How imminent is your pending visit?
a. guests > 12hrs away
b. guests 2-12hrs away
c. guests 1-2hrs away
d. guests < 1hr away
e. guests < 10mins away
f. guests in driveway
What is your personal state?
a. well-rested and alert
b. tired and frazzled
c. sweaty
d. disheveled
e. naked
f. sweaty, disheveled and naked
What is the state of your child(ren)?
a. sleeping
b. fighting - basement or outdoors
c. fighting - living areas
d. sticky
e. filthy
f. vomiting
What is the state of your household?
a. not bad
b. smells like fish
c. light to moderate surface grime
d. large dust bunnies; pubes on toilets
e. OMG
f. FML
If you answered mostly a's, bathe and beautify self and children. Fluff cushions and place fresh cut flowers throughout home. Consider preparing a gourmet meal to welcome your esteemed guests.
If you answered mostly b's, put some colour back in your cheeks with a quick dusting of bronzer and a glass of wine. Consider lighting a stick of incense or a few candles; closing open doors or windows to attenuate any unpleasant noises coming from your children; and defrosting something from M&M Meat Shop to serve to your guests, who will probably show up hungry.
If you answered mostly c's, put the children in the basement. Powder nose; comb hair. Consider implementing a Level 3 Budget Clean (light tidying throughout main floor of house; light candles or spritz room spray to freshen home; wash counters and dishes; wipe down mirrors and faucets in bathroom; flush toilets) to appease your guests, not that that will keep them from judging you. Put on a pot of coffee and pray they don't stay too long.
If you answered mostly d's, wipe children down with a damp rag dipped in the same multi-purpose household cleaning solution you will subsequently use to implement your Level 2 Budget Clean (light tidying and spot cleaning throughout main floor of home; polish mirrors and faucets in bathroom; flush toilets; shove all remaining errant items into dishwasher). Put out a half-empty carton of orange juice and some granola bars. Hopefully they'll get the hint.
If you answered mostly e's, for gawd's sake, get dressed woman. Implement Level 1 Budget Clean (spot clean children, kitchen and bathroom with same damp rag, hopefully - but not necessarily - in that order; spritz self and home with room spray; shove all errant items and children in dishwasher). Why are these jerks always showing up unannounced anyway? Put out some tap water.
If you answered mostly f's, implement Family Emergency Preparedness Plan (wrap self in bedsheet; lock doors; hide self, children and suitable vomit receptacle in basement until you're sure those horrible, horrible people are gone; while you're waiting, rehearse a suitable excuse for the next time you see them).
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Friday, November 16, 2012
Forkopoly
I have the sort of job where my family and friends have essentially no idea whatsoever what it is I do. If you also have this sort of job you'll feel my pain right now. (If you're something like a teacher or a proctologist you might think you know what I'm talking about, in a 'no one knows all the shit I have to put up with' sort of way [he he he, proctologists], but really you have no idea what I'm talking about so it's time to stop nodding now.)
My dad doesn't drink much, but once a year or so he'll get a few too many shortbread cookies or something in him and will summon up the courage to suffer another convoluted explanation from me:
'So, sweetie, how's that... job of yours... that you do?'
'Oh, pretty good, Dad, thanks for asking.'
'They're, uh... paying you good and stuff?'
'Yup, can't complain.'
'So, uh, what is it that you do again?'
When I reach the lame conclusion of my latest poor description, he'll nod and say, 'Oh, yup, yup, for sure,' and chuckle his patented Dad Chuckle and teeter back to the kitchen to work back up his cookie buzz that I just killed. 'Yup, for sure,' by the way, is parent speak for 'I'm pretty sure you're actually a prostitute because there's no way anyone could get paid that much money for a job that doesn't actually exist.' (Hi, Dad. Still not a prostitute. Just sayin'.)
Admittedly, this is a pretty piddling irritant compared to greater whole of a decent job, but still there's some small part of me that wishes I did something more... tangible with my life. Something you could really put a word to and people would instantly understand, and maybe even sympathize with ('Oh, wow - I can just imagine all the shit you have to put up with!').
* * *
Our office kitchens (and, hence, employees) suffer from a grievous dearth of cutlery. No word of a lie, I saw a coworker eating his lunch on Wednesday with a sort of chopstick-spork contraption he had crafted out of coffee stir sticks. That is how bad our cutlery problem is. Interestingly (due to a complex chain of events involving an office move, a timely staycation and a certain cinephile-slash-botanist), I happen to be the proud - if unlikely - owner of about five dozen (matching!) forks. They live in a vase in my office.
Now, unlike other famous distribution problems (world hunger, say), solving the cutlery issue at my workplace would be as simple as moving my massive excess of forks from my office to nearby kitchen drawers. In fact, I've been meaning to do so for a few weeks now. But seeing B. trying to wrangle a stir fry into his face with a chopstick-spork made me realize the power inherent in my situation:
I have a complete and total forkopoly.
O, the power! The responsibility! The happiness I can produce and the suffering I can engender with my every whim! The shit I have to put up with!
I am a Cutlery Don.
* * *
Finally, a job people can understand.
My dad doesn't drink much, but once a year or so he'll get a few too many shortbread cookies or something in him and will summon up the courage to suffer another convoluted explanation from me:
'So, sweetie, how's that... job of yours... that you do?'
'Oh, pretty good, Dad, thanks for asking.'
'They're, uh... paying you good and stuff?'
'Yup, can't complain.'
'So, uh, what is it that you do again?'
When I reach the lame conclusion of my latest poor description, he'll nod and say, 'Oh, yup, yup, for sure,' and chuckle his patented Dad Chuckle and teeter back to the kitchen to work back up his cookie buzz that I just killed. 'Yup, for sure,' by the way, is parent speak for 'I'm pretty sure you're actually a prostitute because there's no way anyone could get paid that much money for a job that doesn't actually exist.' (Hi, Dad. Still not a prostitute. Just sayin'.)
Admittedly, this is a pretty piddling irritant compared to greater whole of a decent job, but still there's some small part of me that wishes I did something more... tangible with my life. Something you could really put a word to and people would instantly understand, and maybe even sympathize with ('Oh, wow - I can just imagine all the shit you have to put up with!').
* * *
Our office kitchens (and, hence, employees) suffer from a grievous dearth of cutlery. No word of a lie, I saw a coworker eating his lunch on Wednesday with a sort of chopstick-spork contraption he had crafted out of coffee stir sticks. That is how bad our cutlery problem is. Interestingly (due to a complex chain of events involving an office move, a timely staycation and a certain cinephile-slash-botanist), I happen to be the proud - if unlikely - owner of about five dozen (matching!) forks. They live in a vase in my office.
Now, unlike other famous distribution problems (world hunger, say), solving the cutlery issue at my workplace would be as simple as moving my massive excess of forks from my office to nearby kitchen drawers. In fact, I've been meaning to do so for a few weeks now. But seeing B. trying to wrangle a stir fry into his face with a chopstick-spork made me realize the power inherent in my situation:
I have a complete and total forkopoly.
O, the power! The responsibility! The happiness I can produce and the suffering I can engender with my every whim! The shit I have to put up with!
I am a Cutlery Don.
* * *
Finally, a job people can understand.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
It's Like Meteorology, but Less Accurate
Unspoken Spousal Agreement No. 2,366: a.k.a. the Likelihood of Getting Any Tonight (Variations on a Theme*): if the night guard ith in, no way in hell mithter.
2,366.1: And if the night guard is not in? Jeez, I was too tired to even put in my night guard, you think I have energy for anything else?
* Only one of approximately 3,000 closely related Agreements that comprise the bulk of the Unspoken Household Regulations, pursuant to the Spousal (Dis)Agreement Act. The exact number of Agreements related to the vetoing of sexual activities is not known due in part to their evanescent and mystifying nature, and in part because the Unspoken Spousal Agreements are for the most part - as the name suggests - unspoken. Some Spouses have hypothesized (sotto voce, of course) that the number fluctuates on a "monthly" basis, although this is hotly contested by other Spouses who a) have very good hearing and b) counter that the probability of encountering willingness to engage in certain adult activities on any given day is inversely proportional to the percentage of household cleaning conducted, over the time period of her choosing, by the Spouse exerting the authority granted her under the SDA to stymie such activities. Also over the time period of her choosing.
2,366.1: And if the night guard is not in? Jeez, I was too tired to even put in my night guard, you think I have energy for anything else?
* Only one of approximately 3,000 closely related Agreements that comprise the bulk of the Unspoken Household Regulations, pursuant to the Spousal (Dis)Agreement Act. The exact number of Agreements related to the vetoing of sexual activities is not known due in part to their evanescent and mystifying nature, and in part because the Unspoken Spousal Agreements are for the most part - as the name suggests - unspoken. Some Spouses have hypothesized (sotto voce, of course) that the number fluctuates on a "monthly" basis, although this is hotly contested by other Spouses who a) have very good hearing and b) counter that the probability of encountering willingness to engage in certain adult activities on any given day is inversely proportional to the percentage of household cleaning conducted, over the time period of her choosing, by the Spouse exerting the authority granted her under the SDA to stymie such activities. Also over the time period of her choosing.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
I'll Try Anything Once
Psst, hey, you got anything?
Yeah, man, check this out.
Whoa. What is it?
An oldie but a goodie. Hot right now.
What's it do?
Aw, you have no idea how good it is. Will lay you flat for hours. Don't expect to be operating any machinery anytime soon, know what I'm saying?
Sounds awesome. But, like, is it alright?
Totally. It's natural, you know? People been up on this shit since caveman days. You got receptors built just for it; can't argue with Mother Nature, that's what I always say. He he.
So how do you...?
Easy man, you just slip one under your tongue, maybe two once you build up a little tolerance, let 'em dissolve and hang on for the ride.
Seriously?
Yeah. They say Hendrix used to put it under his headband some nights but I never tried it. I figure why mess with what works.
Yeah fer sure. So, uh, how much?
Hey, man, you gotta ask that you can't afford it, he he. I can give you a couple to try right now, no charge. Wait 'til you're home before you dose. Don't want you tripping out on the road.
Sweet, thanks. Can't wait.
You like it, you can get your own stash. Like, twenty bucks at Costco for a big jar.
Awesome. Thanks for the tips, Yvonne. I'm so excited to try treating my chronic insomnia with melatonin!
No problem. Hey, got any more of those cookies?
Yeah, man, check this out.
Whoa. What is it?
An oldie but a goodie. Hot right now.
What's it do?
Aw, you have no idea how good it is. Will lay you flat for hours. Don't expect to be operating any machinery anytime soon, know what I'm saying?
Sounds awesome. But, like, is it alright?
Totally. It's natural, you know? People been up on this shit since caveman days. You got receptors built just for it; can't argue with Mother Nature, that's what I always say. He he.
So how do you...?
Easy man, you just slip one under your tongue, maybe two once you build up a little tolerance, let 'em dissolve and hang on for the ride.
Seriously?
Yeah. They say Hendrix used to put it under his headband some nights but I never tried it. I figure why mess with what works.
Yeah fer sure. So, uh, how much?
Hey, man, you gotta ask that you can't afford it, he he. I can give you a couple to try right now, no charge. Wait 'til you're home before you dose. Don't want you tripping out on the road.
Sweet, thanks. Can't wait.
You like it, you can get your own stash. Like, twenty bucks at Costco for a big jar.
Awesome. Thanks for the tips, Yvonne. I'm so excited to try treating my chronic insomnia with melatonin!
No problem. Hey, got any more of those cookies?
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Aw, He's So Grown Up!
Based on *certain* life experiences I have long held the belief that men are pretty much giant whiners whenever they're sick, and I recently unearthed on the interwebs some incontrovertible proof that this is in fact the case - and likely always has been.
If you clicked on those links you'll have seen this theory online in two places, which must make it true, but if by some feat of exceptional skepticism you remain unconvinced I present the following as further evidence for this compelling theory:
"I have a headache and a nose ache and a mouth-aaaaaache."
"I want my mommyyyyyy."
"Nobody liiiiiiikes meeeeee."
"I'm going to diiiiiiiiie."
Nope, not even DH [this time]. All that quality drama (and more!) has been provided free of charge courtesy of Small Fry. Don't fret - it's not as Ebola/black plague/cholera dance mix as he would have you believe. His only symptoms, aside from some rather dire monologuing, have been heavy snot production and a mild fever. By all accounts he seems to be experiencing his first Man Cold.
Which makes me wonder, can the phenomenon accurately be dubbed a 'Man Cold' at all if occurrences have been reliably documented in human males as young as four-and-a-half? Should it rightly be termed the 'Male Cold' instead? And is it even a cold at all, or just a handy catch-all term for every minor affliction experienced by men, ever? Either way, 'Man Cold' is an unforgivably sexist and, like, cold-ist term. I'm going to have to give it a way more euphemistic name so I can keep tossing it around in a socially acceptable manner.
The treatment of Small Fry's Generalized Consolidated Minor Male Afflictions Syndrome has been largely the same as that deployed by females everywhere on their respective male charges, (apparently) for centuries: mind-melting amounts of TV and endless assorted coddling. Easy! The tricky part will be later this week when whatever pathogens Small Fry has been aerially bombarding the household with have settled in in the rest of the family. Thank goodness Medium Fry is female: guaranteed she'll be sick, too, but at least she'll still be able to help me out with babysitting DH.
If you clicked on those links you'll have seen this theory online in two places, which must make it true, but if by some feat of exceptional skepticism you remain unconvinced I present the following as further evidence for this compelling theory:
"I have a headache and a nose ache and a mouth-aaaaaache."
"I want my mommyyyyyy."
"Nobody liiiiiiikes meeeeee."
"I'm going to diiiiiiiiie."
Nope, not even DH [this time]. All that quality drama (and more!) has been provided free of charge courtesy of Small Fry. Don't fret - it's not as Ebola/black plague/cholera dance mix as he would have you believe. His only symptoms, aside from some rather dire monologuing, have been heavy snot production and a mild fever. By all accounts he seems to be experiencing his first Man Cold.
Which makes me wonder, can the phenomenon accurately be dubbed a 'Man Cold' at all if occurrences have been reliably documented in human males as young as four-and-a-half? Should it rightly be termed the 'Male Cold' instead? And is it even a cold at all, or just a handy catch-all term for every minor affliction experienced by men, ever? Either way, 'Man Cold' is an unforgivably sexist and, like, cold-ist term. I'm going to have to give it a way more euphemistic name so I can keep tossing it around in a socially acceptable manner.
The treatment of Small Fry's Generalized Consolidated Minor Male Afflictions Syndrome has been largely the same as that deployed by females everywhere on their respective male charges, (apparently) for centuries: mind-melting amounts of TV and endless assorted coddling. Easy! The tricky part will be later this week when whatever pathogens Small Fry has been aerially bombarding the household with have settled in in the rest of the family. Thank goodness Medium Fry is female: guaranteed she'll be sick, too, but at least she'll still be able to help me out with babysitting DH.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Happy Misgiving!
My fellow Canadians: ask not whether the turkey fits in the roasting pan, ask whether the roasting pan fits in the oven.
Or maybe ask both things, but I recommend doing so in rapid succession so you can intercept yourself early on in the dinner preparation process.
While you're at it, ask those big emmer-effer black basement spiders why they persist in colonizing the roasting pan during the off-season. (Do you really want to die alone inside a vacuum cleaner? Huh, tough guy, do ya?)
And for the ten thousand dollar grand prize finale question, ask yourself what is the number-one top cause of marital strife in the month of October on a certain street in northwest Calgary. I'll give you a hint: Thanksgiving dinner. In-laws invited. DH at a conference in Texas for the week prior to the date.
I have done positively Herculean amounts of cooking, cleaning, cross-country running team carpooling and spider-vacuuming this week. Not that Hercules had a vacuum, but you get my point. In addition, I managed to hold down a wee bit of a job, plus a little parenting gig in my free time. All these things together would be enough to cause most mortals to snap, but they did not make me snap. Creating a gluten-free Thanksgiving feast to appease DHs delicate digestive tract did not make me snap. Even the in-laws arriving a day early due to a miscommunication on DHs part did not make me snap.
Know what made me snap? The spider in the roasting pan.
While I cried and vacuumed spiders, it all became very rationally and logically clear to me, as things are wont to do while I'm insane: this is your fault, DH. All of it. You owe me forever for this dinner from hell. Do you have any idea how long forever is? Let me illustrate:
One day soon, you're going to press start on the washing machine then stand around waiting for the hero cookies to start rolling in and I am going to say, "Gluten-free cornbread stuffing - from scratch!" and just walk away, and you will hang your head and know that you deserved no such cookies. One day a few years hence, you will think to yourself how nice it would be to eat turkey again sometime but I will hear your thoughts and whisper menacingly to you, "You said they weren't coming until Saturday night," and you will mourn anew the loss of gravy stains from your life. One day many years from now you will be tweezing my prodigious old lady chin hairs and sigh, and from my wizened lips will come a croak, "That fucking spider was huge," and you will understand that you have still not lived down that fateful day in 2012 and probably never will.
So I hope you really, really enjoy those two kinds of gluten-free pie tomorrow, and that you hold the memory of them close to help you through the tough times ahead. 'Cause I'm gonna grow me a lot of chin hairs.
Or maybe ask both things, but I recommend doing so in rapid succession so you can intercept yourself early on in the dinner preparation process.
While you're at it, ask those big emmer-effer black basement spiders why they persist in colonizing the roasting pan during the off-season. (Do you really want to die alone inside a vacuum cleaner? Huh, tough guy, do ya?)
And for the ten thousand dollar grand prize finale question, ask yourself what is the number-one top cause of marital strife in the month of October on a certain street in northwest Calgary. I'll give you a hint: Thanksgiving dinner. In-laws invited. DH at a conference in Texas for the week prior to the date.
I have done positively Herculean amounts of cooking, cleaning, cross-country running team carpooling and spider-vacuuming this week. Not that Hercules had a vacuum, but you get my point. In addition, I managed to hold down a wee bit of a job, plus a little parenting gig in my free time. All these things together would be enough to cause most mortals to snap, but they did not make me snap. Creating a gluten-free Thanksgiving feast to appease DHs delicate digestive tract did not make me snap. Even the in-laws arriving a day early due to a miscommunication on DHs part did not make me snap.
Know what made me snap? The spider in the roasting pan.
While I cried and vacuumed spiders, it all became very rationally and logically clear to me, as things are wont to do while I'm insane: this is your fault, DH. All of it. You owe me forever for this dinner from hell. Do you have any idea how long forever is? Let me illustrate:
One day soon, you're going to press start on the washing machine then stand around waiting for the hero cookies to start rolling in and I am going to say, "Gluten-free cornbread stuffing - from scratch!" and just walk away, and you will hang your head and know that you deserved no such cookies. One day a few years hence, you will think to yourself how nice it would be to eat turkey again sometime but I will hear your thoughts and whisper menacingly to you, "You said they weren't coming until Saturday night," and you will mourn anew the loss of gravy stains from your life. One day many years from now you will be tweezing my prodigious old lady chin hairs and sigh, and from my wizened lips will come a croak, "That fucking spider was huge," and you will understand that you have still not lived down that fateful day in 2012 and probably never will.
So I hope you really, really enjoy those two kinds of gluten-free pie tomorrow, and that you hold the memory of them close to help you through the tough times ahead. 'Cause I'm gonna grow me a lot of chin hairs.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Feed Me, Seymour
Once upon a time, a long time ago, back when the west was wild and I was a real biologist, "safety" meant not going too fast when you were doubling someone on your quad. Nowadays, the amount of paperwork one has to do just to drive across town for a meeting is enough to make a person weep with frustration. (If they can find the right forms on the shared drive, that is.) Although I'm convinced it also keeps us safe, for surely all the paper we've collectively armed ourselves with will at least function to absorb some of the impact in the event of a collision.
Of course, back when I was a real biologist people also asked me things about biology rather than just harassing me about deadlines and paperwork. My, times have changed.
But every so often, a relict of the old world surfaces to mingle with the new, and strange and exciting chimeras are brought forth of their union:
___________________________________________________
Safety Guy
Health and Safety Advisor
___________________________________________________
Modern-day safety, meet biology. And welcome to the world a terrifying suite of previously-unrealized office hazards.
I read the email again. It had to be a prank, but he seemed so... sincere... in all my bitterness and distortion, what if I just wasn't giving Safety Guy enough credit? There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for his concern. Maybe the cactus was a really scary cactus, with, say, two-inch-long serrated spines, or a predilection for actively shooting passers-by with its poisonous sap.
I suspended my disbelief and went to see the cactus for myself.
The thing was massive. Six feet tall, gnarled and gangly, stooped under its own weight. Some segments dry and wrinkly, others fully brown and dead. But... standard-issue prickles. None of the infamous poisonous sap in sight. Basically, a pretty ugly plant - I could see why they would want it out of the room - but hazardous? Not exactly the term that sprung to mind.
Safety Guy showed up. We made small talk as I tried desperately to figure out whether he was actually serious about needing a safe disposal plan. While I pondered, he struck:
"So I'll bet, as a veg person, it's kindof sad for you to see it go, hey?"
Touché, Safety Guy: fretting about vegetation is my job as much as fretting about safety is his. We both knew in that instant that if this was our own cactus in our own home, we would heave the thing into the black bin without a second thought. However, here in the workplace there are certain images that must be upheld. The irony was palpable: he was Safety, pretending to care whether this plant was disposed of in a safe manner, and I was Biology, pretending to care about this plant. Like, at all.
We had reached an impasse.
There was a long silence. We looked at the cactus. We looked at each other. We looked back at the cactus. When our eyes finally met, a current of understanding passed between us and we realized simultaneously that both of us were too deeply invested in this charade to call the other person out. Tentatively, he suggested it would probably be best to wear safety goggles while disposing of the cactus. Feebly, I replied that it was a shame that we couldn't find a forever home for the cactus. He espoused aloud the pros and cons of nitrile versus leather gloves for use in disposing of Very Prickly and Poisonous plants. I expressed frustration at a society that is blind to the charms of cacti, and thus fearful of them.
Once we were both satisfied that a sufficient amount of posturing had been conducted, Safety Guy and I got down to the nuts and bolts of the Safe Tackling of Our Plant's Imminent Disposal (STOOPID) Plan. Then we parted ways, each of us secure in the knowledge that our cover had not been blown, and ostensibly shaking our head at the folly of the other:
"Fussbudget," I muttered as I returned to my desk.
"Tree-hugger," he grumbled as he gathered the appropriate PPE.
And thus the status quo lived to fight another day. Even if the cactus didn't.
Of course, back when I was a real biologist people also asked me things about biology rather than just harassing me about deadlines and paperwork. My, times have changed.
But every so often, a relict of the old world surfaces to mingle with the new, and strange and exciting chimeras are brought forth of their union:
___________________________________________________
From: Safety Guy
Sent: September 27, 2012 2:30 PM
To: Frecklepelt
Subject: Vegetation Emergency
Sent: September 27, 2012 2:30 PM
To: Frecklepelt
Subject: Vegetation Emergency
We have a large cactus plant in one of our meeting rooms that is quite prickly and may have poisonous sap. It has been identified as a potential safety hazard and we need your vegetation expertise to help assess and mitigate the risk.
Can you please confirm the species, identify the hazards, and suggest a safe disposal plan? Thank you,
Safety Guy
Health and Safety Advisor
___________________________________________________
Modern-day safety, meet biology. And welcome to the world a terrifying suite of previously-unrealized office hazards.
I read the email again. It had to be a prank, but he seemed so... sincere... in all my bitterness and distortion, what if I just wasn't giving Safety Guy enough credit? There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for his concern. Maybe the cactus was a really scary cactus, with, say, two-inch-long serrated spines, or a predilection for actively shooting passers-by with its poisonous sap.
I suspended my disbelief and went to see the cactus for myself.
The thing was massive. Six feet tall, gnarled and gangly, stooped under its own weight. Some segments dry and wrinkly, others fully brown and dead. But... standard-issue prickles. None of the infamous poisonous sap in sight. Basically, a pretty ugly plant - I could see why they would want it out of the room - but hazardous? Not exactly the term that sprung to mind.
Safety Guy showed up. We made small talk as I tried desperately to figure out whether he was actually serious about needing a safe disposal plan. While I pondered, he struck:
"So I'll bet, as a veg person, it's kindof sad for you to see it go, hey?"
Touché, Safety Guy: fretting about vegetation is my job as much as fretting about safety is his. We both knew in that instant that if this was our own cactus in our own home, we would heave the thing into the black bin without a second thought. However, here in the workplace there are certain images that must be upheld. The irony was palpable: he was Safety, pretending to care whether this plant was disposed of in a safe manner, and I was Biology, pretending to care about this plant. Like, at all.
We had reached an impasse.
There was a long silence. We looked at the cactus. We looked at each other. We looked back at the cactus. When our eyes finally met, a current of understanding passed between us and we realized simultaneously that both of us were too deeply invested in this charade to call the other person out. Tentatively, he suggested it would probably be best to wear safety goggles while disposing of the cactus. Feebly, I replied that it was a shame that we couldn't find a forever home for the cactus. He espoused aloud the pros and cons of nitrile versus leather gloves for use in disposing of Very Prickly and Poisonous plants. I expressed frustration at a society that is blind to the charms of cacti, and thus fearful of them.
Once we were both satisfied that a sufficient amount of posturing had been conducted, Safety Guy and I got down to the nuts and bolts of the Safe Tackling of Our Plant's Imminent Disposal (STOOPID) Plan. Then we parted ways, each of us secure in the knowledge that our cover had not been blown, and ostensibly shaking our head at the folly of the other:
"Fussbudget," I muttered as I returned to my desk.
"Tree-hugger," he grumbled as he gathered the appropriate PPE.
And thus the status quo lived to fight another day. Even if the cactus didn't.
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