*****

The lights in my office all have motion sensors. For the most part, they shut off after a few minutes of inactivity. Some of them, like those in the storage rooms, shut off after only a minute or so. Some
of them, like those in the bathrooms, take longer to shut off, closer to five minutes.

The other day (and by "the other day," I really mean more like two or three weeks ago, but whatever), I was in one of the storage rooms trying to find some pamphlets. This particular storage room has the
shortest timer for the lights. After a scant 30 seconds of inactivity, the lights automatically turn off. Not a big deal usually, because one has only to waggle an arm in the air a couple of times to turn the lights on. In this room, however, the motion
sensors aren't terribly sensitive, which is why I think the lights shut off so quickly. It takes much more than a waggling arm to set the sensors off.

Anyway, so I was in the storage room, trying to find the damn pamphlets, and the lights went off. I waggled an arm, but nothing happened. I waggled two arms, and nothing happened. I jumped up and
down waggling both arms and still nothing happened. I tried to find the damn light switch to manually turn the lights on, but it was hidden behind a shelf. Frustrated, I started swearing at the stupid lights, jumping up and down and in a circle, arms flailing wildly, legs kicking out like some grotesque parody of River Dance. At the precise moment my impromptu performance was at its most frenzied, the lights finally came back on, the door to the storage room opens and who should appear but my boss with a bemused look on her face as she regarded me in the throes of what must have appeared to be some sort of psychotic break. Awesome.

And then today, as I left work, I stopped in the lobby bathroom on my way out. The bathroom lights take the longest to turn off, at least five minutes or so. They were off when I opened the door, and turned on as soon as I walked into the room. I went into a stall to do my thing, and as I sat there, I suddenly heard the sound of a flushing
toilet. I heard someone walk out of a stall, wash their hands, and leave the bathroom. The thing is, no one had come into the bathroom after me. And when I walked in, like I said, the lights were off.
Which means that whoever the mystery flusher was, they'd been sitting quietly in the bathroom long enough and still enough for the lights to go out. That's weird, right? I think it's more than a little weird. I have no idea who the person might have been either. It could have been a co-worker, but it was in the lobby bathroom, so it also could have been a visitor or a maintenance person or a delivery person. Who knows. Whoever it was, they're weird, so there you go.

*****

The other day (and this time, by "the other day," I actually mean "two months ago," but again, whatever), I was drinking at a party...our Chinese New Years Eve party, a smashing success, if I do say so myself (and I do!)...and I had to pee, like people do. When I was done, I started to stand up, but then I noticed a rather large spider scurry across my pants, over my knee, and onto the floor. I watched as he hustled under the door and away to points unknown. Having been drinking, I was not particularly startled or afraid of the spider, but
instead rather philosophical about the whole affair. I wondered how he'd gotten into my pants, where he'd come from. I hadn't noticed him dropping down from the ceiling or hopping from somewhere else into my pants. I wondered if maybe he'd been there the entire time, huddling in a crease of fabric, biding his time until he could escape. At first I discarded that theory, but then I remembered a friend of mine telling me a story of a bee that got trapped in his pants unbeknownst to him until it started buzzing and freaked him out. I reasoned that if a bee could hide in a person's pants, then certainly a spider could. I'd pulled the pants from a laundry basket where they'd been waiting to be hung. I decided that the spider must have crawled into the basket and hidden in my pants, and that when I put the pants on, he probably hid behind a pocket or something until he could formulate
a plan to escape. Satisfied with that explanation, I pulled my pants up the rest of the way and headed back to the party, fogetting all about the spider and the bizarre incident.

The next day, of course, without the soothing influence of alcohol, I was thoroughly creeped out that there had been a spider in my pants, Gone, my philosophical and dispassionate contemplation of the invading arachnid. I haven't been able to put a piece of clothing on since without first inspecting it completely and shaking it out for at least three or four minutes. Blech.

*****

The other day (and this time, by "the other day," I actually mean "the other day") I went home for lunch and left the windows in my car open while I was inside. I only left them open a couple of inches, just enough to provide a little ventilation. When I went back out to my car later, a bird had pooped on the driver's side seat. Did a freak gust of wind blow the poop in, or did a bird actually fly in my window, poop on my seat, and fly out again? And why would a bird have flown in my window, especially since the window was only cracked open a little bit? The gust of wind explanation doesn't seem especially likely, so I guess a bird did in fact fly into my car, and I can only assume that the bird had some particular grudge against me, though I can't for the life of me figure out what.

*****

It's like the spiders and the birds are out to get me.

*****

That is all for now. Carry on, won't you?

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