Argephontes
9/20/2002
Apropo of nothing whatsoever - just looked down and had a "hee!" moment. I'm wearing monkey socks, with blue stripes on.
¶ 9/20/2002 11:17:00 AM
¶ 9/20/2002 11:17:00 AM
A reminder that it's Friday ... *obscene amounts of joy*
The Friday Five:
1. Would you say that you're good at keeping in touch with people? It depends on the person. As a general rule, the answer is no. I don't write letters, I sometimes slack off with e-mail... but it depends on the person, too. Courtney lived off in foreign parts for about 7 years, and we never lost touch. I the person calls me, I will call them back- basically, meet me halfway, and I will so keep in touch. Disappear for six months and ignore my e-mails... I might be busy when you finally call.
2. Which communication method do you usually prefer/use: e-mail, telephone, snail mail, blog comments, or meeting in person? Why? I'd much rather meet in person. The phone comes in a close second. I love getting letters in the mail- but I'm terrible about writing letters, so I won't be mad if the other person is, too. Oddly enough, I really don't use e-mail to "keep in touch."
3. Do you have an instant messenger program? How many? Why/why not? How often do you use it? Yes. I use AIM, all day, all the time... It's the only way to get through the workday, and much easier to use than the phone. To add to the prior question, I actually have a couple of friends that I keep in touch with almost exclusively through AIM (probably why I don't use e-mail).
4. Do most of your close friends live nearby or far away? Nearby, although it hasn't always been that way. It probably won't be that way in the near future, either.
5. Are you an "out of sight, out of mind" person, or do you believe that "distance makes the heart grow fonder"? Again, it depends on the person.
¶ 9/20/2002 10:22:00 AM
The Friday Five:
1. Would you say that you're good at keeping in touch with people? It depends on the person. As a general rule, the answer is no. I don't write letters, I sometimes slack off with e-mail... but it depends on the person, too. Courtney lived off in foreign parts for about 7 years, and we never lost touch. I the person calls me, I will call them back- basically, meet me halfway, and I will so keep in touch. Disappear for six months and ignore my e-mails... I might be busy when you finally call.
2. Which communication method do you usually prefer/use: e-mail, telephone, snail mail, blog comments, or meeting in person? Why? I'd much rather meet in person. The phone comes in a close second. I love getting letters in the mail- but I'm terrible about writing letters, so I won't be mad if the other person is, too. Oddly enough, I really don't use e-mail to "keep in touch."
3. Do you have an instant messenger program? How many? Why/why not? How often do you use it? Yes. I use AIM, all day, all the time... It's the only way to get through the workday, and much easier to use than the phone. To add to the prior question, I actually have a couple of friends that I keep in touch with almost exclusively through AIM (probably why I don't use e-mail).
4. Do most of your close friends live nearby or far away? Nearby, although it hasn't always been that way. It probably won't be that way in the near future, either.
5. Are you an "out of sight, out of mind" person, or do you believe that "distance makes the heart grow fonder"? Again, it depends on the person.
¶ 9/20/2002 10:22:00 AM
9/19/2002
Hi, My name is Mikkie. I'm a chronic nail biter.
My fingernails have been irritating me lately. I bite my nails- always have. Most of the time its entirely unconscious (like during a riveting movie, or when I'm reading), and then I'll suddenly realize that my teeth feel funny because I've been gnawing away.
I've been piddling around on the net looking at home remedies for grody cuticles (side affect of Nail biting) and found some neat stuff.
Apparently, Nail Biters have a profile:
"Nail Biters are more often male than female after age 10 (10% fewer girls bite their nails than boys), and individuals with a higher rate of intelligence tend to bite their nails more than those of less intelligence. (Studies seem to suggest this is because people with a higher rate of intelligence have more responsibility, which may provide more anxiety.) "
Hee.
There's also a bunch of stuff about self-esteem and some other crap. Very interesting. The problem though, is that apparently nail biting can stem from so many different roots - self-esteem, anxiety, oral fixation, etc. I'm convinced my biting is a combination of oral fixation and boredom, which lead naturally to Just Plain Habit. Apparently How To Stop is related to Why You Started.
Naturally, sheer habit is the hardest of all to eliminate.
I think its funny that I'm more concerned about not biting my nails than I am with not smoking. In fact, one of my first thoughts was that every time I caught myself biting a nail, I should smoke a cigarette to curb the urge. One vice at a time, I guess... plus, I enjoy cigarettes - I don't so much enjoy digesting fingernail. It just sort of happens.
An ex boyfriend once told me that I had the ugliest hands he had ever seen- but that somehow that made them incredibly sexy. I did NOT take that as a compliment. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of having ugly hands. ¶ 9/19/2002 12:06:00 PM
My fingernails have been irritating me lately. I bite my nails- always have. Most of the time its entirely unconscious (like during a riveting movie, or when I'm reading), and then I'll suddenly realize that my teeth feel funny because I've been gnawing away.
I've been piddling around on the net looking at home remedies for grody cuticles (side affect of Nail biting) and found some neat stuff.
Apparently, Nail Biters have a profile:
"Nail Biters are more often male than female after age 10 (10% fewer girls bite their nails than boys), and individuals with a higher rate of intelligence tend to bite their nails more than those of less intelligence. (Studies seem to suggest this is because people with a higher rate of intelligence have more responsibility, which may provide more anxiety.) "
Hee.
There's also a bunch of stuff about self-esteem and some other crap. Very interesting. The problem though, is that apparently nail biting can stem from so many different roots - self-esteem, anxiety, oral fixation, etc. I'm convinced my biting is a combination of oral fixation and boredom, which lead naturally to Just Plain Habit. Apparently How To Stop is related to Why You Started.
Naturally, sheer habit is the hardest of all to eliminate.
I think its funny that I'm more concerned about not biting my nails than I am with not smoking. In fact, one of my first thoughts was that every time I caught myself biting a nail, I should smoke a cigarette to curb the urge. One vice at a time, I guess... plus, I enjoy cigarettes - I don't so much enjoy digesting fingernail. It just sort of happens.
An ex boyfriend once told me that I had the ugliest hands he had ever seen- but that somehow that made them incredibly sexy. I did NOT take that as a compliment. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of having ugly hands. ¶ 9/19/2002 12:06:00 PM
9/18/2002
I talked to my Dad last night. The one that lives far, far away, in a kingdom across the sea. (Well, France. But "a kingdom across the sea" sounds pretty).
He is in L.A. right now, and we took advantage of the domestic rates and had a nice long phone chat. But it isn't the same as visiting. I hate to whine like a little baby, but I miss my Daddy.
¶ 9/18/2002 03:37:00 PM
He is in L.A. right now, and we took advantage of the domestic rates and had a nice long phone chat. But it isn't the same as visiting. I hate to whine like a little baby, but I miss my Daddy.
¶ 9/18/2002 03:37:00 PM
9/17/2002
Why is it only Tuesday? I thought surely it must be Thursday. Only, it isn't.
Damn. ¶ 9/17/2002 10:08:00 AM
Damn. ¶ 9/17/2002 10:08:00 AM
9/16/2002
As promised… I had a little Friday the 13th adventure this weekend.
Courtney decided late Thursday afternoon that she wanted to have a party Friday night. Girls only, involving lots of John Cusack. However, it being last minute, several people already had plans.
This is not unusual. Court is one of those people who, once she gets an Idea, cannot be stopped. Practicality and timing be damned- Courtney decided to have a party on Friday night and she was damned well going to. It also doesn’t help that all the other people she invited said they would come- “We’ll go out to the bar for a couple hours. Then we’ll come over around 10 or 11” was the general consensus. Only eleven o’clock rolls around, and Court, Alicia, and I are sitting around getting antsy. I was feeling silly and rambunctious and wanted to be out. Seven girls drinking bourbon and shouting at the TV along with Better Off Dead would have been one thing, but three of us sedately cuddled up on the sofa watching it wasn’t what I had in mind for an evening, and I could see that that’s where it was headed. I don’t think that I was alone in this.
We knew, too, exactly where everyone was. Court is friends with some folks in a band. Oddly enough, I went to high school with one of them, too (This in itself is funny. Courtney kept talking about her friend John and I had no clue. And then one day, we met, and had a total “Oh! It’s YOU…” moment.). I have yet to see this band. Either the timing is off (“Sorry. Can’t Come. I have to go to Memphis,” or “Sorry. I want to watch Better Off Dead tonight”…) or else they’re playing someplace that I don’t want to go.
Namely, Frasier’s.
Frasier’s is a redneck bar. I don’t even think that it’s attached to a city. It’s what we Mississippi folk call “out in the county,” meaning its out in the Boonies, and its not listed in the phone book, and you have to brave all manner of nocturnal critters scurrying out in front of your vehicle to get there. It’s not even in our county, which is why it exists. Our liquor laws are whacked. Basically, the bars close at midnight, except on Thursday and Friday, when they close at one. No alcohol whatsoever on Sunday. And, you can’t buy cold beer (well, to take home. Obviously, if you get a beer in a bar, it’s cold). Marshall county, which is across the river – don’t ask which one, it’s just “The River” – has cold beer. Sells cold beer on Sunday. Also allows bars to stay open until three. Hence, Frasier’s.
And of course, on this fateful eve, they were playing at Frasier’s. I agreed to go. What the hell? Alicia, too, agreed- she’s generally up for anything if it involves alcohol. Unless she’s ready for bed. Do NOT stand in the way of that girl and her bedtime, or you WILL be sorry.
So we all decide, around 11:00, that we’ll go to Frasier’s. Drink. Dance. Socialize. And then come back and watch John Cusack movies. Only there’s a problem- None of us actually knows where the hell this bar is.
Easily solved- Courtney can call her friend, who is guaranteed to be there because her SO is in the band. We discovered later that the reason she never answered is that she left her cell phone in the car. We also tried calling information, looking in the phonebook, checking the bands website. No luck at any of it.
But does this deter us from our mission? Hell no. Courtney has been there before, several times. She isn’t sure exactly where it is, but she thinks that she’ll be able to recognize the landmarks. We know its off Hwy 7, in Marshall county. Courtney remembers that it’s a left turn off the highway. No problem.
We crossed the river and entered Marshall County. After Court’s response to “Do you think this is it?” was “I don’t know. Try it,” to the first two left-hand turns we encountered, our new game plan was just to take every left turn until we found the right one.
And, boy did we. There is about a twenty-five mile stretch of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING between the line and the next town, Holly Springs. We turned left. We rode down strange, narrow winding roads that suddenly and without warning became a gravel driveway to a tiny, beat up trailers with a bigger satellite dishes along side. The kind of places where you feared slowing down, else the big man with overalls and two teeth might come running out with a shotgun and a Doberman.
I became the master of the 3-point turn, once turning around on a gravel road wide enough for only one car, with no shoulder and a steep ditch on either side (Yeah, I totally rock).
It felt like high school. Driving around, knowing there’s a party going on somewhere that we aren’t a part of.
“Do you know where it is?”
“No. You don’t?”
“No.”
“I know it’s out in Marshall County somewhere.”
“We could prolly find it.”
“Yeah. Want to?”
There’s a certain type of mentality that assumes a lot in thinking that you can just find one little place in a whole big county. And yet. What can I say?
It was fun. We laughed at ourselves. We turned up “Life is a Highway” really loud on the radio. We discussed the merit in perfecting the art of the 3-point turn.
Eventually, we turned the bend and saw the lights that signified Holly Springs up ahead. Still no Frasier’s.
Holly Springs is a tiny town, but it’s at a crossroads of a few different highways so it has a little hub of well-lit, Interstate-friendly commerce- Nice gas stations, a Huddle House, a McDonalds. We stopped at a Texaco so Alicia could get a frozen Dew, and Court could try calling her girl again.
While we were there, we thought maybe we’d ask some people if they could give us directions. It went a bit like this:
Us: Excuse me. Do you know how to get to Frasier’s? It’s a bar off Hwy 7 somewhere.
Them: *Eyes get very large* Frasier’s!? Uh…. Well. I’ve heard of it. But, uh, I don’t, uh, know where it is or anything. *Pause, giving us the three-times over* …Frasier’s. Damn.
You could tell by their tone of voice that even if they did know where it was, they weren’t actually going to admit to it. Which led Alicia and me to wonder what in the hell kind of place this was that Courtney was trying to drag us out to, not mention strengthen the conviction that had previously kept me from going out there.
By this time it was probably around 12:30. We decided to give up- Frasier’s was obviously not meant to be found by us, not that night. At 12:30 am on a Friday night, in Holly Springs, there’s only one thing to do.
Graceland Too.
Let me tell you about Graceland Too. There is a man in Holly Springs who lives in an historical, antebellum home who just so happens to be so obsessed with the King that he has dedicated his entire house as a shrine to Elvis Presley. Basically, he charges $5 to give you a tour of his home, which houses 35 years worth of Elvis Memorabilia. 24 hours a day. Most people go sometime in the middle of the night, after the bars close. Most people go in the wee hours after the bars close (intoxicated, naturally). Upon your third visit, you become a lifetime member, get your picture on the wall, and no longer have to pay.
The funny part is that he doesn’t keep a record of who visits. He just remembers people. That freaks me out.
I’d never been before. You’d think that in my twelve years (half my life) of living here that I’d have gone. Somehow I’d just never gotten around to it- if I was drunk enough to think of it and WANT to go, then I was probably too drunk to make the drive. That’s what I tell people when they make that OMG! Face at me after I tell them I haven’t been, anyway.
We got some crack-addled not-really-directions from a different gas station (I was too embarrassed to go back into the Texaco and ask them something else). Once again, we took it upon ourselves to just go that way and see if we could find it.
Amazingly enough, considering our track record, we found it easily. Although it would have been hard to miss. This place was crazy. Red, white, and blue lights strung around white, fake Christmas trees and stone lions painted (badly) in gold and silver. It was gloriously tacky. There was a bell, and a sign that said “RING BEII” with black magic-markered in feet on the two Is. We rang the Beii.
And nothing happened. I think we stood out there for about thirty minutes, occasionally dinging the bell again, making other noises. Courtney, who for some reason was embarrassed to be ringing the bell, had no qualms about going around and peaking in the windows. She confirmed that the inside was indeed at least as tacky as the outside, if not tackier.
We knew the man was up, and at home- there was another car with an Ole Miss commuter sticker parked out front. We assumed he was mid tour, and maybe the etiquette of the place was to wait your turn. While we waited, we defiled the other car with a fingered “Hotty Toddy” and “Lick Me” on the foggy back windshield.
Eventually, we gave up. Tired, the potential thrill of the evening long past, we drove home. Alicia fell asleep in the back while Courtney and I sang along with Duran Duran.
I finally got home, stone-cold sober, at about 3:00 a.m.. Ryan came home shortly after.
“Hey, babe. What’d you do?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Saturday morning, Courtney told me that her friend had called right after we’d left- they were leaving the mythic Frasier’s and she’d realized she’d left her cell phone in the car. She felt guilty that we’d had to drive around all night- blah, blah, blah.
“So,” Courtney asked. “How do you get to Frasier’s?”
Now pay attention. Because this may come in handy some day:
….pause for effect….
If a dyslexic, especially a dyslexic that is Courtney, tells you that something is on the left, then rest assured that it is most DEFINITELY going to be on the RIGHT.
Now. That said, I had a damn good time Friday night.
In high school, on a night like that, we’d have all gone home grumpy and embarrassed, with that sinking feeling of having missed something really cool.
But I’ve been to a bar with a band before. The misadventure, the looking for it- that was something unique. That moment in NoWhere with two of the best friends a girl could have at your side- now that was what I call a Helluva Night. ¶ 9/16/2002 04:02:00 PM
Courtney decided late Thursday afternoon that she wanted to have a party Friday night. Girls only, involving lots of John Cusack. However, it being last minute, several people already had plans.
This is not unusual. Court is one of those people who, once she gets an Idea, cannot be stopped. Practicality and timing be damned- Courtney decided to have a party on Friday night and she was damned well going to. It also doesn’t help that all the other people she invited said they would come- “We’ll go out to the bar for a couple hours. Then we’ll come over around 10 or 11” was the general consensus. Only eleven o’clock rolls around, and Court, Alicia, and I are sitting around getting antsy. I was feeling silly and rambunctious and wanted to be out. Seven girls drinking bourbon and shouting at the TV along with Better Off Dead would have been one thing, but three of us sedately cuddled up on the sofa watching it wasn’t what I had in mind for an evening, and I could see that that’s where it was headed. I don’t think that I was alone in this.
We knew, too, exactly where everyone was. Court is friends with some folks in a band. Oddly enough, I went to high school with one of them, too (This in itself is funny. Courtney kept talking about her friend John and I had no clue. And then one day, we met, and had a total “Oh! It’s YOU…” moment.). I have yet to see this band. Either the timing is off (“Sorry. Can’t Come. I have to go to Memphis,” or “Sorry. I want to watch Better Off Dead tonight”…) or else they’re playing someplace that I don’t want to go.
Namely, Frasier’s.
Frasier’s is a redneck bar. I don’t even think that it’s attached to a city. It’s what we Mississippi folk call “out in the county,” meaning its out in the Boonies, and its not listed in the phone book, and you have to brave all manner of nocturnal critters scurrying out in front of your vehicle to get there. It’s not even in our county, which is why it exists. Our liquor laws are whacked. Basically, the bars close at midnight, except on Thursday and Friday, when they close at one. No alcohol whatsoever on Sunday. And, you can’t buy cold beer (well, to take home. Obviously, if you get a beer in a bar, it’s cold). Marshall county, which is across the river – don’t ask which one, it’s just “The River” – has cold beer. Sells cold beer on Sunday. Also allows bars to stay open until three. Hence, Frasier’s.
And of course, on this fateful eve, they were playing at Frasier’s. I agreed to go. What the hell? Alicia, too, agreed- she’s generally up for anything if it involves alcohol. Unless she’s ready for bed. Do NOT stand in the way of that girl and her bedtime, or you WILL be sorry.
So we all decide, around 11:00, that we’ll go to Frasier’s. Drink. Dance. Socialize. And then come back and watch John Cusack movies. Only there’s a problem- None of us actually knows where the hell this bar is.
Easily solved- Courtney can call her friend, who is guaranteed to be there because her SO is in the band. We discovered later that the reason she never answered is that she left her cell phone in the car. We also tried calling information, looking in the phonebook, checking the bands website. No luck at any of it.
But does this deter us from our mission? Hell no. Courtney has been there before, several times. She isn’t sure exactly where it is, but she thinks that she’ll be able to recognize the landmarks. We know its off Hwy 7, in Marshall county. Courtney remembers that it’s a left turn off the highway. No problem.
We crossed the river and entered Marshall County. After Court’s response to “Do you think this is it?” was “I don’t know. Try it,” to the first two left-hand turns we encountered, our new game plan was just to take every left turn until we found the right one.
And, boy did we. There is about a twenty-five mile stretch of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING between the line and the next town, Holly Springs. We turned left. We rode down strange, narrow winding roads that suddenly and without warning became a gravel driveway to a tiny, beat up trailers with a bigger satellite dishes along side. The kind of places where you feared slowing down, else the big man with overalls and two teeth might come running out with a shotgun and a Doberman.
I became the master of the 3-point turn, once turning around on a gravel road wide enough for only one car, with no shoulder and a steep ditch on either side (Yeah, I totally rock).
It felt like high school. Driving around, knowing there’s a party going on somewhere that we aren’t a part of.
“Do you know where it is?”
“No. You don’t?”
“No.”
“I know it’s out in Marshall County somewhere.”
“We could prolly find it.”
“Yeah. Want to?”
There’s a certain type of mentality that assumes a lot in thinking that you can just find one little place in a whole big county. And yet. What can I say?
It was fun. We laughed at ourselves. We turned up “Life is a Highway” really loud on the radio. We discussed the merit in perfecting the art of the 3-point turn.
Eventually, we turned the bend and saw the lights that signified Holly Springs up ahead. Still no Frasier’s.
Holly Springs is a tiny town, but it’s at a crossroads of a few different highways so it has a little hub of well-lit, Interstate-friendly commerce- Nice gas stations, a Huddle House, a McDonalds. We stopped at a Texaco so Alicia could get a frozen Dew, and Court could try calling her girl again.
While we were there, we thought maybe we’d ask some people if they could give us directions. It went a bit like this:
Us: Excuse me. Do you know how to get to Frasier’s? It’s a bar off Hwy 7 somewhere.
Them: *Eyes get very large* Frasier’s!? Uh…. Well. I’ve heard of it. But, uh, I don’t, uh, know where it is or anything. *Pause, giving us the three-times over* …Frasier’s. Damn.
You could tell by their tone of voice that even if they did know where it was, they weren’t actually going to admit to it. Which led Alicia and me to wonder what in the hell kind of place this was that Courtney was trying to drag us out to, not mention strengthen the conviction that had previously kept me from going out there.
By this time it was probably around 12:30. We decided to give up- Frasier’s was obviously not meant to be found by us, not that night. At 12:30 am on a Friday night, in Holly Springs, there’s only one thing to do.
Graceland Too.
Let me tell you about Graceland Too. There is a man in Holly Springs who lives in an historical, antebellum home who just so happens to be so obsessed with the King that he has dedicated his entire house as a shrine to Elvis Presley. Basically, he charges $5 to give you a tour of his home, which houses 35 years worth of Elvis Memorabilia. 24 hours a day. Most people go sometime in the middle of the night, after the bars close. Most people go in the wee hours after the bars close (intoxicated, naturally). Upon your third visit, you become a lifetime member, get your picture on the wall, and no longer have to pay.
The funny part is that he doesn’t keep a record of who visits. He just remembers people. That freaks me out.
I’d never been before. You’d think that in my twelve years (half my life) of living here that I’d have gone. Somehow I’d just never gotten around to it- if I was drunk enough to think of it and WANT to go, then I was probably too drunk to make the drive. That’s what I tell people when they make that OMG! Face at me after I tell them I haven’t been, anyway.
We got some crack-addled not-really-directions from a different gas station (I was too embarrassed to go back into the Texaco and ask them something else). Once again, we took it upon ourselves to just go that way and see if we could find it.
Amazingly enough, considering our track record, we found it easily. Although it would have been hard to miss. This place was crazy. Red, white, and blue lights strung around white, fake Christmas trees and stone lions painted (badly) in gold and silver. It was gloriously tacky. There was a bell, and a sign that said “RING BEII” with black magic-markered in feet on the two Is. We rang the Beii.
And nothing happened. I think we stood out there for about thirty minutes, occasionally dinging the bell again, making other noises. Courtney, who for some reason was embarrassed to be ringing the bell, had no qualms about going around and peaking in the windows. She confirmed that the inside was indeed at least as tacky as the outside, if not tackier.
We knew the man was up, and at home- there was another car with an Ole Miss commuter sticker parked out front. We assumed he was mid tour, and maybe the etiquette of the place was to wait your turn. While we waited, we defiled the other car with a fingered “Hotty Toddy” and “Lick Me” on the foggy back windshield.
Eventually, we gave up. Tired, the potential thrill of the evening long past, we drove home. Alicia fell asleep in the back while Courtney and I sang along with Duran Duran.
I finally got home, stone-cold sober, at about 3:00 a.m.. Ryan came home shortly after.
“Hey, babe. What’d you do?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Saturday morning, Courtney told me that her friend had called right after we’d left- they were leaving the mythic Frasier’s and she’d realized she’d left her cell phone in the car. She felt guilty that we’d had to drive around all night- blah, blah, blah.
“So,” Courtney asked. “How do you get to Frasier’s?”
Now pay attention. Because this may come in handy some day:
….pause for effect….
If a dyslexic, especially a dyslexic that is Courtney, tells you that something is on the left, then rest assured that it is most DEFINITELY going to be on the RIGHT.
Now. That said, I had a damn good time Friday night.
In high school, on a night like that, we’d have all gone home grumpy and embarrassed, with that sinking feeling of having missed something really cool.
But I’ve been to a bar with a band before. The misadventure, the looking for it- that was something unique. That moment in NoWhere with two of the best friends a girl could have at your side- now that was what I call a Helluva Night. ¶ 9/16/2002 04:02:00 PM
I had a funny Friday the 13th, but it's long, and I'm not done writing it yet. I'll post it later. Meanwhile, I've also got righteous apathy....
I have a reputation for being late. It's pretty accurate. I used to be the girl who showed up for everything 5 minutes early, but due to boyfriends and dogs and all manner of other distractions, I'm making up for it now.
And, generally, I'm late to work. However, I don't care.
I try to come in around 8:15. Officially, I work 8-5, but no one cares if really I work from 8:15 to 5:15, or even 8:15 to 4:45, so long as I get all my work done (which I do). I generally step into my office around 8:30. Sometimes, even as late as 8:45. But I'm not late.
Until this University does something about it's obscene parking situation, I will CONTINUE to arrive in my office at 8:30 or 8:45. I get to the general vicinity of campus in which I work around 8:15, and therefore, I am here on time. It is not my fault I am forced to drive around for 10 minutes looking for a parking space because the students are illegally parked in a series of lots that already aren't enough for the staff that have to park in them. It's not my fault that I spend another 10 minutes walking from the ass-end of the parking lot behind George Hall (where Alicia works!) to my building, and then spend another 5 waiting on our slow-ass elevator to come and get me. If I wasn't scorched from the walk from my car to the building, I might take the stairs. But I figure I deserve the rest.
The same goes for lunch. It already takes me 10 minutes each way to get home and back. So that leaves 40 for lunch. I'm NOT budgeting in another 10 for parking space hunting. Or another 5 for the elevator. I have to go home to let my dog out. So that leaves me technically taking hour and fifteen, hour and twenty minute lunches.
I justify this by starting my lunch break at the moment I get to my car. I may leave my office at noon, but if I don't get to my car until 12:07, then 12:07 is when my lunch starts. And I leave home 10 minutes before lunch ends. If I'm late, its because of parking.
I have worked this through my brain, and I do not feel guilty about it. The University keeps on recruiting more people, yet refuses to add more parking (rather they rip up existing lots and put in pretty fountains. Explain to me the logic in that). Therefore, I count the effort I have to put into getting to work as work, and they can damned well pay me for it. ¶ 9/16/2002 01:42:00 PM
I have a reputation for being late. It's pretty accurate. I used to be the girl who showed up for everything 5 minutes early, but due to boyfriends and dogs and all manner of other distractions, I'm making up for it now.
And, generally, I'm late to work. However, I don't care.
I try to come in around 8:15. Officially, I work 8-5, but no one cares if really I work from 8:15 to 5:15, or even 8:15 to 4:45, so long as I get all my work done (which I do). I generally step into my office around 8:30. Sometimes, even as late as 8:45. But I'm not late.
Until this University does something about it's obscene parking situation, I will CONTINUE to arrive in my office at 8:30 or 8:45. I get to the general vicinity of campus in which I work around 8:15, and therefore, I am here on time. It is not my fault I am forced to drive around for 10 minutes looking for a parking space because the students are illegally parked in a series of lots that already aren't enough for the staff that have to park in them. It's not my fault that I spend another 10 minutes walking from the ass-end of the parking lot behind George Hall (where Alicia works!) to my building, and then spend another 5 waiting on our slow-ass elevator to come and get me. If I wasn't scorched from the walk from my car to the building, I might take the stairs. But I figure I deserve the rest.
The same goes for lunch. It already takes me 10 minutes each way to get home and back. So that leaves 40 for lunch. I'm NOT budgeting in another 10 for parking space hunting. Or another 5 for the elevator. I have to go home to let my dog out. So that leaves me technically taking hour and fifteen, hour and twenty minute lunches.
I justify this by starting my lunch break at the moment I get to my car. I may leave my office at noon, but if I don't get to my car until 12:07, then 12:07 is when my lunch starts. And I leave home 10 minutes before lunch ends. If I'm late, its because of parking.
I have worked this through my brain, and I do not feel guilty about it. The University keeps on recruiting more people, yet refuses to add more parking (rather they rip up existing lots and put in pretty fountains. Explain to me the logic in that). Therefore, I count the effort I have to put into getting to work as work, and they can damned well pay me for it. ¶ 9/16/2002 01:42:00 PM
