Bringing out the passive-aggressive monster in me

Update: the culprit finally called. She was defensive, of course, but agreed to stop keeping her personal items in the restroom. I wussed out and asked our admin to carry the bag of tampons over to the woman's office so she and I still don't know what the other looks like. (I suspect she's the same woman who occasionally does her hair and make-up in the bathroom instead of the shower-bathroom-locker room in the basement. Frankly, I don't care if she lives in her car; if I catch her washing her armpits or shaving her legs, I will draw the line.)

Last week, I walked into the bathroom at work.

 A very stylish place, actually.
(I do wish they had a bench suitable for naps.)

I noticed a garish box on the corner of the counter. I took a closer look.

The note says, "Please do not remove."

Excuse me?

What makes you so goll-darn special that you get to keep your personal supplies in the shared restroom?

Every woman who has ever menstruated knows the joy of trying to discreetly tote sanitary products into the bathroom. In fact, the manufacturers have come up with all sorts of packaging to make it easier. Attractive little plastic containers, quilted pouches, tins with funky prints.

They're all quite silly, really, because the things fit into a pocket or purse with no trouble at all.

The box, on the other hand, is an eyesore. And it is STILL THERE. Also, she evidently has a very long menstrual cycle. There is no "Free to a Good Home" sign on it, so I assume the woman who stashed them intends to keep these to herself.

Today I talked with a female colleague about The Box, and she was as ticked off as I was. We tried to think of what to do. We came up with these:

• Take the box and use or give them to whoever wants them.
• Leave a passive-aggressive note on the box asking the woman to please keep her personal supplies in her purse or desk.
• Hold the tampons hostage.

I prefer the last option and plan to bring a Ziploc bag to work tomorrow and replace the tampons with a sort of ransom note saying only, "Please call 613-nnn-nnnn." (I seriously debated prefacing it with "If you ever want to see your tampons again," but decided not to. She might not take me seriously.

If she calls me, I'll ask her either to get an attractive, dark-brown basket and enough supplies to share or to keep her stuff in her own personal space. 

I would not object to this basket. Only $13 here.

Is that too much to ask? Well? IS IT? I don't think so. 

What was I thinking?

Recently, I actually paid attention to my inner monologue while I was shopping.

Hmm, I pondered, of all the things I've seen, which do I like?

It was as if I'd thought:

Which do I dislike the least?

My mental assumption was that I was going to buy something. That was a foregone decision.

This is how I end up with blouses that don't fit, linens that are ugly, or things that end up being donated in a very short time (sometimes with the tags still on). Or even returned to the store after an attack of buyer's remorse.

I shared this thought with a couple of colleagues the other day as we reflected on consumer culture. One coworker mentioned that "big box" stores have found that the more product they have on display, the more people buy.

I think it appeals to an ingrained hunter-gatherer instinct: when there is bounty, we should harvest as much as we can in preparation for lean times. We don't seem to have any point of satiety.

(This, of course, applies to appetite as well, in my case.)

Of course, there are also times when I find something that appeals to me in a lasting way. I still regret passing up a handblown vase that we saw in Arizona. There are garments that I've worn so many times that they've actually become threadbare.

But my point is that I need to pay attention to that inner monologue, be more conscious of what my motivation is when I'm shopping. I'm not about to stop shopping -- let's be realistic -- but I want to be more aware of what need I am filling. (By the way, I do consider beauty to be something that I need.)

I do not regret buying these flowers.

The New Doctor

We moved back to Canada from Colorado on July 1, 2010. I've been looking for a regular family doctor ever since then. I had no idea how difficult it would be.

For a while, I went back to my next-to-last doctor in Ottawa, but was increasingly dissatisfied there. Then I got lazy and just went to walk-in clinics. And then my blood sugar went sky high because my diabetes was unmedicated and completely out of control.

At that point, my search for a family doctor became a little desperate.

Then, one day, a friend bumped into her friend, who happens to be a family doctor here in Ottawa. That friend mentioned that her practice had just taken on two more doctors and was accepting patients. Happy dance! Woop! Woop!

[Side note: I had registered with the Ontario Ministry of Health's database to help people find new doctors. They somehow were unaware that this practice was accepting patients. Sad.]

Within minutes, I called the office and made an appointment to meet one of the new doctors. Today was the big day.

I liked the practice right away: the front-desk staff were friendly, but businesslike. They didn't keep me waiting for more than 15 minutes (during which time I filled in paperwork).

The doctor herself was both friendly and professional. She was also frank about a few things that she thought might be issues for me:


1. They prefer that their patients not go to the many, many walk-in clinics in the city. This is because when they take me on as a patient, the Ontario Ministry of Health pays the practice a flat stipend for routine medical appointments. If I go to a walk-in, the charge for that visit is deducted from my doctor's stipend.

This is my preferred approach anyway - I would rather see my regular doctor than a stranger! (I haven't had great luck with walk-in-clinic doctors and I loath the amount of time wasted waiting.) 

2. In order to support this approach, they have a system called "Better Access." Although some appointments can be booked in advance, most, including routine follow-ups, are only booked 1-2 days ahead. This allows for more impromptu visits.

This also suits me fine. It can be difficult to plan my schedule more than a week ahead anyway. On the other hand, she does consider stabilizing my diabetes a high priority and allowed me to break the last-minute-booking rule and make a follow-up appointment in September.

3. They also have long hours and their own after-hours on-call doctor. This helps cut down on the need to go to a walk-in or emergency.

Sure wish I'd had access to this care when I spent hours in emergency for chest/neck pain. They might have made the same recommendation (my symptoms were ambiguous), but it still would have been better to have some follow-up.

4. She has only prescribed Victoza for patients who have received their initial prescription from an endocrinologist, so she is not an expert at all. 

Neither was the walk-in doctor who prescribed a medication on top of the Victoza that threw me into hypoglycemia. It's not ideal, but she's aware of this gap in her experience. And, unlike with the walk-in doc, I  can call the office immediately, rather than waiting a week.


5. They are pretty conservative about ordering tests and lab work.

But she does like to establish some baselines, so she ordered some fasting blood tests right off the bat.

6. She is not accepting any new patients.

But, she will take anyone from my family, including Steve when he retires from the military in two years. She will also take Brian.

All in all, I am one very happy woman.

Bonus: My new doctor's office is about a five-minute drive from home and about 20 minutes from work, so not bad.  

Colour me happy.

Photo by Katie Sokoler

If you haven't already discovered Color Me Katie by Katie Sokoler, you need to go visit her blog soon. Katie is a woman who loves life, loves colour, and loves fun. Her apartment in New York is sprinkled with cheery, bright colours like a donut with nonpareils.

When I saw that this month's Gratitude.2012 photo assignment was on the theme of colour, I immediately thought of Katie Sokoler. Her style is not the same as mine, but I love her expression nonetheless.

I love colour, too, so today I'm sharing some of the joy I've found in colour this month.

I've enjoyed watching the crab apples out front ripen and fall.

And I was inspired during a trip to Pier 1 Imports to refresh my dining room linens.

I even drove all over Ottawa to find enough of those napkin rings that we can use them even when Katie and her beau come for dinner. 

And tonight as I washed the strawberries, I paused to snap a picture of the juicy red berries in my bright green colander.

What colours have you found joy in this month?

Arguing gives me a stomach ache.

I would've made a dreadful Yentl. My understanding is that there is a strong culture and tradition of debate within the Jewish religion. It is exactly the thing that ties my stomach in knots.

Yesterday, my husband posted the following on Facebook.

This kind of rhetoric is troll-food: it draws out people who take everything seriously and insist on commenting on it. Someone did. A long comment, in fact. Steve returned the salvo, and the game was afoot.

With a chuckle, Steve told me about the exchange, and I made the mistake of reading it. The comments got longer and longer with neither side listening or budging (as is usually the case).

I, however, started having an anxiety attack. Truly; my chest felt tight, my stomach felt troubled, I wanted to yell or cry and run away. I wanted sugar. [Well, the sugar may have had nothing to do with anxiety. I always want sugar.]

Steve, on the other hand, was enjoying the mental stimulation of every exchange, as a cat takes pleasure in the hunt, not the capture.

I asked Steve to take the discussion with his friend "offline" into messages. He said that others were following the discussion, so he would keep it open; I did not have to read it.

He's right, I guess, though I can't imagine anyone wanting to observe someone else's disagreement, let alone participate in it.

I don't know why I have such a low tolerance for this kind of discourse. Possibly because in my childhood home such discussions frequently degraded into thrown object, slammed doors, and someone storming off. I suppose that makes me "conflict avoidant," which is dysfunctional in its own way (can you say "passive aggressive"?). All I can say is you'll never find me on a debate team or on political hustings.

Now, off I go to think of unicorns, rainbows, and butterflies; babies and summer dresses; and sunsets and floral bouquets. Ah, much, much better.

And kitties. Kitties always help me calm down.