records, new jobs, and that time I talked about poop for eight years

Today officially marks another new beginning at another new job. Seeing as I've now truly moved on from my past position as a receptionist at a fancy-pants interior design hub, it feels necessary to reflect back upon the experience.

And the main lesson I've learned, the truth which I know to be self-evident, and other Declaration of Independence-y things, is that everybody poops.

I know this isn't profound. Heck, there's even a book about it, (that's currently sold out on Amazon). I say this not as a source of personal comfort, but rather as a big ol' HEY YOU! YES, YOU. I KNOW YOU JUST SHIT EVERYWHERE IN THAT BATHROOM.

As a receptionist, the exhaustive list of my duties consisted of reading magazines, answering the occasional phone call, smiling in a way that made me want to punch a bitch, and paying way too much attention to anyone and everyone who dared pass by the marble-topped desk polished to a perfect sheen.

Ultimately, it never ceased to amaze me how different people handled the curious situation of walking by me to get to the restroom.

The C.O.O.? She'd prance down the stairs in her heels, comment on whatever wardrobe choice I'd made half-asleep the hour before, and declare that she needed to brush her teeth after her morning cup of coffee and nutritiously responsible breakfast.

She disappeared daily into that bathroom for fifteen minutes minimum. How many teeth does she have?! Also, I'm the one who ordered her food each morning, and that nutritiously responsible breakfast she was always so anxious for? It was a bran muffin. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE DO TO YOUR INSIDES?! Because I sure do. So, unless she was shoving a toothbrush in her...actually, nevermind. You get it. It's also worth noting that I just actively resisted saying something about "little bleached assholes," because it looks SO creepy in print, and also makes it seem like I'm into butt sex. Not that there's anything wrong...JUST NEVERMIND.

The guy from upstairs whose named I never learned? He'd come by once and make eye contact, smile, ask me how I was, and head into that little wooden door separating the wide world of anal leakage from the $40,000 coffee tables of the show rooms. The second time, he'd make eye contact and smile, sometimes ask me how I was again, for good measure. The third time, he'd just make eye contact and smile. By the EIGHTEENTH TIME IN FIVE HOURS (that's not hyperbole, you guys), he'd do this sort of scuttle thing through the lobby, staring intently at the bathroom door.

The intensity of his focus on that door made me think that he either felt really awkward about how often he had to go, or he had some sort of illness that gave him exponentially-worsening diarrhea as the day progressed, transitioning from a little morning deuce to a violent shit volcano providing some sort of propulsive lift off the toilet seat. The bathroom just wasn't a nice porcelain place to sit down, but the end of The Quest Not to Shit His Pants Among Colleagues. Also, if someone makes a movie of that quest, I want in the credits.

The last, and probably greatest teacher during my experience, was a woman who graced me with her presence not two weeks ago. The conversation went as follows.

Woman: You guys need to do something about that bathroom. There is...mess...everywhere. This is supposed to be a quality experience for clients, and I do not feel valued or emotionally elevated.

Me: I apologize, ma'am. Let me call maintenance and we'll get this resolved.

[Enter maintenance stage left.]

Maintenance: What's the problem?

Woman: Someone made a disgusting mess in the restroom.

Maintenance: I just cleaned that bathroom five minutes ago. How many people have used it?

Me: Just one.

Maintenance: Huh. Well, I'll go check it out. You're sure it was like that before you went in?

Woman: What are you suggesting?

Maintenance: That if I cleaned it, and you're the only person to have used it, then the mess is from you.

Woman: [Does flustery things.]

Maintenance: I'll take a look. Maybe a pipe burst or something.

Woman's husband: Honey, you did have Mexican last night.

Maintenance: [Yelling from bathroom.] OH! OH, GOD! IT'S ALL OVER THE FLOOR. AND THE WALL?!

Woman: [Exists swiftly.]

It just baffles me that she could have easily walked away, maybe called in an anonymous tip or made a casual, "It's getting kind of messy in there" statement on her way out. But instead, she chose to throw a fit about a shit storm she brewed. She went out of her way to remove any possible blame from herself, ultimately making one very seasoned and very large maintenance man dry-heave into the drinking fountain. She had Mexican food, indeed.

I'm not saying that everyone should openly announce their bowel movements. You don't need to shout from the rooftop that you're about to go lay down a big one (which sort of sounds like you're recording an album and could totally be awesome new slang for pooping, FYI), but FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, don't waste your energy trying to disguise the fact that the stuff you put in your body FOR SURVIVAL comes back out again. Everybody poops, ya'll. Well, except for me. Obviously. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go brush my asshole.

life lessons, melodramatic introspection, and a let's-be-honest pep talk

Right now, I'm sitting in a purple brick building drinking caramel apple cider and waiting for a friend to find out if she's won a bid on a house. A gorgeous house. Do people win bids? I don't know much about housing. But I digress.

Last night, as I drank cinnamon whiskey, watching lame movies via instant streaming on my tiny TV, and getting so caught up in crafting that I finally crawled into bed exhausted and exhilarated as the sun rose, I can't help but think that I am finally becoming the person I was meant to be. I try not to be too floofy (totally a word), about The Uuuuuuuniverse taking care of me, blah blah, but I can say with startling clarity that the last few months of fucking shit up has been leading to this glorious, abnormally-warm November day where I'm genuinely and furiously happy.

As most of you probably know, the last year (AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING YEAR HAS PASSED) has been an adventure for me of ginormous proportions. That's hyperbole, and makes it sound like I've been on a hobbit-like journey, when in reality I've just cried a lot, binge drank, and bought an obscene amount of ZzzQuil to cope with the little asshole known as insomnia. Mostly, I've just been overwhelmingly underwhelmed by cubicles, asshats, and the way my shoulders knot up beneath my ears in the way that makes me feel like if I don't GET OUT RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WILL DIE. I think they call that anxiety, but I call it getting so upset I dry heave out my car window on the way to terrible jobs.

The answer to this problem was that I did get out. I got out over and over again, leaving behind jobs that were more welcome-to-the-dark-side-you-douchecanoe than you're-doing-something-good-for-society. And I felt guilty. Every single time, my anxiety seamlessly became this amorphous blob, fluctuating rapidly and unexpectedly between crippling fear, uncertainty, and a dirty conscience.

But something has changed. Me, mostly. I've learned that I'm the most important thing in my life. I've learned that if I need to wander around Hobby Lobby for three hours until I can calm my racing pulse, (and impulsively decide that I need to learn the fine art of wood burning), that's okay. Leaving meaningless jobs where I was nothing more than an anonymous zit on the ass of corporate business is okay. Eating apples and Nutella for four days straight is okay. I'm okay.

Is my depression magically cured? Absolutely not, but I'm on new meds, (oh, HAI, I take meds), and found a therapist I like. Do I have my dream job? No, my dream job is being a professional chocolate tester and also napper where the uniform is a flying squirrel onesie. But I do have a fulfilling position at a local school district where I matter. Did I wake up today and shit glitter in regards to the sheer wonderment of such a bright and shiny and magical day?! Unfortunately not, but that's probably okay since I've hypothesized the tiny glass shards within the glitter would probably make a messy exit. BLOODY BUTT MASSACRE 2012.

But I did wake up and brush my teeth, put on a cute sweater and leave the house. Progress.

I don't want to be all, seize the day because every day we're moving one day closer to death, but YOU GUYS. SEIZE THE DAY BECAUSE EVERY DAY WE'VE MOVING ONE DAY CLOSER TO DEATH.

If this last year has taught me anything, it's to make time for what you love, to make time to live, whether that be knitting mittens, collecting coins, painting abstracts, or alphabetizing movies. Isolate what makes your eyes bright and your shoulders relax and go do it.

DO MORE SHIT THAT MAKES YOU AWESOME.

Also, don't eat a lot of glitter. Just in case.