This is a vent. This is only a vent. In the event of a real vent, minor explosions may occur. Duck and cover, using any handy desk or table.

To clarify: this references my nightclub job, not my office job.

Anne's rules of chivalry, revised.

1. When I'm doing my job, and it's perfectly obvious that I can handle the load I'm carrying, and you don't work with me, don't take the load out of my hands. That can, believe it or not, be a legal problem, since the insurance that covers me when I'm working doesn't cover you if you drop someething.

2. Don't take it upon yourself to defend my honor when I don't care.

2b. Don't take it upon yourself to defend my honor when it's not really defending my honor.

2c. Don't take it upon yourself to defend my honor when really, I should be telling the manager about the altercation myself. It's cute within reason, but when I protest and/or tell you directly not to do something, pay attention.

3. That's worth repeating: when I protest and/or tell you directly not to do something, pay attention.

4. For that matter, you don't need to open doors for me when my hands are free. My arms work. I do understand it's habit for most, though, and I'll cut you some slack here. However, nigh-hypocritically, you should let me open doors for you. Don't protest and just stand there until I go through myself. If we're playing a 'who's more stubborn' game, I'll win.

5. There's no need to just chat with me when it's obvious from ambient noise that I'm in public. I probably just want off the phone, as it irks me when other people do that near me.

1-5, subsection A. I like messing with gender stereotypes. Let me screw with what rules I want to.

This has been a vent.

I am so, so sick. And you'd think I'd have enough sense to keep something as simple as soup around the house.

Not so, unfortunately.

I'm a little worried that this job will empty me of words.

It's amazing, actually having my words valued, but at what cost? I get home and mostly just want to go to bed, at this point. The weekends totally throwing off my sleep schedule may have something to do with that, though.

On the other hand, I need to stop falling into the metaphor-trap of words as water--fearing the well could run dry. It's a common fear among writer-types, as I understand it.

"It's like I died and went to heaven, and it's an Outback!" - Dax

"There is no Batman without Robin at the front desk." - my boss's boss, trying to describe a two-person job

I'm wearing a brand new white angora sweater, and managing to shed all over everything I come in contact with. Including my own pants.

This has not been a promising morning. No milk for my cereal. Little sleep. Couldn't do up the hook-and-eyelet on the back of my suit skirt. Running late to an 8:00 a.m. meeting. Those sorts of things.

I've been asked out twice in two weeks. It's kind of odd.

And I didn't just say no to this last one, which is unusual. It could work out okay: I could see that. There's actually someone else I wish had beat this last one to the punch--again, as I kind of sidled around it once already, which I rather wish I hadn't, now.

I guess that speaks to how much timing is a necessity--an art form--when dealing with me.

And now, I have to be on my way to my first all-department meeting, on only a scant few hours' sleep. Today should be entertaining, difficult, and enlightening, at the very least.

It was a minor goal of mine to start 2005 with a clean bathroom.

I'd say a day late isn't too bad.