Womanly observations

Women living in Boulder have undoubtedly noticed the signs hanging on the backs of bathroom stall doors everywhere, always in prime view while peeing.

“Don’t flush your feminine products down the toilet as this causes clogging, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.”

That’s old news.

What I find interesting–I’m debating about whether or not to start a spreadsheet in order to compile my data more formally–is the vast assortment of clip art that tends to go along with this particular admonition.

Sometimes it’s one of those female symbols … you know, the one with the circle and the arrow pointing out of it. If this is the case it will be, without fail, in some putrid shade of pink that’s supposed to be womanly, but mostly just makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

Other times it will be the standard “no” symbol, that vivid red circle with the line through it. You can use your own imagination regarding what additional clip art object is inserted into the center of said circle.

Last night, however, at CU’s Mackey Auditorium, I saw a decal new to my well trained eye: a hand with four fingers curled into a fist, while the index finger stood up straight. There were little squiggles off to the sides giving the obvious impression that the finger was moving back and forth in a blatant “Do not do this or I will send you to the moon” kind of indication.

They’re definitely getting points on my spreadsheet for creativity.

But what I found especially interesting was the unmistakable gender of that wagging finger: male.

“Odd,” I thought.

Mike, however, pointed out that it was likely to be a man who would be doing the unclogging.

Despite all of my feminist tendencies, I have to relent: Touché.

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Plea from a nube Twitterer

I did it.

I signed up for Twitter … again, actually. I think I have some other alias flitting around in the Twitosphere, but I couldn’t remember the password.

But back to my point: I’m on Twitter. Dun, dun, duuuuun. I feel like I need some fanfare going on in the background. Like a gong. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone follow you around with a gong, which they would bang whenever you needed to add a little emphasis to whatever you just said? I think that might come in handy …

Psssttt … whoever you app-making people are. That idea’s worth millions … I’d like a cut though.

So yes, being on Twitter. My question for all of you Twittering powerhouses (Yes, I’m talking to you, Fish, Mike, etc.) is this:

How much is too much? At what point are you just launching needless comments into Cyber Space, effectively clogging it up for the rest of the more restrained Tweeters? Are we talking one every 30 minutes? Every hour? Once a day?

Anyone have any wisdom?

 

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Keeping tabs

Last night when Mike and I went out to dinner at Pasta Jay’s, I noticed he was staring off into space for a minute.

“What’re you thinking about?” I asked.

To which he responded, “Math” and went on to explain how he’d been working on a single, tremendously involved problem all day, how he’d gone down one rabbit trail searching for an unknown only to realize he should have been focusing on a different aspect of the equation.

I shook my head, amazed at how brilliant this man sitting before me is. And how patient. How anyone can have the fortitude to spend the whole day on a single analysis is beyond me.

When the bill came later on, Mike, like the Southern gentleman that he is, gave the waitress his credit card for her to run it through the machine.

She returned a few moments later with the “merchant copy” for him to sign and a pen. He looked at the numbers and hesitated. Five, 10, 15 seconds … I glanced at the $33.30 sum and said, “Six bucks and 60 cents is 20 percent.”

He smirked at me and began to add. He wrote something down, looked up at the ceiling, looked over at me, back down at the paper, up at me. He scribbled something out and rewrote something different.

“I miscalculated,” he said.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Mike is a genius … most of the time.

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Perseverance

So Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are delicious. Really delicious.

Ask any kid dressed up for Halloween whether he’d rather have a Reese’s or a Snickers; I’ll bet you a dollar which one he’d choose.

Now because they’re so delicious, most of us are willing to put forth the extra effort to penetrate the double wrapper. First, one plunges through that outside orange covering, and next, one must muster the strength to move forward and further remove that brown, waxy paper stuff stuck to the Cup’s bottom.

Tonight, a group of friends were gathered munching on the little baby “fun size” Cups (whoever came up with that inaccurate adage “fun size” should be hung upside down by their toenails, by the way … or at least publicly humiliated. How could having less candy be more fun? Come on people!). Small, yes, but still delish.

Mike was aggravated, understandably, because his little Cup had an extra little brown wrapper on the bottom. So after cutting through the tinfoil outer wrapper like a champ, he struggled to get the next brown paper off only to find his forays foiled. Another wrapper!

But he took to the task, wrestled it off, and enjoyed the peanut buttery choclatey-ness to the full.

Whew. Tiresome work.

But it turns out that Mike’s endeavor was simple compared to the feat ahead of our good friend, Scott Weirich. Later in the evening, he snagged a mini Cup out of the bag, possibly a bit twitterpated at the possibility within … see, this particular Cup was a bit bigger in size than its smaller brothers.

“Aha!” he probably thought. “A big ‘fun size’ Cup!”

Little did he know that his hopes were doomed. He began to unwrap:

Tinfoil: gone.

Brown, waxy layer: gone.

Second brown, waxy layer: gone.

Third, fourth, fifth brown, waxy layers: gone.

Sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth brown waxy layers: gone.

Eleventh brown, waxy layer: gone.

And there, behold, the prize. A normal, fricking “fun sized” Cup.

Somebody get that man a medal. And perhaps a Band Aid for his aching and exhausted fingers.

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Epiphany

Today as Mike and I G-chatted instead of diligently working on the copious amounts of crap we really need to be finishing up, this wonderful man had a spurt of genius, the extent of which I don’t think he fully understands.

See, a bunch of our friends are getting married this summer, which means lots of invites and the promise of considerable dancing and merry-making to come; however, RSVP’ing does pose one significant drawback. (This is where Mike’s stroke of wisdom comes in).

Mike: so we need to pick what we want for dinners; there are like 4 options

me: mmmm

Mike: which stinks, because i don’t know what i’m in the mood for in the middle of april; I know what sounds good right now.

Yep, pure brilliance.

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