I've Found My Limit

Well, it happened. I finally came upon a wall that I could not, try as I may, make myself climb.
I was hungry for some cereal lovin', and I entered my kitchen to pour a bowl. The second I saw that my Trader Joe's brand, Twigs, Flakes, and Clusters was all gone, that's when I should've given up the game. But, not one to give up too easily, I pushed onward. I convinced myself that the granola on top of the fridge was "the cereal my roommate said I could eat", and quickly poured a generous amount in my gratuitous bowl.
The granola and I traveled together up to my room, where we studied and laughed with the cast of Community, sang with the aspiring stars on Glee, and cried with Suki's friends over the loss of her innocence on True Blood. As the new episodes online became fewer and fewer, so did the milk and cereal in my bowl. As the realization that I would have to wait yet another week for new episodes sank in, I sighed, and my eyes dropped their gaze from the now-dark screen to the once-full and now almost empty bowl in my hands. My despair was quickly forgotten, when my sinking heart and eyes locked in disgust with the lifeless ones of the dead bug that was floating in my meal. I stared at the intruder, who challenged my boorish lifestyle with its mere presence. I wanted to keep eating. I wanted to not care. But I couldn't, my stomach was turning and I cursed the gluttony of the pest that had eventually done him in, and was now living a ghostly second life, upending my values, and forcing me to question myself as I reluctantly placed my dish to the side.

As you can imagine, the next few days were spent with long, questioning walks in the rain around the city, listening to angsty music, as I tried to figure out who I was, what this incident made me.
It wasn't until a few days later at work, that I was able to find myself again:
I had recently started my lady time of the month (my period, people) and at this point in time we find myself in the bathroom (which could happen even if it weren't my lady time). I had expelled a lady product in the toilet-which, as a side note, I have recently become aware that it is somewhat of a controversy whether or not tampons should be flushed. I have always flushed, apparently everyone else has not-and the toilet wouldn't flush it. Now, we have some pretty noisy toilets in the office, and the sound of the flushin' is audible throughout the space. I flushed a good six times, before I came out, red faced, but with a plan. I quickly constructed an "out of order" sign, and then scoured the office for a latex glove. Glove placed lovingly around my right hand, I reentered the bathroom.
Using my left hand to pull the glove up my arm, so as to avoid water entering the wrist portion, my hand was submerged in toilet water, the offending article was removed and thrown away, the out of order sign was shred into teeny tiny pieces, and meaning was restored to my life.
I'm a sick piece of work.

Why I LOVE My Job--Part II

Because when I return from lunch I find this on my desk:

And the grand finale:
I was riding the elevator back up to the office, and a lady was accompanying me. She was dressed very nicely (I would say, she was probably an office worker's wife nice, not a employee of the building nice) and carrying a plate of pastries. I noted that we were both going to the same floor, "I feel like so many people work on Floor Four nowadays!" To which she replied, "Oh, I don't work on that floor. I'm just there looking for a Brooke...?" LOOKING FOR A BROOKE.
"Why that's me!" I exclaimed
She just handed the pastries right over, "Well these are for you then!" I was in pure, unadulterated shock. "For me?"
I had helped an office on a higher level move some food upstairs on our carts (with my boss) for their open house party, and they were apparently very grateful. So grateful, in fact, that they had sent down a plate of pastries, for me.
The lady, whom I later learned was actually Joy, (and she was, pure Joy) went on to say, "Oh, well I didn't recognize you, Brooke. For some reason I thought your hair was darker."
My reply? "Maybe I've washed it since then." Obviously, it was answered with peals of laughter. And that's how work is, everyday.

Even When He's Bad, He's Good.

Mad Men Monday is a regular, weekly occurrence in my household. It is where all the roommates get together, on this specific occasion it was in my room, and watch Mad Men. On Monday. We were all gathered in a darkened assortment around the computer screen, riveted in the newest (at least to us) episode.
Usually, Javier is very well-behaved when we have guests in our room. He stalks around silently, or cuddles up on the lap that is most apt to rub him. On this particular Monday, Javier was not himself. He was crying and racing around the room like a crazy person. He was making all sorts of noises, climbing in, out, and on top of things, and scratching at the door to be let out. I have never let Javier out when he scratches at the door, because I don't want him to get into the habit, especially at odd hours during the night. I tried my best to ignore his antics, and apologized profusely to my housemates, because we are SERIOUS about Mad Men.
And then, the smell hit us.
And that's when I remembered, the litter box wasn't in the room.
Mad Men was forgotten, lights were turned on, and the room became a friend of the enemy as I searched it's hidden corners for the offender.
I had been shushing Javier as he cried for relief and tried to spare me the trouble that he was fully aware of in his bowels. He had tried to warn me, multiple times about the oncoming attack, and I had apologized to the roommates for his distracting behavior. Javier had been patient with me, and his last act of kindness was to find a small, empty box to commit his sin in, a box that I simply through away.

Why I LOVE My Job

I work in the heart of downtown Portland, OR.

I get to dress up for work, everyday.

These guys. They give me free food, and most importantly free lovin'.
(known in previous posts and Fashionably Harrison as "the coffee shop boys")

I love my job because even though someone brought donuts in the day I had school, they saved me one. (Yeah, it fell on the floor, but they knew I'd still eat it, and that says everything.)

A job just doesn't get better than this:
During a staff meeting, my boss left for a short period of time. I announced, "quick! everyone! pretend you're all asleep!"
And every single person did.

The Inevitable

Lounging languidly on my couch, I had been falling in and out of sleep for the last two hours, partly because I just didn't want to do anything, and mostly because I would feel bad getting up and and taking away the support Javi's back needed, or else he would be in for a rude (and disorienting) awakening.
As I settled myself back around my kitten, flashing blue and red lights caught my eye and attention from outside my window. I stretched and sat up, and discovered a cop on a motorcycle on the street below. After the initial panic attack that always accompanies the sighting of the police passed, I focused in on the situation. There was a cop blocking the roadway, and a whole passel of cops at the top of my streets, blue and red lights ablaze.
I quickly texted my neighbor, who's house was conveniently placed right in front of the melee, and got the dish: some guy who had been running from the cops had just been tackled on my street!

But the real point is, as I was staring into the constant drizzle (and at this moment in time, slightly less than a downpour) that is my city, I noticed something amiss.
My car. Sunroof wide open.

..only in Puddletown

It was relatively early in the morning, I was heading to the workplace, standing at the bus stop waiting for #12.
As I crossed my arms for warmth against the wind and drizzle, (I had skipped the coat, foolishly holding hope in Portland's spring) a bum, riding a bike, passed behind me on the sidewalk. He stopped just past me and called out, "hey, do you have a spare quarter or two?"
I answered with the usual, "oh, I'm sorry, I don't carry cash."
His first question, although abated, was quickly followed by a second: "do you have a cigarette by chance?"
Again, I answered in the negative, "nah, sorry I don't smoke."
He smiled a gaped-smile at me, and I tentatively smiled back.
This was the moment he pulled out all stops:
"You don't date, do you?"

The Event

School tires me. I am there from:
8:00a.m. until 9:00p.m. Mondays,
5:00p.m. until 9:30p.m. Tuesdays, and
8:00a.m. until 7:00p.m. Wednesdays.
As this doesn't leave me with any short of social life, I make do by staying up until all hours of the night. (The latest I ever allow myself to go to bed is midnight, so until half hours of the night).
This schedule makes the next morning at school somewhat, oh, droopy-eyed and yawny.
I have a little break inbetween my morning classes, and on this particular morning, I stretched out on a complimentary couch in a Cramer hallway, and consequently fell alseep. Pretty much instantly.
I awoke to this scene one hour later:
Bleary eyed, I pushed myself away from the leather my face was pressed against into a sitting position. As I rose I felt my face separate, in a wet manner, from the furnitrue, and I felt an actual rivulet of moisture bead itself down my face and drip back into the puddle of drool where it had originally rested. I had drooled, quite the amount of drool onto this couch. It covered my face, and now my hands as I tried unsuccessfully to wipe it away. It covered the couch in a circle of wet. Even my eyelashes were dripping with the stuff. I looked around me, and wasn't alone. As I stumbled away from the scene of the accident and into a nearby bathroom, a fellow student was exiting as I was trying to enter. We were less than six inches from each other's faces, when she said, "Oh My Go...." and pushed past me. I lblundered into the restroom, and lurched towards the mirror.
I was a soppy wreck.