A guy in my office came into my cubicle yesterday and asked if I had a mirror he could borrow.

Being the good girl that I am, I have no less then three compact sized mirrors located in different places throughout my cubicle. But also being the suspicious girl that I am, I was quite confident I didn’t want this guy taking any of my mirrors with him into the bathroom to get a closer look at any of his hard to reach places.

And so I lied.

“No, I don’t have a mirror. Sorry about that.”

I turned back to face my computer screen and tried to get the mental images of this old guy and his hard to reach places out of my mind.

I heard him making his way down the hall to all the other cubicle dwellers, asking them if they had a mirror he could borrow. I was relieved that nobody did. I mean, come on, wait until you get home and use your own mirror and your own bathroom.

It wasn’t until later that day when he told me he needed the mirror to get a better look at the outlet under his desk.

On right, that makes more sense.

What’s wrong with me that I automatically assumed he would be using my mirror inappropriately?

I blame my childhood.

Did you remember to set your VCR/DVR/TiVo to record “The Tonight Show” tomorrow night?* The Old 97’s will be preforming to promote their new album “Blame it on Gravity”, which is coming out on my birthday. You won’t want to miss this!

*I’m recording both the regular episode and the HD one. Dude, you know Rhett Miller’s going to look extra hott in High Def.

In my younger days I worked at a convenient store. We had matching uniforms for the different days of the week. We served 32 oz. Pepsi’s through a drive-up window. We got paid crap.

I know this sounds very glamorous and exciting.

It wasn’t.

While I met a lot of good friends (and even my ex-husband) while working there, I was also forced to work with some old ladies that drove me batty. Seriously, there is nothing worse then being stuck in a corner, making sodas all day with a mom that only got out of the house two times a week to go and work at the local convenient store.

(Okay, having your toenails pulled out might be worse. But not much worse. Trust me.)

(Just to clarify, this is not a picture of the woman in this story.)

There was this one specific lady that worked there that drove me especially batty. We worked together on Wednesday mornings. We called her B00bjob Betty. (You see, Betty had recently had a b00bjob. Oh yes, I’ve always been clever with the coming up of nicknames.) B00bjob Betty was on her second marriage and things were hott between the two of them.

You might wonder how I knew things were so hott. It’s simple.

She told us.

She told us when Mr. B00bjob bought her a battery powered play-thing for their anniversary. She made it a point to buy her replacement batteries from our store. She told us about their weekends away from The Kids. She bragged about the flowers he bought her.

Hearing about Betty’s love life got old. And it got old fast. It wasn’t just because I was stuck in the middle of my own loveless marriage. I truly felt like what went on between Betty and her man was private and sacred. And definitely not to be shared with young girls her daughter’s age.

One a Wednesday, Valentines Day to be exact, I found myself working alone in the morning with B00bjob Betty. I always hated working there on Valentines Day. I just hated the way the woman who I worked with tried to outdo each other by showing off their Valentine gifts. I knew this day was going to be like that. I knew it the second Betty walked in carrying her dozen roses and the card from her husband.

She couldn’t have just left them at home? She had to bring them into work?

Berry placed her roses on the counter, for all the world to see, and bragged up a storm about the awesome morning (if you know what I mean) she had with her husband before work.

The icing on the cake was when she threw her Valentines Day card in my face and told me how romantic it was and how I just had to read what her husband had written.

I, ever so politely, explained to her that I wasn’t comfortable reading a private message from her husband and handed the card back to her.

“But I’m giving you permission to read it. I want you to read it.”

“I know you’re okay with me reading it, but I’m not comfortable with it. I imagine your husband wrote it just for you. I’m really just not comfortable with reading it.”

“Fine then!”

And then she proceeded to huff and puff for the rest of the day and tell anyone that would listen how much of a prude I was.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was a prude. If being a prude wrong meant not reading personal love letters, then I didn’t want to be right. (Or something like that. I can’t remember how that saying goes.)

Looking back on this Valentines Day with B00bjob Betty, I find my hardcore stance on not wanting to read Betty’s note to be odd, since I can’t get enough of blog reading (and other personal letters).

But really, it was just too damn early in the morning for me to be reading about her husband’s love for her new b00bies. I would have lost my breakfast.

So tell me, in what way are you considered a prude?

**Dude, my “submit” button on my comments page is lost. It just disappeared. Have no fear, Carrisa is working on it. For now, you just can’t comment. CRAP!**

Being as I and work in downtown Seattle, The City Which is All About Coffee, my company has it’s own special Starbucks coffee machine in the kitchen. This thing will make you a cup of joe. Or a half caf cup of joe. It will even make you a huge pot of joe if say, you were having a meeting and needed a huge pot of joe.

Not only does this machine do all this, it will also, and here’s the best part, make you a frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa. All you’ve got to do is push a couple of buttons and stuck your mug under the dispenser.

If there was an award given to the master of making frothy cups of steaming hot cocoa, I’d have the Gold Medal.

One of The King’s favorite things to do in the winter evenings is walk around downtown Seattle with a stop at my office to take part in the free and delicious hot cocoa while looking out the window at the view of the Puget Sound and the Space Needle. While doing this a few months ago he came to the conclusion that he would also like to enjoy a cup of hot cocoa every morning on his way to his office.

And thus he decided that that was exactly what he needed.

The next morning I got a call at my desk. It was The King. He had just left our apartment. He and Babboo would be outside my office building in a few minutes. And he would like me to meet him with a frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa.

Oh, and he would need a lid. You know, so he won’t spill any on Babboo.

Knowing how much I love and appreciate my own frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa every morning, I obliged. I made up a cup. Put on my coat and scarf. Grabbed my access card. And took the elevator down to meet them.

I’m a good wife.

After a few days, I grew tired of this little routine.

Hey, I’m not that good of a wife.

The King stopped calling me and requesting a cup. I quit reminding him how good it tastes.

Yesterday morning, my desk phone rang. The King needed me to meet him in front of my office to give him some stamps for a few bills he was paying.

I decided to meet him with a frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa and the requested stamps. I down played it though. I didn’t want him getting any ideas and thinking I’d do this for him everyday.

So tell me, what little things does your significant other appreciate? More importantly, what little things do you appreciate?

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Today is Wednesday Thursday (dude, I can’t believe I as a DAY OFF!). Which means I posted over at SeattleMomBlogs. This week’s topic; is on-site daycare a thing of the 80’s? Come on over and discuss. Really, I’m curious.

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Remember how my baby sister was trying to win a free trip to South America from her company? The winner was announced yesterday, and since I promised to keep you updated, I’m here to tell you that she did not win the trip to South America. (Which is probably for the best. Being as there is an active volcano in the town they are going to right now!) Instead of winning the trip, she won $500 cash and a paid day off.

She was quite happy with her winnings.

I don’t blame her. It sounds good to me.

Since Babboo was born almost twenty months ago, The King and I have only seen two movies in a real live movie theater. Two. Which is especially crappy since we live across the street from two huge multi screen theaters.

(In case you are dying to know what movies we’ve seen, let me tell you: Oceans 13 and The Bourne Ultimatum. Are we seeing a trend here?)

What I’m saying is that it takes a movie we are really excited about to get The King and I out of the apartment and into a theater. (Plus a little begging of the grandparents to venture into the city to watch Babboo.)

Enter the movie Juno.

If you’ve not heard about this movie, I suggest you go and watch the trailers. And then get your butt to the theater. Oh yes, it’s just that good. And funny. And sweet.

(For crying out loud, it has both Micheal and George Michael Bluth in it. So you know it’s got to be good.)

I admit to not being any sort of movie critic, heck I don’t even watch rated R movies, but dude I know what I like and I liked Juno. The topic was interesting (I like babies and I’ve been pregnant a time or two). The characters were likable (I love me some George Michael). The music was awesome (Kimya Dawson, I’m talking to you and am also downloading your music like mad). It was all just awesome.

So awesome, in fact, that I’m forcing my coworkers to go and see the movie with me again today at lunch. It’s the perfect way to start our Holiday break.  I’m bringing the candy.
So tell me, what do you think the perfect way to start off the break is?

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Congratulations, tears of joy and big fat hugs are in order. I just got a phone call from the husband of May, my best friend who deserted me moved to Reno. Apparently May just had her baby girl. He called me so soon after that he didn’t even know the babies weight. Or her name.

May was able to have a healthy VBAC sans an epidural. Apparently it just went “too fast”. Dude, I can’t wait to talk to her and get the whole story. And you know, find out the baby’s name.

So yeah, congrats to May and her little family!

I started, as a temp, at my job almost eight years ago. When the temp agency first called me to tell me about my new office assignment, they also informed me that I would need to dress up for this particular office. And by “dress up” that meant ” wear hose”. I showed up for my first day wearing black slacks, black hose and a black top.

Eight years later, and now a full time employee, and I’m still wearing the same black outfits. Except now instead of chunky Dr. Martins I’m sporting pointy heels. And instead of full hose I’m rocking the knee-highs.

By initially being given the dress-code of “hose” I assumed that meant that everyone that worked for my company also had to follow the same dress code. I quickly learned that wasn’t the case. I seem to be one of the few that actually adheres to it.

Since I work in the construction world there I have a lot of fellow coworkers who have spent a great deal of time out on construction job sites tromping around in mud and rain. They now are stuck in an office, and for some reason, think that they might need steel toed shoes at any given moment. And so, they wear their steel toed boots and keep their hard hats nearby. It goes without saying that they are also wearing jeans, right?

On the rare occasion that I do wear jeans to the office, they are a nicer denim trouser that I wear with heels and my typical dressy work shirt. (I also must tell you that I only paid $12.99 for them. Ann Taylor Loft, marry me.) Never would I wear a tennis shoe or a t-shirt. It just wouldn’t feel right, to me.

What I’m saying is that the corporate world seems to be a little more relaxed these days. I would say the majority of people I see walking into my building are dressed in jeans or casual khakis. I would fall over dead if I saw a man wearing an actual suit and white shirt. Or even a tie. The King doesn’t even feel comfortable wearing a suit to church anymore. (He always wears a tie to church.)

The thing is, I’ve heard this is mostly a West Coast phenomenon. Word on the street is that the East Coast still typically dresses up for a day at the office. I remember Metalia, who works in NYC, ask once if it was appropriate for her to wear short pants and heels to her office. I was all “dude, I wear that every day in the summer and it’s totally appropriate.” But for her, working in the stock broker world, it just didn’t feel right to be wearing what was essentially shorts to work.

The King works in a very creative field. Meaning that his coworkers like to show how creative they are on the inside on the outside. We’re talking pink hair, short skirts and kicky shoes. The King usually just represents with a polo shirt and jeans. Most days the jeans are even washed. As of late he’s been particular to the Simple Eco Sneaks (found super cheap at our local Ross). So The King’s office is even more casual then my office.

And yet, I still dress up for my eight hour work day. Because I feel like in order to be taken seriously, I must be wearing slacks and heels.

So tell me, how do you feel about your office’s dress policy?

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Hey did you notice me new blog header?! Click over to view it if you’re reading this via a blog reader. I figured we needed a little something more Christmasy here hola,isabel. Thanks to Carrisa for putting this together for me.

I remember learning about the underground railroad in elementary school and thinking how crazy it was that there was this train that ran underneath the ground that the slave owners knew nothing about. I mean, how were the rails laid without anybody noticing? And who was forging all the metal for the rails? Let’s not even get into the semantics of the tunnel digging. I mean, dude, how did the slave owners not notice piles and pile of soil?

Seven year old Isabel could not get her head around this topic. And since none of my classmates seemed to have any qualms about believing in a railroad that ran underground, I just accepted it as truth and did not think more of it.

I mean think about it, never once did a teacher explain to me that trains weren’t used. Sure they told the class that abolitionist were helping the slaves escape, but they never said it wasn’t a railroad. They just kept calling it the underground railroad over and over again. Naturally I assumed it was just that.
I’m not sure when I came to the realization that the underground railroad was a code name for a network of secret routes and safe houses that slaves used to escape to free states with the aid of abolitionists (thanks Wikipedia).

Duh, it wasn’t a real railroad.

I recently told The King about this not-so-proud life moment of mine. He laughed. He laughed some more. He brought it up to friends and family. And then he laughed, again. Okay, it’s funny. But it’s not that funny. I mean, I can’t be the only one that thought the underground railroad was an actual railroad.

(I blame the public school system. Yeah, let’s blame them.)
I decided to ask my coworkers about this last week. Come to find out they agreed with The King that it was funny. That is until another one of them spoke up and said, “so it’s not underground?”

Haaa! At least I figured it out before I hit middle school.

While my coworker admitted she knew the underground railroad wasn’t an actual railroad, she thought it was a system of underground tunnels the slaves used to escape. This is a grown adult with a college degree.

(I blame the higher education system for this.)

So tell me, have you ever been a little confused about something like this? Please assure me that I’m not alone.

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What to read how my first time making homemade macaroni and cheese went? You know you do!

And come on over to my latest SeattleMomBlogs post to join the discussion about Flexible Spending Accounts.