The following are a few snippets from this year's Christmas Eve dinner experience:
Everybody, at one point or another, mangling the names of new acquaintances, and then, later, due to too much champagne, mangling them again (and in one case, thrice).
Scoring my favorite part of the turkey – the tenderloin, natch.
An impromptu (and remarkably off key) rendition of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music (you know, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”, etc.) mostly mumbled until the chorus, the lyrics of which everybody knows, if not the notes.
Stilton soup, just like it sounds. If you like Stilton and you like soup, then consider this a little slice of heaven. No lie.
Everybody catching up on everyone else’s news.
The following interchange: My grandfather, who is enjoying remarkably good health in his late eighth decade is engaging in a good-natured comparison of his hearing aids with those of my cousin Belle’s father-in-law, Eugene. The little devices have been dug from their snug homes and are lined up on the table. This is how the brief and priceless conversation goes -
Eugene: Hey, those are good lookin’ earpieces, Jack!
Grampa Jack: Huh? What?
Sampling the champagne (blanc de noir) and the pinot and the riesling and the pale ale.
Two pieces of pumpkin pie, one smothered in real freshly whipped cream, the other with Kool Whip. As far as I'm concerned, the best of both worlds.
Lots and lots of hugs and laughter and comfortable chatter.
Eugene’s titanium arm, almost all the way to the shoulder. He's bionic! Need I say more? The under-5 set was enraptured. Well, if the truth be told, so was I.
Coming back home and hitting the hot tub – a little post feast bloat ‘n’ float.
Truly a warm and wonderful occasion, if I do say so myself.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Real Poop
What is it about defecation that makes men think it’s an appropriate office reference?
Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”
Nasty. I don’t want to know that.
You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.
Why mine?
Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.
Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.
What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.
She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.
Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.
Huh. Sure beats working.
Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”
Nasty. I don’t want to know that.
You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.
Why mine?
Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.
Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.
What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.
She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.
Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.
Huh. Sure beats working.
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