Hi. I'm Mrs. Squirrel and this is my blog.
A friend told me how surprised she was that her husband returned from a work trip with a gift for her. Not that he hasn’t brought her back something in the past. But he brought her clothing. Hip and expensive clothing. That, makes me think: should I stop to use free samples to save money?, naaaah :)
(side note: when did Lulu make their products available online? This could be trouble.) Back to my point…
Earlier this week, a gift came in the mail for me from Mr. Squirrel to thank me for being supportive over the past few weeks while he’s been working crazy long hours.
It’s not exactly flattering yoga pants, but better than what Mr. Squirrel brought back for me a few years ago from his trip to Boston. Seriously.
I’ve owned the same bras for decades, and I’ve worn most of them once or twice. Before I became pregnant with Jojo, I rotated between a few boring bras — nothing sexy or colorful. Then I became pregnant and had to buy some pregnancy/nursing bras, which I wore for another year or so. When I finally finished nursing Jojo, I slipped back into the few boring bras, but I remember seeing the others at the bottom of my bra drawer and thinking, ‘well, just in case.’ Just in case of WHAT? I haven’t a clue, but what does one do with bras in great condition that one wants to get rid of– is that something that’s ok to donate? I have an aversion to throwing out things that are perfectly fine. I’m dropping stuff off at charities or those drop boxes in parking lots weekly.
After finishing the marathon nursing YEARS with Nugget, I’ve found that I wear the same two bras off and on for… well, months now. They don’t fit for shit. I could probably sew a better fitting bra than what I’ve been wearing. I was constantly tugging up the falling straps, and they didn’t offer support. I was a droopy, sloppy mess.
FINALLY, I did something about it, told my husband I had to run to the mall, and hit Macy’s during one of their big One Day Sales (oops) to get measured and find some new bras.
Luckily, a kind saleswoman saw my look of fear from drowning in the satiny nude sea of bosomwear and scurried me into a fitting room. With one dismissive wave, she announced I, like 8 out of 10 women, was wearing the wrong size. I knew that, but why had I waited so long? The bra was a WRECK. It’s been tossed (and it’s doppleganger). Three in total were outright thrown away (a huge step for me, but seriously, no one needs those travesties).
She found a perfect, reasonably priced bra on her first try, and I left with four in hand (and some serious savings thanks to their sale and additional couponage).
Let me just say, I have a lot more room in my bra drawer. I might need to move some unmentionables (yes, I do keep some things unmentioned) into there.
I started Saturday with 20 bras (not including sports bras). Mind you, I only really wore three of these when not hugely pregnant or nursing. I tossed those raggedy three and am going to try and donate seventeen others. 17.
I now own four awesome bras. That is all. I love them. Clearly, I’ll need a few more so I’m not handwashing my hands off (haha…I toss them in the wash…who am I trying to kid).
If you’re hating your bras, let me highly recommend having a stranger measure your boobies and scoring yourself some new bras.
I’m sure Keven loved this post. I realize I’m lame.
I’m back. Happy September! August tore me a new one with its traveling and playdates and hotness and everything — I think this was my least blogged month ever. But we’re back from our long trip to the Say Yes! State.
For the most part, it was awesome, but then again, I did have to sleep five nights on the aforementioned Bed That Satan Built (and then sold to Ethan Allen to then sell to my mom who then placed it in the guest room and continues to ignore my subtle comments about its pain-inducing qualities).
Seriously, for being quite the people pleaser (and no, she’s not a prostitute), she will not relent on this bed. Yes, in theory, the bed is from a fine furniture store and appears both comfortable and inviting. BUT. BIG BUT(s):
1. It’s a full. That could really end the discussion right there, but let me just add: two adults should not have to sleep in a full bed especially when I have sub-points. Even worse than subpoints? My inability to indent them to be all subpointy. Sigh. DAMN THAT BED and its associated issues.
1a. The bed has a footboard which makes the squarish full mattress even stubbier and you feel all boxed in.
1a1. So then I can’t even stretch my feet off the bed, which I normally would never do because of this and that (Kevin Bacon + sleeping on back + knife-wielding maniac under bed = lifetime of stomach sleeping/not hanging limbs off of bed).
2. The sheets continually pull off the bed. Sure, mom, the sheets come from yet another fine store, I’m sure, but the elastic went buh-bye around the turn of the century. Waking up with your face planted on the mattress every. single. morning. gets old.
3. The mattress was stuffed by Satan with pain-inflicting Evil. Pure and simple. It honestly makes NO sense why it wouldn’t be comfortable. Box Spring? Check. Well-made mattress? Check. WTF? I don’t know, it must be something inside…something that undulates and pokes and prods and generally does not allow rest. We’re constantly tossing, turning and grumbling.
3a. At one point during this trip, after Mr. Squirrel left to return to work, I decided to try sleeping in different directions. One can’t sleep sideways, as it’s too narrow — so I did a sort of diagonal, which was not too bad. The next night I slept with my head at the opposite end, on top of the folded comforter and extra blanket in sort of a lumpy/head-raised uncovered by sheets (which I do not like because I can’t cover my neck from these. I have Post Horror Movie Traumatic Sleep Disorder. That’s PHMTSD to you.). Jojo came in to wake me and the wacky position threw him for a pre-breakfast cryfest. I think he thought the bed killed me. It might have tried; luckily, I persevered.
We moved our offices. We were suppose to have the move completed well before I returned from maternity leave; however, no matter that I extended my leave an additional two months, the move went down the week after I returned to my part-time gig.
Getting out of the move? It wasn’t to be.
Thankfully, the poor woman who got stuck doing my job (in addition to hers! twice the fun! one low salary!) packed up most of my files and belongings, going so far as to bubblewrap my various bobbleheads and beloved pens bearing witticisms from The Office. Gotta love the attention to what’s important!
I had nothing to do with organizing the move. Our office manager-type bitter employee handled most of the questions, held most of the move-related knowledge and hated life more than anyone I’d seen in a while. Another employee, who I formerly shared an office with, stepped up to the challenge and met every problem, bonehead question and ridiculous request with a smile and kind word. Really, I want what she’s on.
This angel, who knew she was leaving after the move (like *poof* gone already and I’m SOBBING about that), still gave her two weeks notice. Who DOES that when during that two weeks they have to deal with DRAMA and missing furniture and complaints and workmen and organizing an overwhelming amount of crap and bad moods and shit? She does. Dude. If it weren’t for her, the move would have imploded into a heinous hellacious nightmare of the heinous and hellacious nature. Seriously. So when she left, she got a cake. Doesn’t seem fair. I’m going to send her a gift…if she ever gets around to sending us her address, which, now that I think about it, may never come.
She dealt with a LOT of drama…drama that we continue to deal with. Let me just give you some highlights of our move:
1. We went from a nasty, dirty, unhealthy building where everyone had offices with large windows to a clean, birdmite-free pretty building where only a certain “level” of employee have windows. Those without windows, the majority of us, now have this allegedly natural overhead lighting. If that’s natural, then so is Pamela Anderson.
2. I went from a big ass shared office with two couches, two chairs, four desks, at least 20 feet of windows, a sink, room with toilet and two closets to … a small shared interior office with three desks and four people. Again, I have to share a desk.
3. Oh yes, I have to share a desk…even though I’m an EMPLOYEEEEEEE and the other people in the room are graduate assistants or interns. Being a part-time employee immediately lowers you to “scrub” status.
3a. Unless you’re a part-time administrative assistant who has her own office to herself. How did she score that? WTF?
4. Someone (who, although they don’t enjoy a window, has several degrees and full-time status) called me a scrub when telling me that I was going to share the desk with their intern (and like it, dag gum). Which, no on the “dag” and the “gum.” Heavy on the “BITE” and the “ME!” I’m a scrub? Really? Me? The one that you relied on for every decision when I first started and couldn’t think without getting my opinion first? The one that you begged to come and help decorate your office? The one you constantly ask out to lunch because I’m your only friend…you called me a scrub? Really? Interesting. Oh, and yes, I’ll watch your food while you hit the bathroom…just don’t be surprised if I hack one majorly phlegmy loogie into your burrito, douchebag.
5. Even when the political tour took place and our leader showed off our new space to the muckity mucks, I was lumped in with the “GAs” even though I’m decades older than them and um NOT A FUCKING GA it makes me just want to rack up some serious health and dental expenses. That will really hurt the (wo)man.
5a. Except that plan blows since I lost health and dental coverage when I extended my maternity leave past 3 months. snap!
6. The bathrooms. Oh where to begin. Our ginormous lobby has two lovely bathrooms for the male and female clientele. Two lovely bathrooms stocked with toilet paper, paper towels and smelly handsoap. That doesn’t seem odd, though, right? I don’t work at a truckstop. HOWEVER, towards the back of our space are the employee bathrooms (two of them)… single stall. They are not designated “men” and “women” which drives one of our male colleagues nutso. He’s taking informal polls and carefully dropping hints that the men have the first bathroom and the women should only go in the second one. This would be all fine and stuff if the male/ratio split at our office was even remotely close to 50/50. Nobody but him is going for this. Who would want to go to these bathrooms when there is NEVER any toilet paper NOR soap NOR papertowels. NOTHING! Apparently, the management company won’t clean those bathrooms because oh wait, yes, there’s no excuse that makes any sense. Kind of like nominating a vice presidential candidate with minimal political experience.
7. I finally received keys to access the office and our lobby last week. Finally. For weeks I was locked out and had to duck into our crabby office manager’s office to request keys, wherein I’d sit through her bitter rant as to the Key Fiasco of 2008 (which basically is: she didn’t order the keys in time. she didn’t want to have to drive to …gasp… campus to pick them up.). She eventually picked them up after a dentist appointment, which she made sure everyone knew was on HER TIME (I’m guessing 15 minutes of her time TOPS); this is from the woman who gets in at 8:59 and slams the door shut on her day at 5:00:01. So boo fucking hoo.
8. The Relaxation Room. Oh dear LORD don’t get me started on this bullshit excuse for a waste of space in the back of our office. If you were to have a relaxation room at your place of employment (which is for the students, apparently), what would be in it? Something, say, relaxing? Like a desk, desk chair and office armoire? And computer? Well, that’s what our director finds relaxing apparently. That and stacks and stacks of unpacked boxes of who knows what because no one is missing them yet OR perhaps they are the “missing/stolen/lost” boxes one of our more paranoid employee continues to search for/blame the movers. The relaxation room? I have made it my Pumping Station…when yet another part-time employee isn’t in there. And yes, he’s claimed it as his office.
8a. I don’t mind though because he’s funny and nice and has a funky name that reminds me of another funkynamed dude I know, so I immediately liked him and he can have the relaxation room and I’ll just pump in the lobby.
8b. No, I’m not that desperate. yet.
9. Office furniture: I can’t even GO INTO the lobby furniture because its hideousness cannot be conveyed through writing except to say…when I saw the two fabric choices, I flashed to this (bad bad bad) outfit our director wears come fall, and guess who picked out that fabric? Oh yes.
9a. The colors of the desks is a warm, reddish maple(ish) material and the shelving and cabinets are all gray. It doesn’t go, but whatever, it’s uniform throughout, so the myriad of dinged, damaged and tatted up filing cabinets were FINALLY filed under DUMP. HOWEVER, one nameless person ordered an additional filing cabinet for my small shared office to go with her GA and guess what color she chose for the fucking cabinet? Beige. Not gray (the only other color choice. you know? the one that the other THREE HUGE SHELVES ARE). Beige. So now against one wall we’ll have three gray sets of shelves and one stupid beige filing cabinet. Thanks.
I could go on. Really, I could because the insanity continues. For now, however, I must stop and read some teenage vampire love before bed. Cuz you know I have to go to work tomorrow. Even though my parents are here visiting. And the kids will be in daycare (everyone is working on the basement playroom! Wee!) Oh yes, and my FIL is coming. Even though his evil wife will probably whine that her fingernail is falling off and he can’t leave her (that was her last excuse and it worked).
Stories? They just keep coming.
Since Mother’s Day celebrates moms and those who help support and love us in motherly ways, I’m opening the contest to only those people who are or have mothers. That should exclude…um… no one! Yay inclusiveness! Also, entrants should be willing to provide their address for awesome prize deliverability.
Our first contest centers on Grandma Squirrel trivia…that’s my own mom, folks — my own, personal favoritest mom in the world. Please leave your answers in the comments section. Contest closes tomorrow at noon, wherein the accounting firm of Me, Myself and I will select those entrants with the most correct answers, then toss their names in a hat and have one Mr. Jojo Squirrel pick a winner (should their be multiple possible winners!).
True or False:
1. Grandma Squirrel has a not-so-secret admirer, nicknamed Stevorino, who used to work with my parents.
2. Grandma Squirrel has never lost a tennis nor ping pong match to her daughter, Stacy Squirrel.
3. Grandma Squirrel thinks Celine Dion is da bomb.
4. Grandma Squirrel wants David Archuleta to win this season’s American Idol.
5. Grandma Squirrel used to host a public access tv program.
Good luck & mom, I love you long time.