up a notch

Yesterday pissed me off. But then it ended on a splendid note, so on the whole, I call it a win.

So the financial consultant who rents office space from my boss hired a new rookie to help him out, and Cindy and I loathe the rookie. His addition to the office shifts our numbers to four men and two women, and, while the other three office men are gentlemen of good breeding and consideration, the rookie, a kid a couple of years younger than I, lacks some key etiquette practices that keep co-ed small-business working environments liveable.

The kid would irritate me foundationally by virtue of his personality. He's one of those lanky, freshly scrubbed, innocuously happy arrogant little roosters who is so terribly excited to be mediocre that my nose wrinkles involuntarily whenever he enters the room. Also he has this high-pitched giggle that tempts me to hurt his feelings, and an almost amusing manner of condescension that practically demands that I hurt his feelings. I'm keeping a lid on it because I've been simmering in wrathful hormones for a week and don't want to be absurdly unfair to the kid.

But he's committed two egregious breathes of etiquette that have both Cindy and me hoping he'll do it again so that we can yell at him.

See, it's a small office, and the building itself used to be one of those vast homes of Victorian wealth, complete with back stairs and servants' quarters on the third floor. The law office occupies the second floor, and Brian (my boss) did a lot of remodeling himself, so it looks gorgeous. Included in its refurbished, classic urban renewal aura is a single restroom shared by all. It's clean and spacious -- or it was clean, until Skippy started working here. His arrival has been most notably marked by the sudden, constant upright position of the toilet seat. This negligent habit is irritating enough all on its own – dude, this isn’t your dorm – but he has added a Count II which is not only irritating, but gross: He dribbles.

Now, I’m not a terribly squeamish person. But seriously, kid, if you pee on the toilet or the floor, wipe it the fuck up and wash your hands. Don’t leave it to darken and dry on the toilet rim (by the way, the toilet seat takes less than a second to put down) or the floor tile. If you have some kind of aiming problem, go back to basic training and toss a handful of Cheerios in the toilet at home and get some practice. Because when you work with women – especially two considerate women such as Cindy and myself who are careful to keep the byproducts of menstruation tucked away from all five of the human senses – you need to stop acting like a college kid and think about appearances a little. Not every woman indulgently wants to clean up your little-boy messes, and maybe you can’t smell it yourself, but urine? Stinks. Oh yeah, and we have clients that come in and use that bathroom too. Welcome to our office.

So Cindy and I have both been seething about it, but took it to Brian first so he could handle it. Words have been passed along to the Whiz Kid, twice. Now we’re both clenching our jaws and waiting to see if the second talking-to took. We’d love to take him down a peg or two; anyone that graciously informs me, as I glance at the conference room schedule for him, which day of the week it is today, and bestows upon Cindy the benevolent invitation to “look at some of his books” has it coming.

I was hissing about the whole situation to Brian yesterday afternoon, which he found amusing.

“He thinks he’s all that,” I said. “His mother misinformed him.”

Brian laughed. “But she was so certain,” he said.

“Well, I don’t think she’s all that bright,” I said.

Ugh ugh ugh.

As I left the office yesterday in a foul mood the floodgates of heaven released some pent-up tension of their own, and I found myself, for perhaps the hundred billionth time this summer, navigating the back highway home in a deluge. I actually love warm, rainy summer days, and as I squinted through the blurred windshield trying to pick out my lane on Route 5, I had the sudden longing to run around in the rain on the beach. So I stopped at Freeport instead of heading home, donned a not-quite-water-resistant jacket, pulled off my sandals and headed down the beach to where the rain and the clouds and the lake swallowed the world in moving gray.

It was beautiful. And I got soaked. I haven't been that happy in a long time. No one else was on the beach, I was completely alone with the surging water, its fresh stony smell blew over me with the wind, the rain struck the waves with a rinsing sound, and I waded out up to the mid-thigh (my skirt was drenched anyway) and looked out over the lake with the water running down my face and felt a kind of simplicity of being that I lose track of during most of my days. Some of the disconnect that has been making the last month hellish fell away, and I felt closer to The Thing Itself, the comfort of my transience which strangely assures my place in the world, the constant transcendent presence of a paradoxically immanent and wholly Other God whose love does not change. It's easier for me to believe on the beach and in the rain. Truth is elemental there, stripped down, inarguable, inviolate.

After that brief restoration, I went home, changed into dry clothes and headed to Linnéa's house for a get-together of a bunch of girls. We ate tacos, watched chick flicks and talked about life and the faith. The Bible study idea is getting good reactions, and we're also starting a Monday night cooking club for people who like being adventurous with food.

The night was so misty and mysterious that when I drove home at 11:30 I parked the car in my parents' driveway and went for a walk. (I'm still not sleeping all that well, so I figured I might as well be out roaming the half-lit streets and getting wisps of cloud in my hair as tossing and staring at the ceiling.) I love those half-creepy summer nights where the temperature is under 70 but you don't feel cold, and everything is muffled and shrouded and still. Anything seems possible on those nights.

So today finds me tired but feeling balanced and glad and eager for the immediate future (which is damn close to loving the present, so...progress). And today is full of prospects, and it's lunchtime. A good day.