Category Archive

Recently, collecting the mail has been the high point of my day. Is this sad? I feel like this is pretty sad. I normally don’t check the mail but a couple of times a week, since all I seem get is slips from people telling me I owe them money. The nerve. I’m growing impatient for those IRS fascists to surrender my check, so I’ve been a veritable mail slot vigilante of late. No check. But, I have had some nice, nice surprises:

• A card from my law school roommate, saying that she misses living with me. So. Sweet.
• A letter from my mom, complete with cutouts from the Crate & Barrel sale catalogue with little annotations: “how about this by your table?” “Wouldn’t this be cute in your bedroom?”
• A letter and an update from my sponsored child in Albania. Holy goodness, this child is so cute, it breaks my heart. He had his hair all styled and his ears totally stick out and I love him SO MUCH. He’s seven, in the second grade, and in satisfactory health. His best friend’s name is Gerald. At recess he likes to play with a ball. And when he grows up? He wants to be a doctor. Why? “Because I like it.” I’m seriously considering making that my default answer for everything.
• A box yesterday full of these:

Pink champagne! It’s possible I ordered those for myself (cough). But still! A nice surprise!

I’m on such a roll that I almost hate to check tonight, in case I break the spell. Or, you know, I could always just ship more alcohol to myself.

I almost brought one of those champagnes into work today, except for the minor inconvenience that I’d probably get fired for that. I get the distinct impression that it’s difficult, nay, near impossible to get the ol’ pink slip around here, though I suspect that acting like a floozy and drinking on site in the week I’m charged with playing supervisor would do a fine job of testing that theory to its natural limits. I’m not really that curious.

The thing of it is, I’m meant to be here:

Ah, Paris. No joke, I was slated to cover a conference, in Paris, this week. Since almost a year ago. It’s a long, long story that would showcase (I fear) some very unattractive bitterness on my part to fully explain. [But first a quick aside: my boss views conferences as paid vacations. He transposes the same on me, which is ungrounded as (a) I historically work my ass of on every assignment; and (b) I have won awards for the same (since which time, I will note, I have gone on zero out-of-office assignments). Also: I’ve been to Paris. I speak (passable) French. Not a vacation, you jackass]. Short story thus: boss pulls the plug in April, citing “budget concerns”; blames upper management, washes his hands of it, and goes to Disneyworld. Nice.

We have a Paris correspondent who allegedly will be covering “key portions” of the proceedings. Except he lives an hour outside of the city, and can’t really go to all of it, an e-mail today informs me. Thus, here I am, reading the transcripts, calling my contacts (long distance to Paris—take that, Mr. No Budget), and editing his work into the stories I would have written. Tears, bitter tears I choke back.

A good companion to stifled sadness, though? Espresso walnuts. Yum-my. And so easy!

For those coffee-inclined out there (and friends of the same), I’ll present the directions:

• spray a baking sheet with nonstick vegetable oil, and preheat oven to 325’
• combine 2/3 cup sugar, 3 tablespoons finely ground espresso (like you’d put in a machine), ½ teaspoon cinnamon, and ¼ teaspoon kosher salt in a small bowl
• in a large bowl, whisk one egg white until it’s frothy
• add 4cups of walnut halves to the egg white, tossing to coat
• pour the espresso mixture over the walnuts, again tossing to coat
• spread the walnuts over the baking sheet, and bake for five minutes. Loosen with a spatula and shake the nuts around, then bake for an additional five minutes.

Voila! Espresso walnuts, with many thanks to the Bon Appetit Christmas issue for the inspiration. They also had prettier pictures, but whatever.

They’re a fantastic pick-me-up, and aside from the sugar, they aren’t so bad. Nothing artificial, no preservatives; cinnamon is totally good for you, and nuts are healthy, right? Protein and coffee. Brilliant.

A word to the wise, though: if you make these at night, don’t just stand over the pan and eat them because oh holy goodness, they’re just that delicious when they’re all hot and toasty. Ground espresso has a funny way of inhibiting sleep. Don’t even ask me how I know.

Incompetence really frustrates me. People who drive or walk too slow do, too. But I think people who try to shift blame and avert responsibility top my all-time list of supreme grievances.

I find the offense especially egregious when parents try to make someone else responsible for the rearing and discipline of their children. I was spoiled, I suppose (though I certainly didn’t see it that way at the time); I had two very involved parents who wanted everything to do with how we grew up. We heard “no” a lot. Do we know her parents? Will her parents even be there? You’ll be out till what time? No. Resounding.

The world has changed a lot since I grew up, in a house that had no internet till the tenth grade. Looking back, the landscape seemed a lot safer then: everything was visible; it was knowable and seeable. Parents today have a lot to more deal with, but I don’t think the mysticism of the internet is any excuse to let your duties-as-mom-and-dad slack off. Know when she’s online. Know who she talks to. Know where she goes, and what information she’s telling the world about herself. Harder, sure, but not impossible.

I read a case today where a thirteen year old girl registered for a MySpace page by pretending to be 18. She uploaded pictures of herself, some of which were scandalous, then made internet friends with some guy. After extensive chats, she then arranged to meet him, and was assaulted. Tragic, really. But her mom? Her mom sued MySpace. Negligence, she said: MySpace hadn’t adequately protected her daughter. EARTH TO MOM, that’s YOUR job.

Back when I was younger, if I would have broken the rules and gone out late and been by myself and talked to strangers downtown and gotten hurt, could my parents have sued the City of Seattle? Obviously the analogy is flawed, but really?

The judge in this case was a guy I like. I might even write him some fan mail. This from the transcript:

THE COURT: I want to get this straight. You have a 13-year-old girl who lies, disobeys all of the instructions, later on disobeys the warning not to give personal information, obviously, and does not communicate with the parent. More important, the parent does not exercise the parental control over the minor. The minor gets sexually abused, and you want somebody else to pay for it? This is the lawsuit that you filed?

COUNSEL FOR THE DOES: Yes, your honor.

He threw the case out, and the appellate court affirmed. Good news all around. Still, though, parenting like this makes me want to punch people in the kidney. Laws are important, and technological protections for kids online can go a long way. Nothing, though—nothing at all—will protect a child better than a parent who’s involved and on the scene, who communicates and listens and is there.

That’s about my two cents on that. Time to get back at it now, lickety split; it’s always more fun when work gets you passionate, yeah?

She’s stumbling through Paris tonight, but with a certain grace, as suits her.  She’s got her party hat on, is charming the euro-locals at the bar with a French that has finally surpassed mine, and is, with all certainty, rip-roaring drunk.

She’s my littlest sister, and she’s 21 today.  Twenty-one.  She exists only as a frenchie caricature in my mind, because I just can’t grasp the reality.  I remember so distinctly being 21. I also remember doing things as a twenty-one-year-old that, ahem, no one’s little sister should be allowed to even know about.

Although there’s significantly more fuzz, I also remember the day she was born.  I was in kindergarten, and she was my blue-eyed baby.  Hooray!  You’re 10 today!  I seriously considered sending her a birthday card with this message printed inside.  Behold the power of Hallmark; you, too can reverse time; back-track; take a do-over.  If only it was so simple.

(And seriously?  A 21st birthday in Paris?  Who does that?  How do I know this person?)

In other news, J’s apparently in Nashville this week.  I say “apparently” because it all sort of flew out of nowhere, and as my other sister, the biochemist, oh-so-helpfully pointed out on the phone earlier, I don’t actually know. And thanks, dear.

When I started dating J, he was an attorney in a high-powered firm downtown.  Stable.  Secure. Known.  Earlier this fall, he declared himself miserable, and went to work for a Senator. Starting in about January, he began a tortuous process I can only define as “finding himself.”  Cliché, yes, but hey, if the shoe fits…

On the side, he’s started doing some legal work for a start-up band starring, hilariously, his mandolin teacher. (J’s been playing mandolin for maybe 2 years now.  It’s not something I’m particularly fond of).

He’s started looking into real estate.  He thinks maybe he’ll be a businessman.  In my books, he’s walked the career plank, but rather than furiously and determinedly swimming for shore, he’s splashing around and amusing himself, and wondering if there’s a better beach off in a better direction.

And then I get this call on Sunday. He says he’s leaving his parents’ early and is heading to Nashville.  “I’m going to negotiate a contract for the band,” he said.  He’ll be gone for the week.  Oh really. And I guess work doesn’t mind? You can just write them and say, peace out, I’m driving to Tennessee this week, see you around?

They’ll be really busy, he said, so he may not have time to talk when I call. “I’ll call you when I get time.”  Um. 

From a man who is freaking obsessed with his mobile e-mail (and has been known to regularly check his personal e-mail while we are at restaurants and in church), I have received a whopping ZERO notes of affection/amour/otherwise.  No text messages.  A series of short calls, all late at night. 

Granted, I’m a suspicious person naturally.  It’s an affliction for which I’m a confirmed carrier. The biochemist put it into words, though.  I don’t actually know. It’s not that I doubt, really; it’s more that I fear. I fear that I’m losing touch with who he is at all. 

And now I’m back to googling his ex-live-in girlfriend.  Very. Bad. Behavior. 

It’s been gorgeous here for weeks—temperatures in the high 70s, sunny days, no humidity.

Then, on the day my parents are set to arrive, it starts raining. And not just ordinary, “oh what? these sprinkles?” rain.

Here’s a rundown of the weather predicted for the next four days, the approximate duration of their stay: Partly sunny, a thunderstorm. Cloudy, heavy thunderstorms. Cloudy, rainy, breezy, cooler. Mostly cloudy, thunderstorms possible. Mostly cloudy, rain possible; windy.

Awe-some.

Looking for good news on the next page of the paper, I’m hit with the following advisory: “Do expect major metro delays this weekend, green/yellow line riders. Metro is advising riders to prepare for delays of up to 45 minutes on the Green and Yellow lines this weekend because of track work.” I live on the yellow line.

You can’t see it, but I’m flipping off the District of Columbia at this precise moment. I’m also imagining some very harsh expletives that I keep to myself not out of cultured temper, but out of fear for the google hits I’d receive.

I need to get out of this town.

There are lots of reasons I should have studied Spanish. The Cinco de Mayo parties, for one. The global usefulness, for another. Oh, Hmm, MY FUTURE, say.

In my own defense, I was thinking long term when, as an innocent sixth grader, I chose to follow the big imagination of Le Petit Prince down the French track. It just wasn’t the right long-term. I was thinking glamor, fashion, semester in Paris. Turns out I should have been thinking of resumes.

J, tired as ever of me bitching about the at-times audacity of my daily life at work, today forwarded me an awesome job opportunity as a writer/editor with the government. It’s here in DC, matches my interests and qualifications to a near T, pays a considerable amount for federal work, and though I’d planned to hang on here for a little longer, I thought eh, I’ll look into it.

The key requirements: US Citizenship, background check. Yup, yup. All clear. Eligibility and qualification requirements: “one year general experience.” Got that and then some.

It wasn’t until the substantive application that in “in English and Spanish” started cropping up in questions about past writing experience. I was just skimming though it—I’m still at work, you see—and I’m awfully glad, because before long it asked me to answer with an essay response in both English and Spanish.

It would have been one thing if, in the general or key requirements, it would have said “Spanish fluency.” But it didn’t. It would have made sense if this was a job with the Spanish embassy, or a committee on Latin American Affairs. But it wasn’t. This was just a normal, “hey come work for the feds” type of posting. And now I’m kind of mad.

I would be so great for this job except for the whole not bilingual part. As far as I’m concerned, if the federal government wants to make Spanish fluency an inherent requirement of federal jobs, it should damn well make studying Spanish a requirement in public schools. Students should not be allowed to be seduced by cartoons and crepes if it’s going to harm the country later. (And yes, it may well be an extrapolation for me to equate my non-candidacy with harm to the country. I would have been fantastic, though. It’s a loss to the American People that I do not speak Spanish. If I could, I’d clearly get this job and save the world. Or something.)

Dear, sweet Little Prince, you were great and all. But you were a big mistake.

I don’t for a minute dispute that the societal image of “beauty” is skewed and promotes detrimental thinking in women.  The darlings made over by the media are frighteningly unnatural, and have cultivated a mentality where self-loathing is chic, where low confidence comes pre-packaged, purse sized.

I can’t help but think that somewhere, somehow, we’re letting this happen.  What is it about women that makes us subscribe to this?  To look at this glossy picture of perfection, then at ourselves, and buy into it?  Because I think more than trace amounts are owed to our passivity.

My commute companion this evening was an article titled “Behind the Beauty,” a sneak-peak look at the Miss Universe pageant, Style-section style. The piece featured comments from Ines Ligron, a French fashion-maven turned beauty pagent coach. 

Among other atrocities, this paragraph stuck out.

“Ligron said it is commonplace for contestants to remove a rib or two to make their waist smaller, to have breast augmentation, nose reshaping, or eyebrow lifting.  Complete reworking of the teeth is also de rigeur.”

Holy Hell and God Alive.  How, in any context but that which is truly warped, is surgically altering the human skeleton, our basest frame, considered “beautiful”?  

Part of this is certainly owing to the big, bad, evil sex-driven word we’re in.  Sure.  The rest, though, is just competition.  This is a pageant setting and can’t be construed to be “real” life, except it is, for these girls.  A lot of their wants and neuroses certainly carry over into the mainstream.  Girls wanting to be better, prettier, skinner than their peers.  The world has pitted us against each other, but oh how we rise to the bait!  Removing ribs to better your comparison to your fellow woman?  Surgically choreographing your chance to out-smile the next one?  Ladies of Miss Universe, WTF.  

You know you’ve hit new lows when you start spicing up your workday with inane office competitions. At a happy hour last week, a group of editors decided it would be fun to have a “word of the week” challenge: see how many times you can fit said word into news stories and court write-ups.

This week’s word: cabal. Code for scandal; plot; intrigue.

We managed three entries on this staff, which is a rather weak showing but, for an uncommon word, too much exposure could bust it all wide open.

Here were our sentences:

• “The complaint alleged that [Company X]’s advertising practices were deceptive and misleading, a cabal to profit off of that which was freely offered for exceptional protection.”
• “In the alternative, the plaintiff argued that [Party1] and other [Party2] operatives had a cabal encouraging consumers to post defamatory content for their own financial gain and were partly responsible for the development of the messages.”
• And, my favorite, “[Mr. X] believed himself defamed by a blog authored by his former coworker, [Ms. Y]. On her blog, [Ms. Y] described sexual cabals and exploits with various men on Capitol Hill, one of whom she identified as [Mr. X’s initials.]”

All this fun aside, things have been pretty screwy around these parts. Our little leap day mishap—where we erroneously published an entire issue—was only the beginning. Last week, we (read: I) somehow managed to release an issue to the general public with a little xxx where each page number should have been. Yeah, that was pretty cool.

Today’s goings-on, though, top the all-time list of why Magda should be sacked immediately for gross incompetence. I interviewed a somewhat important legal guy last week. I met, we talked, it was nice. In my story, though? I totally spelled his name wrong. Totally. Say his name was John Johnston. My crazy little mind turned this into Joe Johnson. No reason, really; just plain careless stupidity. I had his card right there. I had met him, just hours before. His press manager called me today, when the story hit their desk. I don’t think I could apologize enough; it is exactly my job to get this right. And it’s too bad, too, because I will probably never talk to them again, and they were really nice. GOD I hate my life sometimes.

They say bad things come in threes, yes? So I should be off the hook for awhile? Memo to the universe: cease your badness cabal. Anytime now. Seriously.

My weekend, condensed in three nouns.

First, on the fascist tax collectors, because they are currently PISSING me OFF. The scenario is this.  Magda: so dad, I’m getting all these W2s.  Send me our accountant’s address and I’ll send them on.  Magda’s dad: Oh-ho, but you’re all independent and responsible now.  He’s my accountant, not yours.  Good luck!  Bummer, I say.

So I filed them online, which is fine and was no real hassle until the part where my refund, a nice number growing up in the corner of the screen, suddenly just WENT NEGATIVE and all of the sudden I owe money.  Okay, WTF.  W. T. F., people.

I now have the pleasure of paying hard-earned money to both the federal government AND the commonwealth of Virginia.  Magda? NOT HAPPY.  Arrrrg.

I responded typically, I imagine, i.e. spending money.  There were girl scouts outside of the grocery store today, and they were so adorable and thin mints are just so tasty in the freezer.  Seriously.  I had smaller bills, but I gave them a 20 just to watch them make change.  They were so cute, oh my goodness, I totally want to be a mom that sells cookies with her daughter’s troop.  So much more fun than filing taxes.

Before I knew about the hellacious fines awaiting me with the feds, I was out last night with a group of college “friends”—I actually only knew two of them, one of whom was celebrating her birthday, but apparently we have a pretty sizeable alumni base out in these parts.  Who knew? 

We went to a fantastic middle eastern restaurant.  The food was great and the setting intimate.  Suddenly, however, as the clock struck 9, the lights went way dim and the music cranked up and these belly dancers just appeared.  Looking around, we realized—all the other tables seem to be filled with middle-eastern men.  And they all seem to be feeding dollar bills into the dancers’ costumes. We had to decline when they shook their stuff near our table, but it was an entirely entertaining experience.  I do not think the birthday girl had anticipated this “artistic” element to the evening, which made it just that much funnier when we cornered one of the dancers into seductively bringing out the birthday cake.  So. Very. Amusing. 

Belly dancing, I wonder—I bet that money is under the table.  I bet those girls don’t have to pay taxes.  I should really look into that.  

There’s a lot I needed to do tonight, and coming home stumbling drunk at 7pm didn’t really help that.  It was a long and ridiculous day, and when the opportunity presented itself to meet a few friends after work, yeah, I took it.  And Grey’s Anatomy is a re-run again tonight, so here I am.  I’m staring at the phone, at three missed calls, and listening to a voicemail I’m not planning to return from my most recent ex-boyfriend.

Mr. Quiet and I dated for about a year during my last year of law school.  He was a very sweet, very nice guy, but we would have made better friends than romantic compatriots for two key reasons: (1) although I came to greatly care for him, I was really only looking to pass the time, which was incredibly selfish and wrong; (2) I was his first girlfriend ever.  His first holding-hands person, his first kiss, the whole shebang.  Definitely not my first.  It was a bit awkward, to be honest.

The thing of it was, though, that we just got along so well.  We really were glorified best friends, but of course like any relationship that ultimately ends in combustion, there were some loose wires that ultimately proved fatal.  He wasn’t sure he wanted kids, for one.  There’s nothing I want more than to be a mom.  Not too soon, sure, but I see little magdas on the horizon, no doubt.

Church was also a pretty serious divide between us.  It would take a skilled imagination indeed to cast me as any kind of devout, but faith and tradition are really important to me.  Mr. Quiet was not so much into that.  He flat-out refused to come to church with me. “It’s not for me,” he’d say.  I’d talk about how my dad’s faith has been so instrumental in the way I’ve shaped myself, and he told me straight up—more than once—that he was never going to be that guy.  It was easy for me to dismiss these differences because, once again, I wasn’t sure it was going anywhere.  The scars from some pretty detrimental relationships were still pretty fresh at that point, and I was enjoying the glow of just being, just finding appreciation in another’s eyes with minimal effort.  I later learned, and none too soon, that this just isn’t what love is about.

Just after we’d crossed the year threshold, I moved to DC. It fizzled, and fast.  He wasn’t one of those guys who can carry a conversation telephonically, and that hit hard.  I found myself saddled to a man who wasn’t there, who wasn’t want I really wanted, and who couldn’t fill the void of loneliness and longing that moving somewhere foreign necessarily opens.  I ended it, after about a month, and another month found me dating J.  Even had it never gone anywhere, I saw in J a spark I knew I’d never draw out of Mr. Quiet.

I didn’t tell Mr. Quiet about J, at least not at first; our friendship was thus (perhaps fraudulently) preserved.  I finally fessed up when I was home in August. It was awkward, but it was ok, and I legitimately thought I’d lose him.

Au contraire, the stars say, chuckling.  Our conversations remained a calm constant, but since the new year, Mr. Quiet appears to have gone aggressively on the offense, presumably on seeing that J and I are still together.  Why now? Why this week?  What, does he think I’m finally going to realize that he’s the one, leave J, and move back home?  It’s all rather depressing.

He’s been sending long-winded e-mails about how hard he’s working, and what his ambitious career plans are.  He’s asking me about nice restaurants around home, if he ever took me there (um, NO, we were in school on student budgets, but whatever); he says he’s making a list for when I come home next.  It’s like he’s painting himself as Mr. Spectacular, despite the common knowledge that I already have one of those.

But it goes on.  His last installment talked about how he can’t wait to have kids.  Then he tells me about this new church he’s found, and how he goes to the 8am mass Sundays before heading to the office to bill more hours.  He said he read the whole bible last year, and this year would like to really study it.  He says he never realized how spiritual he was. 

Ok, hold it, wait just a moment.  He’s no longer playing fair.  I feel like I’m being manipulated, which hurts a little bit because really, aside from the selfishness and J-concealment, I really thought we were on pretty solid ground as friends.  I also don’t really like that this seems to have come positively out of nowhere.  Where were these pages of perfection when I was trying to make it work?  Why now, now that I finally feel happy and settled?  I think it’s possible that I may have hurt him far more seriously than I realize.  For this, I am truly sorry.

Dear Sucky Boss,

Don’t think I’m not onto you.  Your congenial, happy-go-lucky attitude is such a sham, and even if I’m the only one, I know that you do jack shit in the office. 

I hate that you’ve made me senior staff a year out of school without giving me any of the corresponding training or coaching.  It’s not fair to hold me up against veteran writers and tell me in front of the staff that I need to “kick it up a few notches.”  I did not apply for this position; you forced me into it.  And the kickbacks you received for coming in under budget? You know, for all those months you failed to hire anyone, then found a girl just out of law school, at the lowest paygrade, whose training falls largely on my desk?  Enjoy that money.  Or, better yet, put in a college savings plan.  You’ll need it, with all those bastard children running around.  Yup, I know all about them.  Know why?  I’m nice.  People talk to me.  People feel sorry for me, because I work for you.  I know all about how you knocked up a former editor, then left your wife and kids when your girlfriend got pregnant.

You treat me like shit.  I thank God every day that you are not my father.  My dad is my hero; he’s a role model of everything good and wonderful. 

I’m tired of working hard so that you can smile stupidly and get recognized.  You tell me to work harder, to do better, without demonstrating one iota of what that might possibly look like.  Count yourself lucky that I don’t follow your model, or our publication would be scrapped.  Would you still be calling my work “a low value stuff” if you knew what you’d be without it?

I’m not holding my breath that you’ll realize how valuable I really am.  You’ll be disappointed with me as long as I work for you.  You’ll be working there far longer than I will, however, which is strangely consoling.  I can’t WAIT for the day I can tell you I’m out.

Till then, I remain,

Your tired-of-being-walked-on employee.

P.S.  You shouldn’t leave the ringer on your iPhone on so loud when you’re out of the office for 3-hour lunches.  I’ve wanted to smash its shiny screen in so badly, but have resisted because the constant ringing reminds the whole floor that you suck and are out of the office, again.  Don’t be surprised, however, if the ringtone changes from your obnoxious daughter’s “Hey Dad, answer the phone!” To “Hey Jackass, GO FUCK YOURSELF.” Preferably also in her voice.

When I heard a rap at my door this morning around 8a, I assumed it was the neighbors coming to tell me to please turn down that music.  I was working my espresso machine, but still wanted to rock out since my morning pilates class didn’t really do it on the energy boost front this morning: hence, loud music.  I’ve never actually met my neighbors, come to think of it, which is incredibly loner-ish of me.  It’s a quiet floor, though, what can I say.  I rarely see people out and about. 

Alas.  At the door I found one of the maintenance men.  He doesn’t speak English too well, but I’ve always been nice to him.  He knows my name; when I see him around, he says hi, gives me a hug which is a little weird but whatever, foreign little maintenance man, it’s totally harmless.

Anyway, he had a Christmas present for me.  He said he thought I’d moved out, I was gone for so long (two weeks, sheesh, but I have been doing a fair bit of staying over at J’s…).  I told him a present was unnecessary, but he was so sweet about it that I accepted.  He left, and I opened it.

Lingerie.  The pervy maintenance man gave me a set of lacy red thongs and a box of bath products from Victoria’s Secret’s “Seduction” line.  Oh. Holy. God!! I returned the same over my lunch hour for store credit, but seriously?

The bath stuff alone would have creeped me out, but the underwear is so crossing the line.  Completely inappropriate.  I can’t help but think, is this how I’m repaid for being nice, for being friendly? I hate that this is what I have to deal with just for being female in our society.  Can a girl not be moderately attractive without the insult of appearing all-but-naked in every passing man’s eye? Can she not be objectified, be classed as something to see rather than someone to know?  I have done nothing to let this individual think that I’m at all interested in him, or that I’m the kind of girl that would accept intimate gifts from a man not her boyfriend.  I seriously know him, um, not at all.  That he visualizes me in lacy red thongs is absolutely appalling. 

I could complain, but he’d probably get fired.  I don’t want that at all; I don’t want to get him in trouble because honestly, in my heart, I think he meant well.  I don’t really think he’s a true pervert; I just that his affections are somewhat misdirected.  In any event, I’m good a rationalizing and, some may say, martyring myself because, sigh, that’s just the way it is.  This is my dilemma: tell J, or don’t tell J?  J will be furious (hooray! A manly man who’ll defend my honor and be my protector!) but he’ll want to do something (and will probably fly off the handle at me for being so nice and accepting the gift and passively returning it, instead of confronting the guy or marching directly to management). Hmmm. Sometimes I worry that I’m too nice, like those girls you read about in the news—you know, the ones who have gotten themselves into horrible, horrible situations and you read their stories and are like, chuh, the warning signs were there, honey, what the hell were you thinking?  I definitely don’t want to be that girl. 

I’m sitting here in my apartment by myself, though, and I admit I’m getting a little bit paranoid.  Pervy maintenance man has keys that will let him into this apartment.  He knows where I live, and that I live alone.  I am locking my bedroom door from within from this night forward, and will possibly invest in a pick-ax.  Or maybe a lead pipe.  Magda, in the bedroom, with the lead pipe.  Muah hah ha.  In the meantime, though, I’m trekking to Arlingon to spend the night in my home-away-from-home where I will lie securely in the arms of the man I love.