...when I ran a little brown bunny into the ground.

I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with the phenomenon of running over small furry creatures with a car.  In case you aren't familiar, I will go ahead and tell you that it's borderline devastating.  In such instances, one must either burst into tears or laugh hysterically just to cope with the initial onslaught of horror.


On our recent trip home to see our parents, my sister and I chose to laugh hysterically.  We accomplished this by re-writing history to suit our guilty consciences.


This is the story of The Bunny Who Went Out With A Bang.

And they all lived happily ever after.


Note: I'm aware that I misspelled "acute," but I am too tired to fix it right now.

...when I did what I wanted, thanks very much.

I want to talk about Valentine’s Day.

Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.  Hope everybody had a good one.

Ok.  So I’m a woman.  Surprise!  But here’s the thing.  As a woman, I feel keenly the pressures of the whole feminism campaign.  I get it that once upon a time, women were basically persona non grata, but sometimes I think we’ve overreacted a little.  It’s not enough to just be a woman anymore.  Now we have to be empowered women.

And what is an empowered woman?  Only everything.  She is a) not so shallow as to care about her appearance or spend hours seeing to it, but still beautiful; b) a career woman with better things to do than keep a home, but still excellent at keeping a home; c) non-materialistic but still very coiffed and accessorized; d) completely content without male companionship, but irresistible to men; e) not crazy or high-maintenance (i.e. never asking for anything at all) while still valuing herself; and f) psychic.

“Psychic?” you might be asking.  Yes, psychic.

I’ll explain.

As part of the whole non-materialistic, not-high-maintenance bit, women are not supposed to say they want anything.  BUT, because they are irresistible and awesome besides, men are supposed to actually want to do things for them.  But everyone knows it’s only romantic to get what you want when you don’t tell a man what it is that you want.  So, the only thing left is for empowered women to be psychic.

Enter Valentine’s Day.  There’s more pressure in Valentine’s Day than any other holiday.  If you aren’t in a relationship, you feel like you should be, and if you are in a relationship, you feel like there’s some universal standard your relationship has to live up to.  Forgot the whole love, enjoying being in each other’s lives, thankful to have each other stuff.  That’s not important any more.  Now, it’s all about being “good enough.”  And, since we are supposed to be content without men, it’s almost as if we’re expected to demand what we are “worth.”  Like it’s somehow our fault if we settle for anything less.

Well, here's what I have to say about the empowered woman's Valentine's Day:

                            

So this year, I decided not to care about what I was SUPPOSED to do.  And wouldn't you know it?  I had a great time.

...when I used the women's restroom by the FBI Office.

I have a job.  I go to an office every day to do that job.  That office is inside a building which contains other offices.

Here, it’s like this:

 So on each floor of the building there are two sets of restrooms—two men’s, two women’s.

It may or may not surprise you, but community restrooms make me anxious.  Sometimes I just want to take care of that stuff ALONE, ok?  It may be too early in the blog for me to be talking about restrooms, but they're a part of my life, so I'm not going to pretend like they're not.

Luckily, the other office on our floor is occupied by the FBI.  I’m not making this up.  I don’t think they do anything serious over there, though.  Except for probably spying on EVERYONE.

It occurred to me one day that if there is any women’s restroom that is unlikely to see a lot of traffic, it’s the one by the FBI office.  I have never seen a woman walking into that office.

I try to keep my FBI women’s restroom trips down to about once every 2 or 3 weeks because I don’t want them to get suspicious.  But sometimes I just gotta go somewhere I know I’ll be alone.

So I walk past the elevators—the point of no return.  I round the corner, and there it is.

At that point, I try not to act suspicious, which means I pointedly ignore the shiny black glass bubble that isn’t fooling anyone.  If that shiny black glass bubble and I were exes at a party, I would be so cool.

Sometimes I shoot the shiny black glass bubble a glance, just to prove I’m not avoiding its eye, and then I breeze past.  I can feel it watching my back, but I keep moving.  And then I’m there.

Usually, it is one of my favorite places on Earth.  But not this time.  This time, it was a bit like running upstairs in a horror movie when the killer is in the house.  There’s no way to get out of that.  No sooner had I ensconced myself than I was trapped.

I wish I could say I made that up for this blog.  But I actually thought that.  Actually, I thought a lot, starting with:

But since “normal” in a restroom for me is panicking and making absolutely no sound so that I’m trapped into continuing to make no sound because the longer I make no sound the weirder it would be to make a sound, that really isn’t saying much.  I did convince myself not to lift up my feet; she already knew I was there.

In fact, I was pretty sure she was there specifically for me.  I just knew that she was the one female FBI agent, and they sent her to do recon.  Or to neutralize me so I could be captured and interrogated.

Predictably, the woman, whoever she was, just flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and high-heeled her way out without detonating any travel-sized cans of noxious gas. 

But still.  Just to be on the safe side, I’ve cut down my trips to the restroom by the FBI office.

Note: I promise that not every entry I write will have to do with restrooms.  It was just these last two.  And I've got one more up my sleeve, but I won't tell you when it's coming.  It'll be a surprise.