Ten years ago yesterday, the manufacturing facility / office of my current employer was hit and demolished by a tornado. Fortunately it was on a Saturday, so only a handful of people were there, and no one was hurt. The result was that the nice new facility (nice except there's no hot water in the kitchen near Marketing and often the A/C either works too well or not enough) where my cubicle stands was brought into being.

The tornado has caused a weird corporate culture here. Whenever the weather looks ominous, folks that worked here ten years ago get very nervous, look out the window a lot, visit weather.com, and wonder out loud if a tornado really would hit the same location again. They keep a photo album of the destruction left by the twister in the lobby. I even knew about the tornado before I got my current job - my previous employer got a nice contract to scan and store technical plans as a result of the current employer's storm paranoia, so I got to write an article about the whole thing for my ex-employer's newsletter.

I can understand a little tornado fear - I grew up in Ohio and used to fell at least a little nervousness whenever a severe storm would pass through the area. At least in Ohio we had a basement where I could retreat. Now that I'm a big girl, I'm not near as nervous of the dreaded funnel-shaped storms; if I had the money, I'd like to go on one of those tornado-chasing vacations. I wonder, is there some synchronicity at work here? The tornado, my fascination/former nervousness about them, my former employer getting the work because my current one got hit ?

About a week ago, signs with a clip art drawing of a tornado, reading "Where Were You on Saturday, October 3, 1992?", appeared all over the building. (I really freaked out when someone wrote one one of them "I was a junior in high school!") Yesterday, the signs were changed, with the invitation that at 2:00 in the lunch room, there would be cake to commemorate the event that led to our new building.

The cake was your normal sheet cake, but it was embellished with a photo of the demolished old building. I missed it if anyone made a speech about the tornado, since I had a doctor's appointment at lunchtime; but there was some tornado cake left for me to enjoy.

I work for a very strange company.

Thanks, everyone, for your suggestions and concern about Office Stalker, that weird older guy who suddenly started constantly talking to me. I mentioned it to a couple of cow-orkers the day of the second incident. It turns out that he's apparently on this medication, possibly Paxil, that has made him extremely chatty to everyone, not just me. Word is that he's taken to jogging around the neighborhood and passing out his phone number to all the neighbors he encounters. A pill that makes you too outgoing - amazing.

Anyway, about 20 minutes after the shoulder touching incident, he approached me again. "I hope you have a good sense of humor," he said. "No, not really," I answered, as frostilly as I could muster. (This took place outside my cubicle, which is plastered with pictures of The Simpsons and SpongeBob, Far Side and Dilbert comics and amusing, fun bric-a-brac.) "Oh," he said, and beat a hasty retreat from my little corner of Marketing.

Since then, he hasn't bothered to enter my cube or engage me in banal conversation when we pass each other in the halls. Which is a Very Good Thing.

Day 4: I awoke with dark circles under my eyes despite managing to get nine hours of sleep. For some reason I am having a strong craving for bacon. However, our daily breakfast offering consists of muffins and pastries - and I'm not going to pay $20 for a hotel breakfast. bacon-bacon-bacon-bacon-BACON!

Yesterday I had to load the engineers onto a bus twice, taking attendence and passing out name tags. At least I didn't have to ride the bus; I waved as the bus pulled away, a couple of the engineers waved back. I have been reduced to getting left-brained people to wave to entertain myself.

Dinner consisted of salmon, with peanut butter pie for dessert. The restaurant served boiled peanuts as an appetizer. I was the only person at the table who liked them. (In fact, I think I may be the only person outside my family who likes them.) The sales manager for Asia tried one and then told me, "You like these things? You'd do great in China." Apparently there's lots of foods with the same texture over there. Only they are not plant, they're animal-derived. If I survive the rest of the week I will address boiled peanuts in another post.

For the present time, I have been remanded to my cubicle and forced to create technical drawings for my chief captor, who goes by the code name "Uncle Chuck". I feel the will to resist fading fast. Being forced to wear unfashionable golf shirts with the corporate logo has obviously been effective. Please, if anyone is out there in cyberspace reading this, help!

sigh Wow, they've managed to suck away the one little teeny, tiny bit of enjoyment out of my work day. No listening to streaming radio via the Internet. Access denied! I was almost starting to come out of my funk, listening to Radio Free Akron.

Today's my birthday. Yesterday my friends took me to a great Japanese restaurant (Sev and I were the only ones who ate raw fish) and showered me with neat gifts. But that's not why I'm doing the dance of d and d.

I remember wanting to be on the Mike Douglas Show when I was (much) younger. I thought I would be on as a famous author. So here I am, older than I've ever been before, and I've neither written a book nor been on a talk show. At this point, I think the only talk show I qualify for would be Dr. Phil.

Dr. Phil: "Welcome to the show, Karen. I have to say, you're a pretty screwwy chick."

Me:"Thanks, Dr. Phil. The meds help a little bit. So, do you have any advice for me?"

Dr. Phil:"Get real! You either get it or you don't! Snap out of it! Well, that's all the time we have. Thanks everybody!"

I find Michelin's current ad campaign disturbing. The Michelin Man is shown to be a tire pervert. He is a peeping Tom, staring with unnatural longing at tires while helpless tourists are nearby. He is shown slow dancing with underage tires in a factory. It's just not natural. Where I come from (Akron, Ohio - Rubber Capital of the World) we regard tires with a little dignity. Unlike the puffy Michelin Man, who comes from France and is at last revealed to be a lecher. I did some research into his sordid past; it seems that the Michelin Man started off as an alcoholic. In fact his name, "Bibendum", comes from the Latin "Nunc Est Bibendum", "Now is the time to drink!" This was meant to be a classy interpretation of the company's slogan "Michelin tires swallow all obstacles". (I'm not even going to discuss how wrong that is.) So now, in the 21st century, Bibendum (if indeed that is his real name) has gone from drunkeness to no-holds-barred tire buggery.

These depraved Michelin commercials first came to my attention while watching football on TV. And watching football has brought to light another unnatural attraction - the unrestrained lust that TV sportscasters feel for Buccaneers defensive tackle Warren Sapp. John Madden, who I thought was a real man's man, apparently is. During the Monday night Bucs / Rams game last month, Madden positively waxed rhapsodic over #99. It was a verbal make-out session. But Madden isn't alone in his Warren Sapp longings. Each week, during the Tampa Bay NFL broadcast, there is one network camera trained at all times on Sapp. On field or off, spitting, swearing, waving to the crowd - they might as well have a picture-in-picture, Late Night Sapp Cam, All Sapp All the Time. The sportscasters have not noticed that Sapp is the first to sprint over to wherever the action is to ensure himself of some extra face-time; though at this point it's an unneccesary action, he's always on camera. Not that he's not a good defensive tackle; it's just so much overkill. Which leads me to believe that besides John Madden, there's at least one highly-placed executive at Fox Sports who has a big crush on big Warren Sapp.

I think these things - the creepy Michelin Man and his tire-fondling, and the whole "Warren Sapp is So Hot" universality amongst sports casters - are all interrelated. Just examine the visual evidence in these unretouched photos, but try not to think too much about it right before lunch.

For about five months now, the sign outside the area Perkin's restaurant has read, "Do You Like Romance". (No question mark - I don't think they make question marks for those changeable letter signs.) Now, if this was meant to be some sort of teaser ad campaign, it's fallen way short. Most attention spans don't last near that long. Except, apparently, mine since I'm writing about it. On the other hand, if it's meant to promote Perkin's as the restaurant of choice for romantic interludes - ??? About the only romantic thing about that place is the fake carnations at each table. And the chocolate-chocolate chip muffins. So, gentlemen, if you are looking to impress your lady-love, please look elsewhere for a restaurant with a bit of atmosphere. Unless you believe that "Seduction begins in the mind", as put forth in the movie Dangerous Beauty. You just better be pretty damn smart to pull that one off.

In other news, Victoria's Secret wants to give me a free pair of panties. I know - can you believe it? All I have to do is take the postcard they sent me into my neighborhood Victoria's Secret NOW through November 17, 2002. (I bet I have to listen to a condo time-share sales presentation first.)

Jeff told me once that he read somewhere our cells completely regenerate every seven years; if that's true, every seven years we turn into a completely different person, because our cells are all refreshed, reborn, renewed.

Well, my recent birthday was a multiple of seven - okay, I admit it, I turned 35. And in many ways, I do feel like a completely different person. Physically, I've lost weight, so I look different - my face, the way clothes fit. It has taken me a while to get used to that stranger in the mirror.

Mentally I'm different in that I can't hide uncomfortable feelings or truths from myself anymore. I used to be able to hide feelings from my conscious mind, as if I put them in a nice box, wrapped a bow around it, and put that pretty box into a messy closet. From time to time I'd look in the closet, see the box, remember what was inside - and then put it out of my head. A very nice coping strategy for certain situations, but I can't use it anymore. Certainly makes things more "interesting" than ever before.

Still don't have what I want, but do I really know what I want? I don't own a home - but do I want to buy a home in a place that I don't love, where the heat, pollen, and the humidity make me miserable? On the other hand, how could I stand to leave my friends and family? Wherever would I go, whatever would I do?, to quote Scarlett.

I'm still the gawky, tall girl who lives to make people laugh, who's strong enough to be her own (strange) person and not care what other people think, who has her bundle of insecurities. Disorganized, a procrastinator, cranks the music up in her car on the long ride home. Good at bargain-hunting, artsy-fartsy, kind to animals.

Well, thanks for listening. I think I need a beer.