence that the previous occupant couldn't be bothered to take the elevator down six stories to the street level to have a smoke. I shook my head as I wiped away the ashes with some toilet paper -- thanking my lucky stars that I never started that deadly, disgusting, habit.

All this time I was sure smoking in the girls' room stopped after high school. Guess I was wrong.

Nomads in the City

Tuesday evening I got home late and discovered I had a phone call from ExOfNote. Now, don't get me wrong, I was happy that he had called me as soon as he got back into town, and pleasantly surprised (though, frankly, I shouldn't be).

What surprised me the most was the content of his message, "Hey, Granola, it's me. I just wanted to let you know that I got in all right, and, that I was broken into sometime over the weekend. I've called the cops, and don't really know how much stuff the thief got away with. Give me a call."

I called.

Looks like they got his X-Box, a bunch of games, and a box of movies, including two whole anime series. (Yeah, I'm not into anime, either; but it's his thing). However, he felt the need to point out, "Thankfully, I live nomadically, so most of my stuff is still in boxes, so they didn't get away with all that much." Which means, for all of those who missed it: "Even though I moved into this apartment 3 1/2 years ago, and told you 1 1/2 years ago that I was unpacking boxes, I never got around to it. Thank goodness, too. Otherwise they would have gotten away with more stuff, because they could have actually found it." The funny ('ironic', not 'haha') thing is, just that morning I was teasing him about his need to unpack his boxes, and isn't my house more pleasant to be in, because it's clean and there are no boxes sitting all around. Yeah. Take that, me. Looks like the combination of unpack-ed-ness and messiness have left him with the majority of his belongings. Lucky him. That's still not persuasive enough to encourage me to leave messes around the house.

Here's an interesting back story: So, ExOfNote and I broke up right around Valentine's Day (yes, it sucked, thanks for asking), and when he called me four weeks later (hey, when you are used to talking once every one or two weeks because of long distance fees four weeks isn't as long as you might think -- but, it's still a long time) he told me that he had started unpacking boxes, and "had found that painting you did for me, and hung up." (He shared this information only after I had mentioned the painting and told him if he didn't want it, I'd like to have it back.) When I asked what had prompted him unpack after all that time he told me it was about time he got around to it. Here's a quick translation for those of you who are still not on the ball: "I screwed up, and I want you back, and I'm not sure that's going to happen, but I wanted a piece of you around even more so, now that I can't have you, so I pulled out that painting that I've had in a box forever, and hung it up. Now, I can look at it whenever I want to think about you, and stare at it while I cry myself to sleep over my stupidity (Ok, so the last part wasn't in there, but, it should have been)."

When he told me he got robbed I wanted to ask him about my painting. It means a lot to me, and I guess it means a lot to him. I didn't. I don't want to know, just in case.

ExOfNote, The Teen Girl Squad, and Sleeping Arrangements

The Teen Girl Squad who lived in the upstairs of my house for the past eight months finished moving out on Saturday. I really liked them, but they were a whole lot, well, Teen Girl Squad-esque.

In the beginning of this month So and So came down-stairs to pay her rent. Her lease ended on the 23th, and she, apparently, was unaware of how to pro-rate things, so I had to calculate it for her. Fine, whatever, I didn't mind doing it for her -- it wasn't that big of a deal. However, on the 23rd when I went up-stairs to verify her check-out time (I had to check out the state of the place with her there so she could get her deposit back) she said she would be finished "sometime tonight," but probably too late for me to check her out, so would I mind doing it in the morning? "Sometime tonight like midnight, or sometime tonight like 3am?" I asked her. Now, normally I wouldn't care, but let me let you in on a little secret of which she was blissfully unaware -- ExOfNote was in town, and in the interest of saving on a hotel room I had every intention of him sleeping on the futon in her freshly vacated living room. So, 3am wasn't going to work for us, basically.

"This morning, like 3am," she told me. Ahh, tragically (for her) I held the trump card -- we both knew how much of a brat she had been about me pro-rating her rent exactly for her (as in: to the last cent). So, I sighed, shook my head sadly, and regretfully told her that her contract ended on the 23rd, so she had to be out by midnight on the 23rd. However, I wouldn't mind checking her out in the morning. Later plans changed and I checked her out that night, around 12-ish. As she and her family left ExOfNote and I made our way downstairs and hung out for about an hour before I took him upstairs to sleep.

Now, let's fast forward to Tuesday morning. Once again, ExOfNote had spent the night in the vacant living room upstairs, to which I have all of the keys. Due to a series of events which I shall undoubtedly relate later, I got up early and took my roommate on an errand before dropping her off at work. Immediately thereafter I came home, and headed upstairs to wake ExOfNote so he could get ready because we had to leave for the airport shortly. I walked in the front door, and sat down on the futon upon which he was sleeping, and rubbed his tummy to wake him up. At that moment there was a knock on the door. I had a momentary panic attack when I recognized the silhouette -- my retarded landlord! The problem here, which is not readily apparent to any of you is many-fold:

(1) the front door opens into the living room;
(2) the living room is ultra-small, so the futon is right in front of the door so I couldn't open it all the way;
(3) ExOfNote was still sleeping;
(4) the front door has a 4" wooden frame holding in a clear glass window;
(5) even though the front door has blinds hanging on it, I am well aware exactly how much you can see into the room with them closed and standing in the correct proximity to door -- which is where my landlord was standing; and
(6) my landlord had no clue ExOfNote was staying there; however, due to the previous morning's events this could be a huge problem.

Allow me to take a quick tangent --
Sunday night Mom, Dad, ExOfNote, and myself all went to Salt Lake and got one hotel room (2 beds and the most hilarious roll-away ever! My butt practically hit the floor when I climbed in.) to save money. I got up early to take the folks to the airport then returned to the hotel room to get some more sleep. When I finally got up to take a shower my landlord decided it was a good time to call. ExOfNote answered my cell phone and told him that I was in the shower and would call him when I got out. YIKES! Not that it's any of his business, but that coupled with him seeing ExOfNote sleeping in the upstairs can lead a fellow to assume some seriously incorrect things.

Anyway, so there we were, ExOfNote sleeping peacefully on the couch in the middle of the living room of a supposedly vacant unit, me sitting on the edge of said futon rubbing his tummy, and my landlord, standing at the door seeing, and assuming, more than I would like. I got up, opened the door, and stepped out-side where we talked for a bit. 10 minutes later my landlord asks the one question I had been hoping he wouldn't: "So, can I see inside?" Sure, no problem. I let him in, and we step around the couch. By this time ExOfNote is awake enough to be completely disoriented. "This is my friend, ExOfNote. He's in town for the weekend, and we needed a place to put him. You don't mind, do you?" "No, not at all." *Whew!* No more questions about that, at all. No discussion, no nothing. Thank goodness, too; because, let's face it, even though it's not remotely any of his business if ExOfNote and I are just friends or having wild-monkey-jungle sex every waking moment, I didn't want to have to explain jack-anything to him.

Flamed!

My father, whom I love dearly, is a political retard. The man has no clue about his politics. Don't get me wrong, he's not a stupid individual. He is, however, politically ignorant.

Let me back up.

Mumsy and Dad-doo came to town for my GRADUATION!!!!!!, as well as my mother's brother, MyCrazyUncle, and ExOfNote. I anticipated a few bumps along the way, and they happened. The worst of which can be summed up as follows: MyCrazyUncle and my father were talking about the history of the American-Blacks. Neither are remotely sensitive to their surroundings, and as they were regurgitating political nonsense to each other I sat mortified in the back of the house hoping that my black roommate couldn't hear what they were saying, despite the fact that she was in the next room. A week later, my father is still oblivious to the fact that he was not only wrong, but way out of line. Additionally, not only should he had never said those things, he especially shouldn't have said them in her ear shot. Now, I'm not saying my dad is a racist or anything -- I'm saying he's retarded. Big difference.

Later in the trip my father made a few way out in left(as in baseball)-field comments that were not only blatantly wrong, they were also designed to raise my ire. The thing that pisses me off the most is that he knows he's doing it (it's intentional, people), and then acts (or really is) all surprised when I give him a piece of my mind. I've met Trolls who are more willing to accept the consequences of their actions than my father.

I guess, in general, I wouldn't be so enraged by it if he actually did his own research and instead of spouting mindless propaganda of the political party he ascribes to, or even tries to apply personal brain power to the effort, rather than following the "In either ear, out the mouth" method. Oh! And, on top of that -- if we ever disagree politically (erm, like every time we talk politics) he feels the need to "educate" (which usually consists of yelling his current political philosophy in my general direction) me and gets upset when I tell him in not so many words that he has not idea what the hell he is talking about.

Honestly, I'd rather get in a flame war over mechanical pencil preferences than talk politics with him, at least with that I don't have to spend Thanksgiving with the moron on the other side of the "discussion."

NewJob-centric

I was just glancing over recent blog entries, and realized how NewJob-centric they have been, of late. Don't worry, this post isn't going to change that theme.

Last week I was talking to MyBoss and RayOfSunshine about why I was hired. I jokingly said it was because they needed a token minority on the team, and I was it. That launched a whole discussion, including how you can't tell in an interview if someone can code or not. Then MyBoss said that he goes mostly on intuition, and how he feels the person in question is going to work with the team. Then he said, "Actually, we were like, 'Yes! We found someone who can argue with RayOfSunshine! Hire her!'" We all laughed, but deep down we also all know that I do hold my own with him quite well.

Then, today MyBoss and MyTeamLead (I think that's what he is to me...) stopped by my office and asked me to help out with something. Then, they said, "Actually, we were going to go grab a Coke first. Do you want to come?" I replied that I didn't drink Coke, but sure, I'd come for the company, and to get some hot water for my herbal tea. MyBoss was all appoligetic that he had offered me caffeine. --sometimes I really love Utah-- I just smiled, and said, "Actually, I don't drink soda, I just have to be different." MyTeamLead commented that that was a good thing, we needed someone different on the team, someone who could would stand up to RayOfSunshine and balance him out. We all laughed, then MyBoss, still laughing, said, "The way you two go at it! It's funny. You just go after him!" I kind of get the feeling that people usually cower in his presence, which is silly. RayOfSunshine is a really nice guy, he is just super opinionated as well. And, he doesn't exactly back down about it, either.

It's GranolA, Thank You Very Much

At lunch last week MyBoss asked me if anyone ever called me 'Granoly.' With out missing a beat I replied, "Not if they want to live to see tomorrow." "Glad I asked!" He said with a smile. Someone else (I think it may have been RayOfSunshine) asked what happened if they did, "I sic Bruno on them." He didn't push the matter.

Which leads me to this: do many other people with names that are occasionally shortened get that question. I mean, David, Michael, and all those aside, do girls with shorten-able names get asked that. I can see some girl names getting shortened, most specifically, not the ones where the new ending is an 'i', 'ie', or 'y.' Why do people think that I would want my name shortened to some brain-dead sounding name. When I introduce myself, if I wanted to go by 'Granoly' I'd say, "Hi, my name is 'Granoly'." or something similar. However, I want to go by 'Granola' so I introduce myself that way.

I think this may just be a personal prejudice on my part. When I think of girls whose names end with an 'i', 'ie' or a 'y' I immediately start wondering about the aptitude of said individual. Generally, people, generally. There are some names that work, Angie, for example. Cindi, however, (generally) does not. Those are not names you give your female child if you don't want her to grow up to be a bimbette, or a gum-smacking receptionist. Names given to future high powered women simply shouldn't end with the 'ee!' sound. No, they should end with a solid sound, 'a' being the most common sound; but 'n' is also do-able. (I think I may have just alienated my entire reading audience, including Mumsy and my sisters: Sissi and Sissie)

So, for heavens sake, people! When naming your girl child think up what ever you want to call her, and then turn it into a stuffy potentially Wall Street butt-kicking name. You can always call her 'Sherri' for short.

Your Personality Proceeds You

It was quitting time all over the corporate world, and instead of going home I was standing around talking with two of my coworkers. Well, one guy on my team, and another guy who works on the same floor as we.

The conversation had lasted all of five minutes when the man I didn't know said to me, "I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced." I thought to myself -- I didn't think we had been informally introduced, either. I smiled and said, "I'm Granola!" and extended my hand. He took it and said, "I'm TokenGayGuy." (Ok, he didn't say that, but my gay-dar was going off like nobody's business, and I can't really be bothered to think up good blog name for him.)

Then he said, "I know who you are, your personality proceeds you." I smiled and mockingly freaked out, "What!?! I've been talked about? What do you guys do, stand around the water cooler gossiping?" (For the record, we don't have a water cooler, so gossip usually happens around the hot coca machine/ping pong table.)

My team member -- we shall call him RayOfSunshine, because he's not -- then asked how many girls I'd seen on the floor in the past three weeks. Including the administrative assistants, and a project manager, the total is five. Out of 150. I suppose a new girl might bear mentioning. Ok, fine, I concede the point, but is my personality proceeding me a good thing? I'm going to pretend that it is, thank you very much.

Uni-Brow -- The Universal Fashion Don't

Thankfully, this is not an issue I suffer with. I would definitely be more diligent about plucking it I did. Thus, generally, I don't look at my face and think: "When did I sprout a uni-brow?!??!" Sadly, the lighting in the washroom at work are underneath the mirrors. The over-all effect is pretty cool, and the room is bright without being institutional. Specifically, however, the combination of the lighting and my glasses creates a shadow across that space in my face that is occasionally reserved for uni-brow growth. This means that just about every other time I use the washroom I have to stop and do a double-take. I have become paranoid that I am, in deed, sprouting a uni-brown, and am too clueless to notice. Thankfully, the lighting in the office washroom is going to keep me checking that frequently enough that I'll catch it if it ever happens, and I may just get around to finally getting my eyebrows professionally done -- just so I don't have to continually analyzing their un-groom-ed-ness.

New Shoes

I just got some cute new shoes from the Target. I hate new shoes. Only because they give me blisters and hurt the first few times I wear them. As my lovely roommate says: "New shoes aren't used until you've bled in them at least once." Well, if that's the case, then I never want my new shoes to be used. Unfortunately, I think these are going to be used by the end of the day. Darn it! (must. buy. band-aids.)

Making Hot Men Hotter

I'm shallow. It's true. There really is little I can add to that claim, except to expound upon it. See, it works like this -- I'd love to say that the first thing I notice about a member of the opposite gender is something deep and meaningful, like personality, or spirituality, or a whole list of things, but let's be honest: I notice his looks. Then I start going down the mental checklist of attractive features.

Here, I feel the need to clarify a few points:
1) If he's super-hot, but dumber than a pile of sticks, he instantly becomes ugly;
2) If he's moderately attractive, but is a raging intellect, his attractively level sky-rockets.

That being said, the best way to make an attractive man scorching hot is to add a brain and then some personality. Yeah. Now I just need to convince the guys I know who fall into the category that they want to date me... muahahahahaha!

Late Nights and Phone Calls

I recently relayed a dream that I had to my roommate. Then, without explanation she asked me a very direct question -- which I answered with my usually honesty. We had a really interesting discussion. In the end nothing was resolved, but I headed straight to my scriptures to do some more -- and in depth -- studying.

It's been a rough couple of weeks since then. Not because of that conversation, but as a precursor to it, I've really been avoiding my personal scripture study, for fear of what I might learn, I think. Our conversation just cemented in my mind a greater need to quit the avoidance dance.

General Conference weekend came and went. I fasted and prayed about my question, but I didn't really get a satisfactory answer -- despite my hopes and prayers.

Wednesday the 6th I was having a particularly difficult time with things, and really needed to talk to someone about my concerns and questions. More than that, however, I needed someone to bear testimony to me of the things I have been concerned about. I couldn't think of a single person I would want to discuss my questions with, much less one who would still be awake at the un-Earthly hour I was.

Finally, I remembered someone who would be. We had never really had deep religious conversations before, but I knew he would comfort me, if he could. I also knew he would be honest with me -- if my questions were ones he couldn't answer he wouldn't try to fake it just to make me feel better. So, I text messaged him. He didn't reply, and I sunk further into my misery, sobbing into my pillow.

After 20 minutes, I thought of another person who would be less helpful, but more help than just suffering with my questions. I sent him a message asking if he was awake. He called. We talked for an hour and a half. He didn't really tell me what I needed to hear, but his concern was comfort enough, it seemed. Then, as we were about to hang up my other friend finally wrote me back -- he was up, and what did I need? I hung up with my friend and immediately sent him a text with my question.

He called. "What are you doing up at this hour?" He demanded (it was, after all, early early). "What do you think I'm doing up?" "Either writing a paper, or reading scriptures." "Well, I'm not writing a paper." Then, he knew exactly what to say. I can't recall all of what he said, but the things he did spoke to my soul more deeply than my intellect. I needed those words. We talked for what felt like for ever but really only amounted to two and a half hours. We hung up only because his phone was dying. I don't know how much longer we would have talked, but I do know that we spoke at least as long as I needed.

On Sunday I wanted to call him again, just to talk things over. I wanted him to come over to my house and hold me as I wept about my concerns and listened to his testimony, again and again. I didn't call. He wouldn't come over. He also certainly wouldn't hold me. It's better that I didn't call. However, I wish he would pick up the phone, just to check on me.

Smile!

This afternoon I had to ask my boss a question, so immediately following our team meeting I caught him before he could leave and head back to his office. The following transpired:
"Hey, MyBoss -- "
Smile. "Yeah, Granola, what's up?" Smile.
"Erm --" Ok, it was an odd smile and threw me for a loop, give a girl a break! Smile back. "I was wondering about blah, blah, blah..."
During the course of the whole conversation he kept smiling at me in the same, moderately creepy sort of way. In all honesty, had he been single, and I interested, I would have taken it to be a flirtatious sort of smile (and not creepy on any level). Given, however, that he is married, and I'm not interested (and assume he's not either. If his kids are any indication, his wife is beautiful; and, from the way he talks about her, smart). So, I was thrown a little off guard. In this sort of situation, my inclination is to check first my cleavage to make sure everything is covered appropriately, and then my teeth, to make sure I don't have any spinach in them. However, as he was standing right there smiling at me I just pushed through the conversation, trying to ignore it. As soon as he left, however, I did a quick cleavage check, and I'm happy to report that even though he is a good foot taller than I, he got an eye-full of nothing. My teeth were also good. So, I have no clue. Maybe he was just happy to see that I am still willing to come back after the first two weeks. Who knows. I'm not going to ask.

Caught in the Act

Allow me to begin by letting you all in on a not so little non-secret of mine. I am, erm, "Well Endowed," as they say. This has been a problem for me generally only in the fashion arena. There is little I can do to change my situation, so I just deal, and make sure that my shirts don't show too much when I bend over. Brief aside: I once caught a guy I was dating staring down my shirt when I was leaning over the table reaching for something. It was an awkward moment when I realized what was going on. Mainly because he had just finished telling me that he didn't like breasts, which was an acceptable revelation, considering he "liked boys more than girls."

With that piece of background in mind, read on: Tonight as I was walking down the hall in the programming building to get a drink, I felt a slight draft. Worried about the aforementioned fashion issue I glanced down to make sure everything was aligned correctly. Looking up, I immediately made eye-contact with some sun-starved nerd. He had seen the whole thing. Only, from his angle, I had simply been checking out my own cleavage. Great. I hope he keeps that image in his spank-file for a long time. As long as I don't have to know about it.

Corporate Whore

Last Monday as I was getting ready to run off to my brand-spankin' new grown-up job I looked at my suited-self in the mirror, and smoothing my lapels thought to myself, "Wow. I'm officially a member of the corporate world! I'm a Corporate Whore! Oh no!" Funny, that thought made me smile even bigger, and with more confidence as I marched my way to the bus stop. Then, Tuesday night my roommate and I were hanging out after I got home from work. She looked at my suit, smiled and said, "You Corporate Whore!" She quickly assured me that she didn't think it was true, and had always wanted to say it to someone. I smiled -- I feel exactly the same way. The great part is, I live in a very family oriented community, and BigNameCompany treats us that way. Sure there will be late nights when we have huge deliverables, but that's the way it is with every company. However, the guys on my team have been leaving at 5pm every night, so I'm expecting it will be this way as a general rule. Nice.

So, while I am a grown-up, and a member of Corporate America, I get to be a normal person, too. Yeah for me!