Dihydrous Monoxide

When I was in seventh grade, I had to write a paper on dihydrous monoxide. It was some intense research - I had to cover the chemical composition, uses, and (most importantly) its lethal implications. Dihydrous monixide is a killer. It's found in every serial killer's brain... it's found in most poisons and toxins... It's found in the wounds of sharkbite victims and the saliva of rabid dogs and it's virtually undetectable by taste or smell. Lethal stuff, ReaderFriend. Lethal stuff indeed.**1

That paper, written almost exclusively for the practice of validating resources and verifying facts, taught me a valuable lesson during my childhood: That the internet is not 100% based in truth. Additionally, even facts can be cleverly phrased to sound exaggerated or understated to fit the author's needs.

It seems it's time for me to give that practice a try again.

(The checking-my-sources practice. Not the exaggerating or understating practice.)

Since the month of November last year, I started listing daily holidays and observances on my cubicle white board to pass the workweek. It started around Thanksgiving with a little survey - questions about favorite types of pie, and how far one drives, and all sorts of exciting things to personally connect with coworkers during the holidays.

As the actual holidays drew to a close in January, I found myself running out of holidays to celebrate and thought that was sad indeed. Instead of watching the festivities draw to their inevitable close, instead I started researching holidays to post on my white board. I stumbled across a website called www.cute-calendar.com, and found a wealth of information. It was just the resource I needed to keep my whiteboard up to date with the latest and greatest on World Popcorn Day and Independence Day (Lithuania) and all the other important dates that needed noting so as to avoid that unfortunate post-holiday crash back into reality.

Of course... I had some reservations. After all, the basis of the Cute Calendar was www.wikipedia.com - a website that, for all its readily available information, isn't super on-point about its accuracy.

For instance... I missed "National Cookie Day" because it wasn't noted in Cute Calendar.

And then, another day I missed "National Chocolate Day" because it wasn't noted either.

But the nail in the coffin of cute-calendar.com for me happened just this morning, as I was planning out what we would celebrate this week.

March 11th would be Youth Day in Pakistan. That sounds like a worthy date, and something that should have attention brought to it. 

March 13th would be Popcorn Lover's Day. Boyfriend of Amazingness is absolutely batty about popcorn, so that day I'll head out and pick up some gourmet snacks to lavish upon him for dinner that night.

March 14. Oh! It's Pi day! But, wait... Pi Day isn't noted as the most important date on March 14 on www.cute-calendar.com. It's second in line. 'Second to what,' you ask? 

Steak and BJ Day.

I read the description, and was immediately incensed. So incensed, in fact, that I need to quote the original website for fear of tainting their message with my snarkiness:

"Steak and BJ Day is a holiday celebrated one month after Valentine's Day. It was founded because Valentine's Day is a made up holiday for women and vegetarians; so it is only fair that there is an equivalent holiday for normal people. 

The idea is simple: there are no cards, flowers, candy or other overpriced fluff. Partners need only to bestow their man with a steak and a BJ. But not necessarily in that order. And not necessarily only once that day." - www.cute-calendar.com

A made up holiday for women and vegetarians.

So made up, in fact, that there is a need for an equivalent holiday for normal people.

Now... I have my reservations about Valentine's Day. In fact... I think I've stated them once or twice. I don't love the idea of being told that I need to express my emotions because the calendar says I should. I think I should express my emotions whenever I feel them - specifically, all the time. I'm in love every day with the man whom I've chosen to put up with me for life. I'm in love every day with our life together, so I tell him every day. 

But that doesn't mean that some folks don't need a reminder on the calendar. I've got friends and relatives that adore Valentine's Day, and make a big deal out of their significant other just because it's February 14th. And, in the past, I've been in relationships where Valentine's interjected romance into my life during the long dry spell between Christmas and my birthday. Sometimes it just needs to be written down. Besides - if we can celebrate St. Patrick's Day with getting absolutely fockered, I think it's okay to celebrate St. Valentine's Day with getting fat on chocolate and maybe getting some sexy rumpus.**2

And [brace yourself for this revelation, my dear one...] women - and vegetarians - are normal people, too.

(Don't let the chestal appendages and the penchant towards brussel sprouts put you off. We eat... We breathe... We even poop. And, honestly, vegetarians might even do that better than "Normal People," because they get all that extra fiber.)

It was only after much angry thought that I noted the irony of the holiday, ReaderFriends. "Valentine's Day is a made up holiday..." the writer lambasted. But then, "It's only fair that there is an equivalent..." So, essentially, the writer would like his own made-up holiday. Easy enough! I, Sunny Smiles, am willing to acquiesce this:

March 14 shall be henceforth and hitherto known as STEAK AND BJ DAY - the day where all the poor sad-sacks who are toxically trapped by their girlfriends/mothers/overbearing cats get their recompense for the gifts they bestowed on February 14. But I would like the day to come with this caveat:

An Open Letter to Those Who Celebrate Steak and BJ Day Because "It's Only Fair":

Dearheart, maybe next year you ought to spring for a nicer box of chocolates. Or a new partner-friend. Perhaps one who thinks - as most do - that Valentine's Day is for everyone to shower a little love over everyone else, in a big chocolate-filled flower-scented orgy and not just for Normal People to be held in a societal obligation to the Women and the Vegetarians of the world. It is my fondest hope that this, in turn, will leave March 14 open for the fruit-filled pastries of highest import... and saves you a month of evenings spent alone, quietly plotting how you'll trick your next ladyfriend into wrapping her face around your crotch.

And I follow up with this:

An Open Letter To

The Female Counterpart of The Poor Sad-Sack Who Came Up With "Steak and BJ Day."

Don't do it, nice lady. You don't owe him anything.

Respectfully Submitted,

Sunny Smiles

**1 Dihydrous Monoxide, written out as a chemical compound, is H2O.

**2 This. 

http://theoatmeal.com/blog/valentines_day

Don't Ask...

Sometimes my big ol' mouth gets me into heaps of trouble.

Like, for instance, the time I convinced my first grade teacher that my father really had fallen off the roof and broken his leg.**1

Or, for other instance... today.

When it didn't spin a tale, but instead couldn't keep it's stupid flaphole shut and stop asking questions to which it didn't want an answer.

I was conversing with a coworker who doesn't have a lot of meaningful interactions. She's cornered the market on idle chit-chat, but doesn't really delve into anything deeper than weather or the romance novel she's currently.

Now, normally, this isn't a problem. I'm pretty awesome at words, if I do say so myself. So I thought I could handle whatever this woman could throw at me.

I mean, the last conversation we had was about how she was going to have a chimichanga for lunch. Again.

I could handle whatever she dished out. (Har-de-har. I said dished. Because we were talking about food. It's... whatever.)

I was dreadfully, horribly, scarringly wrong.

But for today, it went like this:

CoWorker: "There's a movie out that I really want to go see."

Sunny: "Oh? What movie is that?"

CoWorker: "It's called 'Hysteria.'

Sunny: "Well that sounds interesting. What's it about?"

<Note: Error #1. I could have nipped this entire conversation in the bud with a little teeny "I've heard of that - it sounds great! I bet you'll enjoy it. Bye, now!" But no. This nincompoop had to show interest. That'll learn me.>

CoWorker: *blush* "Oh! It's about women... You know... *whispers* And the man who invented... umm... vibrators."

Sunny: *speechless*

<Note: Error #2. I could have stopped this here with an "Oh! Well isn't that nice. Have a good lunch break! See you later!" But instead I stood there like a terrified tot who just caught Mommy pretending to be Santa Claus, and Daddy drinking the beer specifically left out for Santa**2.>

CoWorker: You see, in my day, women had 'hysteria.' That's what they called... *pause, look around with a sly grin, lean in to whisper* That's what they called horniness."

Sunny: Um. Well. That will be fun, then.

Next time, we're talking about weather.

THAT'S IT.

**1 - In fact, falling off the roof was one of the only ways he didn't break his leg. My teacher was terribly confused by my story, and my mother's explanation that my father was just fine. On the up side... she never again questioned my ability to write fiction.

**2 Santa drank beer at our house. Don't judge. It went way better with the fruitcake we left for him to eat. And everyone knows that a drunk Santa leaves more presents anyway.

Black Market Beverages

Public Service Announcement to the Ample Chested Cleptomaniac

I understand that smuggling drinks is tricky business. You have to wait for just the right moment - when the local Patrol isn't looking - and make your move.

However, perhaps there's a better way to go about retrieving your loot than to hug it tightly to your chest. You see, as a Woman of Moderate Proportion, you have chest aplenty to hug before you load yourself down with pilfered whistle-wetters. Almost anything would work... Might I suggest a small basket, a la Red Riding Hood?

I only suggest it because, as you're clutching your bosom and squeaking "It's falling! It's falling!", you leave me little choice but to giggle and watch you sort yourself out.

Because, really, what else could I do? Rush forward and make a grab for it?

Right. That could only end well.

RaYD,

Sunny

My Dawdling Brought To You By...

There are so many websites out there for me to waste time on. 

There are my social networking sites where I can chat about really important personal issues, and post links to my amazing blog. That being said... I liked it better when I could throw virtual sheep. There's just nothing quite like flinging a fuzzball through the cyberwaves to show a loved one how much you care.

There are video hosting sites where I can watch almost anyone do almost anything. A three year old singing about the sweet names her mom calls her ... A college student dancing like a maniac...or even a baby monkey tootling about on its favorite swine. (Yes, dearhearts, all links here are to the *actual* websites, where the *actual* authors are credited. Call me crazy, but someday, if someone ever decides I'm worth copying, I want me some credit, so I try to repay in kind.) Again, I reiterate - watch almost anyone do almost anything... in almost terrifying clarity.

There are websites where I can shop... Websites where I can find recipes... Websites where I can sit on my tukkas and just listen to some tunes... The Internet is full of wonderfulness.

But today's web-focused delirium is brought to you by The Online Corkboard.

I managed to avoid the preliminary rush of excitement over this phenomenon. I mean, my physical environment is clutteriffic anyway. I have my Wall of Pictures. I have a three-month calendar, a weekly calendar and a weekly planner (and still I can't keep on schedule or on task). I have piles of paper on every available surface... Including my guest chair.** I have plenty of crap around without littering an online corkboard with Items of Interest to Me. I'm an (optimistically speaking) artist, for goodness sake. If it's shiny, or sparkly**1, or of any interest whatsoever... I'm going to click on it. And then I'm going to waste time.

Which I did. I trawled through photos of DIY clothing... dance photos and makeup tutorials... I even found a clever advertisement for an open Engineering position. But I didn't see anything I was anxious to "RePin."

So when I stumbled across a new website in the same vein, but focused upon a male audience... My interest was piqued. Which, of course, is always the way of it: Women develop something completely inane. Men turn this inane-ity into something sexually based, therein creating something completely different and completely interesting. Women find it and are outwardly shocked at the blatant nature of it... While inwardly they bitch slap themselves for not thinking of going to The Sex Place right from the start.

So I opened this new website. And, of course, was bombarded by awesome: Bacon... Star Trek... A fantastic Guide To Eating Anything Delicious You Will Ever Encounter (Except Bacon)... And, of course, the Token Female In Various States of Undress. (No, kidlets, I will not provide a link to that. I'm a *good* person, despite some prevailing opinions. And if you get grounded, who will visit my blog and make me feel validated that someone is reading my words?) In essence, this site was filled with things I *actually* take an interest in... With so far fewer of the baby goods that I have no need for. (Note: the Man Version does have this, which is made of baby and awesome. Win.)

So with a slow day approaching me tomorrow, I ask you my ReaderLoves - Do you have a favorite Pin or Nail to share here? I'd love to hear your thoughts. 

**All the better for discouraging unsavory characters from loitering in my cubby.

**1 Vampires NOT included. 

For The Girls...

Boys, sit down and buckle up. Grab your popcorn and prepare to enjoy...

A blog post about boobies.

Or, to be more specific, a blog post about bras.

(Because this is, at it's dirtiest, an NC-17 site. Risque isn't exactly our idea of a good time.)

That's right - today I will play a card I typically don't, and cater mostly to the understanding of my fellow womenfolk.

I made a poor choice in chestal holsters today. And the fault falls entirely on the shoulders of my workplace.

You may have noticed lately that I've been less-than-attentive to you, my ReaderFriends. For this, I'm sincerely sorry. Unfortunately I must offer a tawdry and pathetic excuse of "Work just isn't funny." Furthermore... it's even stopped being fun.

People are stressed. Management is worried. And we're all on this little itty bitty boat in a big corporate ocean, with enough rations for exactly two-thirds of the crew to survive.... and a hurricane on the horizon. A hurricane that mated with a tornado. And produced little baby tornicanes that are dancing around their Momma and Daddy like a big maypole. 

And there's no cake.

So... I've had some trouble getting blog posts together for you.

Oh, I've had some ideas...

Like the "Engineers have a weird sense of humor" train of thought, that I tried to follow but couldn't flesh out with enough examples because no one is feeling humorous. 

Or the "Adventure of Sunny Smiles Part Too" story, which artfully told the tale of how I single handedly saved the day from bad grammar, but couldn't finish because I ended up staying late to work on the stupid project and I wasn't going to stay later just to finish a blog post but by the time I got home I just wanted rum.

Or even the "I hate technology" rant that just turned into a big angry RawrFest that I refused to poison your minds with.

Yes, I've certainly tried. I've hashed out thoughts and worked through details and even pulled together some storylines... But in the end, I just can't deliver.

It's been like that with a bunch of other projects as well:

My dance has fallen by the wayside...

So has the new singing group that I'm really interested in, but cannot attend because it seems to be falling on the only night of the week when I can stay home and try to decompress with my Boyfriend of Amazingness...

Even my Adventures in Organized Religion are suffering, as I struggle to keep up with the tasks there.

So, in short, it's not just you. Not that it makes you feel any better. But you ARE in good company. The dancers are awesome. The singers are really spiffy, too. And, as previously noted, the Boyfriend is made of Amazingness.

(I told you all that, to tell you this...)

As it happens, the workdays have been fairly difficult to conquer, even with my mighty superpowers of positivity. So, I've been enlisting the help of some super-power-weilding accessories:

The Mighty Boots of Mightiness...

The Sparkly Eyeshadow of Glittery Delight...

The Fresh-From-The-Dryer-And-Hugging-All-The-Right-Places Bluejeans...

And... The uber-bra.

(Because - and this is a verified fact - Women's chests are armed with the reigning source of power.)

A good, perky appearance can make all the difference in the world. They can turn rain to sunshine. They can turn snarks to smiles. And (most importantly), they give you something awesome to look down at when you're feeling glum and staring at your shoes. Just one downward glance, and suddenly you remember that you have friends in low places that are working their hardest for you!

This is where I made my most critical mistake this morning.

I've used up all of my go-to uber-bras. So I had to settle for my emergency backup.

Which has caused me nothing but pain and strife all day.

It's a "convertible strapless." Which means that it's designed to be a strapless, but it has these dinky little straps you can hook in so you can attempt to hold everything in place. Note: dinky. This is a crucial turning point.

I put it on, and felt okay at first.

But then the adhesive tried to do its job.

I've owned this bra for almost three years. I bought it specifically for one purpose: To act as the underlying companion to a brand new dress that I bought for my first college graduation. And it failed. It also failed on my cruise and at the wedding reception where I attempted to wear it again. Every time, the adhesive would become slippery and a southern migration would commence.

But today, as I attempted to employ the shoulder apparatuses to minimize this exodus... The adhesive made up for its previous performances by bonding enough for *three* important events. It pulled and pinched and stretched and caused general mayhem just below my neckline. 

So much so that I forgot the strapless nature of the beast, and began trying to adjust to find a more comfortable position.

This is never easy in an office environment. Inevitably, as soon as you are in prime awkward-position, someone will catch you doing something horribly embarrassing... like adjusting your bra. You can try to play it off... Make like you were scratching your stomach or rubbing your arm... But they know. It's out.**

So, of course, as I was sitting there trying to get comfortable, I was walked up on. And in my haste to get my hand out of my shirt (Yup, full hand-down-the-front-of-the-neckline-and-under-the-arm position here...) I moved too quickly and unseated one strap from it's rear fastener. 

And... that's the story of Why It's Work's Fault That Sunny Flashed Her Boss.**1

**No, I cannot make these adjustments in the bathroom. That's crazy talk.

**1 Okay, not really. I didn't flash anyone. But the heart attack I felt as though I was having certainly seemed to be on par with an accidental flashing. In reality, nobody noticed.

Not Suitable For Younger Viewers

(So, as someone with dreams of working with children one day, I take a significant amount of care in making sure I don't broadcast anything to the masses that might scar a blossoming young mind. There is some understated sexiness in this post that could be sensitive for young viewers. If you ARE a young viewer - and I mean under the age of 16, where you have no business thinking sexy thoughts... You young-at-heart leches can have all the thoughts you want. I know I certainly do. - I know the knowledge that you shouldn't makes you want to read ahead all the more. Please try to resist, if only with the understanding that your body posture changes when you're doing something you shouldn't, and your parents *will* catch you. Yeah, I might be fibbing... But do you really want to risk having your Intarwebs taken away for one measly blog post?)

Okay. That's done. Onward.

I've always wanted to wear a flowy dress and walk out into a river. In my mind, there is something enthralling about the thought of the soft fabric drifting around me as I lay still in the rushing water. Then, of course, there's the sensuous post-river idea of damp, clinging fabric on a female form. But… and this is a BIG but… what about that awkward moment in the middle - before you reach the slightly-dried state for optimum damp-and-clinginess - when you have to put yourself to rights and get *out* of the river, muddy about the posterior and dripping like a poorly plumbed faucet? Yup, stops me every time.

Yes, this was the thought I woke up to this morning. Poetical, I know... And somewhat disturbing. (However, much more pleasant than the dream which caused me to wake up in the first place: A disembodied head taking control of my laundry - most notably, my recently-cleaned-red-bra-collection - and scattering it up and down my stairwells... Yeah. I know. It was scarier in my head.)

But it's true. Think about it - you must have encountered, somewhere within your searching of the vast wide intarwebs, some picture or video where a beautiful young woman in a beautiful dress lays thoughtfully in the water, pondering life and looking artsy while the water flows gently by...

(And not at all looking confused as to why she's wearing a white dress in a river.)

And if you encountered this, you must also have encountered the half-dry woman sunning herself on a rock looking just as clean as before she went into the water, but with the appropriate sogginess to suggest that this is not at all an orchestrated, pre-river-walk sunning.

(And not at all looking exerted for the work it must have been to fly vertically up and out of the water in order to avoid getting dirty.)

So what caused this strange, random and slightly awkward-to-consider thought? (The damp-and-clingy one... Not the cranial conundrum one...)

Work.

Yup, it was my office that made me do it.

See, I sit in this tiny little cubicle all day.

(Okay, so it's not tiny. And it's not exactly a cubicle. I have half walls that encase the three hundred square feet which could arguably be called "Mine." But it's confining, because I can see outside to all that I'm missing and really, nothing in here is sacred. Seriously. An EngineerFriend just leaned over my cube wall and "borrowed" my stapler, making his request by way of staring me down and daring me to speak against him. And now he's walked away with it. Ballsy little bugger.)

And it's boring.

(Okay, so it's not as boring as I make it sound. There are things to do if I wanted to get off my sphincter and take care of them. I could clean... Or process my never-ending pile of invoices... Or file something... Whee.)

And in not-so-Tiny-and-Boring Land, there is but one cure for what ails me:

Music.

(We've talked about this before. Don't tell me you're surprised.)

Sometimes it comes through my radio. Sometimes it's only in my brain. And sometimes it streams through my computer speakers, directly from an internet link to YouTube.

It is with the latter that I find myself most smitten recently.

Most notably, I have been listening to songs that involve music videos in which a young lady wears a pretty dress into a river and lays down.

And then, as if by magic she is suddenly lounging on the riverbank, beautifully damp and clingy but without a hint of the muck and mud that has inevitably been stirred beneath her by her swirling skirt.

Yeah, right. That's realistic. Almost as realistic as me getting off my lazy tuckus and dealing with the filing. (Ha!) 

No, it's more as though a crane lifted her from her watery-ness and set her gently on the sidelines... or a prop guy with a spray bottle had his way her.

Which would serve her right, the little soggy liar. I hope it was cold.

But despite the false claims, I still find myself drawn to the artistry of the image, and wondering what it would be like to wear That Dress and be That Girl...

Although maybe not at work.