The office is still a mess today, people, and it's starting to eat at me. See, for whatever reason, I have been labeled the office Tech Guy. I feel this has little to do with my (limited) technical proficiency, and more to do with my penis. I'm not trying to say that fixing paper jams is "Man's Work", but there seems to be this prevailing theory that testosterone makes you really good at moving furniture and (evidently) figuring out why the fax machine is making that bigh-pitched squeal. I mean, seriously. All I do is read the error message and try to interpret the subsequent instructions (**Remove Paper Jam!!!**). It's not heart surgery.
I don't know. I guess most guys like to feel all big and strong and gain the appreciation of damsels in distress, but most of them don't have to be savaged by a copier in order to do it. Not that I'm opposed to helping out around the office, of course, but it wasn't my Y chromosome that just refilled the printer.
Also, I believe in female empowerment - and I know a lot of guys say that tongue-in-cheek as an excuse not to take out the garbage ("You're empowered - you do it!"), but I say it meaning that assigning expectations to people based on traditional gender roles is narrow-minded and limiting. I won't hold the door open for a woman just because she's a woman; I'll hold the door open because it's polite. I would gladly refill the printer, dredge a paper jam from the bowels of the Xerox machine, and wrest a contract from the fax machine's death grip, but I don't like all of that becoming my responsibility just because I've got Boy Parts, any more than any woman likes it when she's expected to do the dishes, cook dinner, and answer the phone simply because she's a woman.
But I didn't intend this entry to be my essay on post-modern feminism. This was supposed to be about puke.
See, Thanksgiving is right around the corner, y'all, and I'm looking forward to it! Ever since I was little, Turkey Day was always my favorite holiday - family, friends, and food being three of the greatest parts of being alive, and T-Day delivering them in spades. Unfortunately, expectations are not always met, are they? Two years ago, my Thanksgiving dinner was a can of Sprite.
The night before Thanksgiving, I came down with Montezuma's Revenge or something. I just know that I spent twelve hours hunched over the toilet, yakking my guts out, unable to keep down so much as water. My mother prudently decided to keep me away from the dinner table the next night. The trade-off was that I didn't get to eat any turkey, or engage in conversation with family and/or friends. So it blew. Literally.
Actually, during the virus' first onset, I was on the phone with my mother and it was a pretty hilarious conversation (if you find others' misery comical - and I know I do). I kept trying to explain that I needed to hang up before I ralphed all over the phone, and the woman just wouldn't quite get the point. "Gee, I hope you don't throw up, honey...I'd really like to see you tomorrow!" That's a nice sentiment, but when your gorge is actively rising and your mother is trying to ignore it and talk about the sweater she bought that afternoon, sentiment is not your most pressing concern. So to speak.
Anyway, I expect a very pleasant Thanksgiving this year. There will be eighteen people and two dogs, and I'll be in heaven. Unless my mom expects me to do the dishes. That's for girls.