Laptops in the "ladies" room

I've noticed yet another disturbing trend lately -- laptops in the ladies' room. Twice now I've seen women coming out of my office bathroom with their laptops in tow. And a friend of mine confirmed she's witnessed it too. Apparently their work and/or bowels just cannot wait.

The second woman I saw actually smiled and said hello as I passed by her in shock and awe. Personally, I'm mortified by most bathroom activities and avoid eye contact whenever I go near it. So I'm thoroughly confused by this brazen bathroom behavior.

Should I be impressed by their work ethic -- or horrified by their uncleanliness?


Photo source: http://thenextweb.com/

Down with conference calls

Not sure if I've mentioned before, but I hate conference calls. Ninety-five percent of the time they are a complete waste of time, and even when useful information is shared, I'd still prefer an e-mail exchange because then you have a record of it. I specify useful information because I don't really care what the weather is like in New York today or what someone I've never met in person is doing this weekend.

The worst thing about conference calls is the beginning. I don't know if it's just my company, but every call I'm on starts with roll. I have to admit even when there are four people on a call I detest saying, "Hi it's Amy" after a moment of pause in hopes that noone will talk over me. But on calls with more than 10 people I think roll should be outlawed. It takes forever and is absolute insanity. An experience I had last week:

Me: Hi this is Amy

Call leader: Great, hi Dave.

Me: Amy from Internet Marketing is here.

Leader: Hi Jennifer, and did someone else join?

Me: Amy? From Internet Marketing?

Leader: Hello Angela, how are you?

Amy: Click.

Well, I didn't really hang up, but I wanted to... "Leaders" who habitually squawk, "Hi who else joined?" should be barred from organizing calls - or fired. Ten minutes into the call we haven't gotten anywhere and I want to crawl under my cubicle and cry.

I'd really rather not talk on the phone ever because I sound like a 12-year-old, both in terms of voice and ability to put coherent thoughts together. I'd much rather take the time to write an e-mail and then proofread several times to decrease the chance of sounding like an idiot. Now why can't the business world adapt to my special needs? Is that too much to ask??

Dirty, dirty mouth

I feel bad enough paying a stranger to clean my apartment, so even though I can't help worrying about what she might be doing in there, I try to push it to the back of my middle class guilt-ridden mind. This strategy was working pretty well for me - until last night.

While I'm sure there are endless opportunities for contamination, for some reason I fixate on my toothbrush. I can barely manage to wash my face without knocking one to three items into the sink/floor/toilet, so I can't imagine how our cleaning woman could manage to de-filth our teeny tiny bathroom without ever bumping a toothbrush or two off the sink into something disturbing.

So I usually hide my toothbrush in its traveling case thingy or start using a new one after the apartment is cleaned... usually, but not always. Because I am that lazy. But before the cleaning woman came yesterday morning I noticed my boyfriend's toothbrush in the bathroom garbage and decided to toss mine too, after asking him if we had replacements.

Then something odd happened. When I went to brush my teeth last night, the brushes were back. Hm, I thought. Maybe the replacements were the same colors, and my boyfriend kindly put mine in the holder for me (so romantic!). So I texted him asking him which was mine, to which he replied "either one." I thought this was strange... I figured he replaced them because he brushed his teeth before he went out. (This is where I become irrationally germaphobic for someone who can't even be bothered to clean her own apartment.)

So when I picked up one of the brushes I couldn't help sniffing it... and it smelled like stale toothpaste! Upon further inspection, I noticed some toothpaste residue as well as slight wear and tear. GASP! I dropped the toothbrush and texted my boyfriend again (he loves that), asking if he was SURE the toothbrushes were new because they didn't seem new... He texted back saying they were UNDER THE SINK. Ewwwwwwww.

I almost used a utensil to clean my mouth that had been SITTING IN BATHROOM WASTE. A vivid picture came to me of the cleaning woman finishing up the bathroom and suddenly noticing the empty holder, then the two toothbrushes in the garbage. Did she assume she knocked them into it and simply put them back where she thought they belonged? Or was it some kind of sick joke?? How many times has this happened before???

You'd think this would be enough reason for me to start cleaning the apartment myself, but that thought actually upsets me more than the dirty toothbrush.

The Ladies Room

Door number 1: Woman applying lipstick in front of the mirror

Door number 2: Unflushed toilet

Door number 3: Broken lock

Leaning forward in a squat, one arm extended in hopes of thwarting a surprise visit or indecent exposure, I wonder if I’m at a bar or at work.

I seem to be sober, so I guess it’s the latter. Damn.

Turbo Spaz

While I commend anyone who can feel the fun along with the burn, I think when you’re a fitness INSTRUCTOR, you should maybe care as much about your “students’” workout as your own. And lately, I’ve been a little disappointed with the classes at my YMCA.

Now, I realize the whole idea of cardio kickbox aerobics is a little ridiculous. [Insert name of professional kickboxer here] would probably be horrified to see a group of bouncing Midwestern gals jab-cross-jabbing in front of mirrored walls. But I personally feel that a normal cardio kickbox class releases the perfect combination of aggression and dance fever. I went to one of these classes at my gym in college, and I was delighted to see multiple variations on the fitness schedule when I started going to the Y by my new apartment.

Express Cardio Kickbox class – fabulous; what they call “Turbo Kick” – bad idea. The uber-enthusiasm of the instructors, their spastic combinations and my sporadic attendance create a perfect storm of awkwardness. Apparently it’s more “dancey” than regular cardio kickbox classes... the Y’s description ends with “some coordination is ‘helpful.’” Are those quotation marks mocking me?? I thought I was a coordinated person... back in the day I could do all kindsa crazy tricks on the balance beam (remember folks, that beam is just four inches wide!).

But in this arena I am very challenged... and the instructors do not help. They are having so much freaking fun that I don’t believe they give a hoot if we get their crazy “routines.” I use quotations because I don’t believe these instructors have prepared actual routines. I used to turn Tori Amos and Rusted Root up really loud and randomly stomp/dance around my mom's living room, becoming one with the music – what those instructors are doing up there reminds me of that. With more punching and kicking. Sometimes they yell out incoherent instructions a few regulars appear to understand.

To make matters worse, Google tells me “Turbo Kick” is apparently a whole fitness movement. Everyone sure does look like they’re having a good time... well, to anyone considering trying it out, I recommend practicing in the privacy of your own home first.

Anti-Social Networking

Apparently to succeed in this world, you have to “network.” While it seems my hope and dream that electronic communication will take over face-to-face awkwardness may one day come true, it’s not happening fast enough – and I suspect I will have given up on this whole “career” thing by the time it does.

I think networking is a talent – you either have it or you don’t – and like other talents such as singing and dancing, it just makes everyone uncomfortable if you attempt it without the required skillset. And while booze does initially help, there’s a fine line between loosening up and embarrassing yourself even more. This is why I avoid networking events. Instead, my preferred type of “professional development” is education-focused. Because I miss school.

So yesterday I attended one of these “educational” events and strategically scheduled my day so as to avoid talking to strangers – arriving late, after coffee (code for sleepy, awkward conversations) and planning to escape before happy hour (see previous paragraph for reminder on why booze plus business cards spell trouble for the socially challenged).

Unfortunately, it didn’t take more than 10 minutes for my plan to begin unraveling. Upon entering the conference room, I was assaulted by a frightening sight: tables. Instead of civilized rows of chairs where people could sit and stare straight ahead, pretending their neighbors didn't exist, chairs formed circles around tables occupied by people chatting with eachother. Luckily my initial panic was alleviated when I spotted a couple rows for overflow loners at the back. But my calm was short-lived; my ears pricked when I heard “get to know eachother” come out of the keynote speaker's mouth. Oh god. The dreaded icebreaker.

Sure enough, at the end of his presentation, the speaker told us to go to a different table and shake a random hand. We were instructed to share our biggest professional challenge and something personal noone knows about us. Ummm - awkward, creepy, no. In an attempt to not look like a total weirdo, I turned to the fellow loner next to me and informed her that I didn't feel like walking over to a table. That's what I said. This is why I try to keep my mouth closed in front of strangers. Then we exchanged names, job titles, possibly swine flu. And then we never spoke to eachother again.

It's when I begin to feel the pseudo-walls of my cubicle closing in on me that I enroll in events like these, thinking I'd like to get out ... but I need to remember that even if it's not the focus, networking sneaks its way into every event. Better to stay at the office, behind a laptop, where I can type my words carefully, instead of standing by powerless as they tumble out of my mouth, snowballing into a giant mound of nonsense I can never take back. Yes, better to stay inside the cube, where it's safe.

Stranger Danger

Like Mace, sometimes the armor you use to protect yourself from strangers (headphones, books, newspapers, etc.) is used against you. Instead of indicating that you want to be left alone, “friendly” people see this armor as a conversation starter. I don’t understand these people, and they can really put a damper on my commute.

This morning I quickly opened the book I’m currently obsessed with, American Wife, after I snagged myself a seat on the bus. Although it’s a work of fiction loosely based on Laura Bush, I believe the fellow next to me perceived it as an instruction manual I carry around on my quest for a CTA-riding husband. I hadn’t even gotten through a sentence when he started the dreaded awkward conversation with, “Is that a book about being an American wife?” Oy.

So I briefly told him what the book is about and turned back to the page. One sentence later: “So that’s probably like more of a chick book, right?” At this point I’m getting pretty annoyed. I really am obsessed with this book – stayed up way past my bedtime Wednesday night reading it – and my commute’s not that long, and I like to spend it READING. Also, I was hungover from Thursday night. But still, I smiled when I responded with a nod. Why, why, why? I have no idea.

So he proceeds to tell me what kinds of books he likes and that he’d like to be in a book club but they seem like a girl thing … and asks me what I do and then I ask him what he does (why, why, why – I guess because sometimes I act human and I felt obligated. Sigh.) … and we talk about layoffs and I keep trying to go back to my book but he keeps on talking … and then he brings up his brother who works at Google … and this I find interesting so I ask more questions. Damn it.

And here’s where it gets real awkward. He says he’s getting off at the next stop and asks if I have a card. I tell him I don’t have any on me – oh well. But no that can’t be the end of it. He then asks if he can write down my e-mail address. Usually I would just give it but for some reason – I think because I was really pretty miffed; this book is like crack – I said no. But he did seem like a nice guy and who can really blame him for putting himself out there – I know that takes a lot of courage, especially stone sober at nine in the morning. So I added that I have a boyfriend and I just didn’t want to send mixed signals, something like that … at this point I was suffering from full-blown diarrhea of the mouth.

Then we sat in a painful silence for what was probably about three seconds but felt like a week and a half, during which I obsessed over what I had said and wondered if he had really just been being friendly, and was now thinking he couldn’t believe what a giant ego this girl in an Old Navy jean jacket had – that he couldn’t believe I had just assumed he was interested in dating me.

But then he kindly broke the silence by asking if I by any chance had a twin who was single. So I guess my assumption was correct… This person didn’t just want to be my friend. So then what’s the point of it all??? Is anyone of the opposite sex really just being “friendly”? Are you supposed to just ignore them right off the bat if you’re not single or interested? Ugh … I just wanted to read my book.

Grocery Guilt

I often experience grocery guilt, and I don’t think I’m alone. At the store after work today, I actually felt pretty good about my basket of bananas, oatmeal, tomato soup, broccoli, skim milk and sugar-free gum (even though I’d only gone for bananas), but the gentleman in front of me was acting rather strange. When I got in line behind him, he took a step back, and I (overdramatically) scooted to avoid being stepped on. He glanced at me sheepishly, avoiding eye contact, and mumbled something to the effect of, “I just have this stuff,” motioning to his sad little pile of sustenance.

What’s this guy’s deal? I wondered, before I focused in on his items: a can of chili, an array of brightly colored packages of frozen Jewel-brand burritos and what looked like candy I didn’t have time to identify (as I sensed my staring was making him even more uncomfortable). As I (unsuccessfully) tried to stop myself from judging, I realized he might be feeling a bit like I was last night when, in my hungover state, I just couldn’t make it the extra few blocks to the grocery store and instead bought a bag of pretzels, a tub of whipped cream cheese and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s at Walgreens. As the cashier rang me up, I wondered if he knew this was my Sunday dinner…

Seeing the same guilty look in someone else’s face made me kind of sad. Maybe this dude had just had a rough day and was as horrified by the idea of cooking and dishes as I was last night. Frozen burritos are his choice, and he should have the right to purchase them without shame. I’m well aware of the fact that the things I feel self conscious about are the faults I’m most judgmental of in others—so I’m making a resolution to stop critiquing fellow shoppers’ choices. Except for checkbooks. Using checkbooks in this day and age is simply ridiculous, and I will continue to shoot dirty looks and sigh loudly when the person in front of me breaks out the pony express of payments and I’m trying to get home in time for the beginning of Gossip Girl.

Paint-by-numbers pickup art

Last Friday was another interesting night at the bar. A guy who approached my friend and me managed to give me two odd insults in a matter of minutes. First he told me he was sure I was a teacher because I looked “homely.” After I asked him what that was supposed to mean, he said, “You know, you look like you stay at home and read a lot of books.” Hm. Were the rest of his pickup skills as lame as his vocabulary? For some reason I stuck around to find out. Next he asked me if I was Jewish. I said no, but people ask me that all the time. A lot of people think I’m either Jewish or Italian, I told him, but I’m actually neither. And he responded, “Oh I’m just trying to say you’re ordinary looking.” Huh? That was when I decided to put the unfortunate conversation out of its misery.

I was telling the story to a male friend the next day, and he said maybe the guy at the bar had been reading The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. In the book, Neil Strauss, formerly “a self-described chick repellent,” apparently tells the story of how he was assigned to “investigate a community of pickup artists,” through which he learned and successfully used techniques he shares with readers. According to my friend, one of these techniques is to give women backhanded compliments. Another is to approach the less attractive woman in a group. According to Amazon, another is to "intrigue a beautiful woman by pretending to be unaffected by her charm."

My friend really got a kick out of the ordinary looking comment. “Maybe I should take it a step further,” he said, “and just go up to girls and punch them in the head.” (I know I should probably know better, but I thought that was hilarious.) When we were out later, I decided we should just fully embrace this gradeschool approach and suggested to my friend that he go up to a random girl and give her a wet willy. (I didn’t really think he’d do it…) She did not react positively at first (shocker), but I did notice she hung around where we were standing for a while afterward. Maybe her interest was sparked… or more likely she was waiting for an explanation.

So might some men actually experience success using some sort of reverse psychology to pick up women? I’m afraid that might be the case, now that I’m thinking about it. About a month ago, a guy discarded his empty beer bottle right in front of me, which I thought was rude, but I did end up talking to him when he approached me again and actually spoke. And I ended up going out with him… a few times… I think it might be a tactic that’s hard to pull off though, and maybe not the best option for the socially awkward, who are probably the ones taking advice from books like The Game, unfortunately.

Walking in circles

I’m not sure why, but there are an extraordinary number of revolving doors in the Loop. Getting to work in the morning, I go through no fewer than five revolving doors. If I go to Starbucks for coffee and Subway for lunch (yes, I’m aware of the amount of money I waste on things I should make at home), I revolve through 14 doors in one day. Despite all of this practice, however, I still find the revolving door rather tricky. Now, it’s quite possible I’m alone in being challenged in this area, but in case anyone else gets the same double dutch-evoking nerves before jumping into a spinning section, I’d like to share some of the lessons I’ve learned walking in circles.

Lesson number one: When choosing between an empty revolving door and one already spinning a few people, choose the populated door. Because it’s already spinning, you won’t have to exert as much energy pushing through. This was counterintuitive for me because I like to stay as far away from strangers as possible—but I’ve decided it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make, especially in the morning when I’m carrying coffee and feeling especially lazy.

Lesson number two: Stay alert when timing your door entry. It’s ideal to squeeze into the door immediately after someone else—so you can catch a free ride on his or her push. You have to be careful not to jump in too early though, as this could not only slow everyone down, but also cause extreme discomfort. One day after work I was jolted back from lala land when I realized I had followed an unsuspecting woman right into her personal revolving door compartment. I sheepishly apologized while we shuffled forward for what seemed like an eternity. Horrifying.

Lesson number three: Reverse the laws of chivalry. Although men customarily open doors for women, when dealing with a revolving door, I think it’s more polite for the man to go first. This goes back to my laziness theme. If the man goes first, he can do all the pushing. Now, as a 21^st century gal, I’m totally down with pushing my own door…or strategically timing my own door entry…but I often encounter men who seem to be trying to be gentlemanly by letting me go first, and I find that odd because then I’m doing all the work for them. Maybe I’m getting it all wrong though—I shared this theory with a lunch date once…and I never heard from him again…

The first and last supper

As I’ve mentioned once or twice before, I’m moving in a couple of weeks, and I’m getting a little sad about leaving my neighborhood. So I decided to plan a dinner with friends at one of my favorite neighborhood spots before I leave, but I had a hard time choosing the place—not necessarily because there are so many great places—but because a lot of my favorite restaurants have been spoiled by the memories of awkward and worthless dates.

As my list of possible venues dwindled, I started to wonder why dinner is such a popular first date activity. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. First, there’s choosing where to go. I am so tired of guys wanting to go out for sushi. I don’t know if they’re trying to show how hip and adventurous they are, but I think it’s safe to say sushi is officially mainstream these days. And with the likelihood of someone having subpar chopstick skills (okay, that’s always me) and trouble gracefully shoving a giant tuna roll into their mouth (me again…), I’d rather avoid that minefield.

And then there’s interacting with the waitress. I was a waitress in high school and college, so I’m hyperaware of any awkwardness—on either end. One guy I went to dinner with told me while we were looking at the menu that all he wanted was “a big bowl of fruit.” Excuse me? Why then, are we eating dinner at this great international fusion/South American restaurant—that you picked? Perhaps he was in the mood for international fruit? I thought it was a weird enough comment to make to me, but then he actually told the waitress that’s what he wanted, and obviously it wasn’t on the menu. She was visibly confused—and annoyed. And I hate being the annoying table. I literally feel the server’s pain. Another guy I went out with a few times was inexplicably disliked by every waitress we had. It was very odd. On the one hand, their rudeness gave us something to talk about, but that didn’t make up for the discomfort—especially when one purposely failed to help the poor guy out when he was obviously mistaking Pinot Grigio for a red. Of course I didn’t say anything either because—shocker—I felt too awkward. Then again, he ended up being an ass, so I suppose our servers just knew something it took me a little longer to figure out.

And then there’s the eating. There was an episode of My So-Called Life in which Angela sat at the dinner table with her family, horrified by the sight of all of them eating, and her voice-over said, “I cannot bring myself to eat a well-balanced meal in front of my mother. It just means too much to her. I mean, if you stop to think about, like, chewing—what it really is?—how people just do it, like, in public.” I think about that episode a lot. The act of consuming food is pretty disgusting. If doing it in front of your family is questionable, why would anyone ever think it would be a fun thing to do on a first date? (Ah, My So-Called Life…now I’m thinking how much I’d rather stay home and watch a marathon of Angela Chase’s awkwardness than get off of the couch and live out my own.) Anyway, spinach stuck in your teeth, red wine splashed on your favorite shirt, chewing with your mouth open, talking with your mouth full—the potential offenses are endless.

Why, why then is this what everyone wants to do on a first date? And it’s hard to say no because I really like going out to dinner…or at least the idea of going out to dinner. I guess maybe I’ll just have to keep moving to new neighborhoods to flee the memories of bad dates past. Although a major problem remains: I can keep switching restaurants or even activities, but my awkwardness seems to follow me regardless.

The ultimate test of humanity

I held out for as long as I could, but after the ground started to freeze and the snow started to accumulate (which no one shovels in my neighborhood of renters), I had to join a gym. I’m familiar with the 6 o’clock treadmill showdown, as I’ve had memberships to other gyms, but my current gym is especially tricky.

There are a couple of treadmills downstairs, but they’re no good because they don’t have personal TVs, and the gym is where I catch up on cable reality shows – Bravo, TLC, VH1 – they have it all. So I usually wait it out upstairs, where the majority of treadmills are lined up facing two walls in an L shape.

While gym etiquette is generally similar across the board, there are nuances to learn with each new membership. The first few times I went to my gym I gathered that the two walls created separate domains. People seemed to choose one side or the other, pace-stretching while they eyed time and mile counters and waited for something to open up. So the first person would take one leg of the L, and the second would take the other. If there was a third, he or she would awkwardly choose one side and pace at a safe distance behind the first or second hopeful, and so on.

Obviously this is a flawed system that causes me a lot of angst. What if all the people on my side are training for marathons? What if the dude on the other side crosses over when I’m not looking? What if I miss the end of Project Runway???

So I was relieved one day when, after apprehensively climbing the stairs, I saw a civilized line had formed in the middle of the treadmill L. When one treadmill emptied, the next person in line hopped on. Fascinating. This seemed to be the trend for a while, but it isn’t always the case. That’s not to say I try to convert the heathens, as I usually avoid talking to strangers at all costs.

My “When in Rome” strategy seemed to be working okay until the other day. Surveying the treadmill situation, I saw a woman guarding one half of the L and a man standing in the middle. Hmm. I timidly walked to the middle and awkwardly stood at a safe distance behind him. He turned and asked me if there was usually a line. Forced into conversing, I mumbled something about not really knowing, that usually I just try to keep track of who has been waiting the longest. “Was she here first?” I asked. “No,” he snorted. “Well, you’ve just got to hope that she’s not an asshole then,” I said. (This is why I don’t socialize with strangers. Verbal diarrhea.) “Ah,” he replied, “the ultimate test of humanity.” (Might I add that he had a cute accent and made me nervous.)

Shortly after our conversation, a treadmill luckily opened up on the other side of the heathen’s domain, and my foreign line buddy quickly claimed it. This is when I broke out into a pre-workout sweat. The heathen was technically second in line, but she was so focused on her side…what if something opened up on the other side? Do I continue to uncharacteristically speak to strangers and ask her if she wants the treadmill? But she seems pretty intent on her side…maybe she prefers the window view of Santullo's Eatery to Cold Stone Creamery while she's working toward her goal weight? Please, please someone get off on her side!

But my prayers went unanswered. As the belt in front of me slowed and the treadmiller began to collect her things, I glanced over at the oblivious heathen, then shamefully claimed the open machine. It was a split-second decision, and my social awkwardness trumped my civility. If this was the ultimate test of humanity, I failed.

Rethinking technology

Being socially awkward and single, I’m a huge fan of text and instant messaging. The last time I was single, the thought of talking to prospects on the phone completely stressed me out – awkward silences, unsuccessful attempts to bring the conversation to a close – eh, not for me. So I was delighted to find this time around that nowadays you can get to know people without actually speaking to them. In fact, if I give someone my number and he actually calls me instead of texting, it tends to scare me off.

I’m starting to think, however, that all of this electronic communication might not be such a good thing. The impersonality of it gives people a precarious kind of confidence. I first saw the darker side of electronic courage when I met an avid text messager (I’ll call him TMer) last fall. A day of texting might have gone something like this:

TMer - 3:02 pm: wut u up 2?
Me – 3:10 pm: not much
TMer – 3:13 pm: jst back from workin out. want 2 hang out?
Me – 3:20 pm: no thanks, got some stuff to do
TMer – 4 pm: rock o luv marathon on, want 2 come over?
Me – 4: 25 pm: no thanks, busy
TMer – 7 pm: headin out 2nite?
TMer – 8:30 pm: headin to kincades, u?
TMer – 1:22 am: hope u had a good nite :)

This went on for weeks, possibly months. After I stopped responding entirely, I got “where u been hidin?” messages. I had to change my text message alert because I started to recoil in some kind of Pavlovian response to the sound.

But I wasn’t ready to break things off with my keypad. I just love the concept of talking to people without actually talking. So I continued to stand by electronic over personal communication. Until today, after I had an extremely unfortunate instant-message conversation with someone I’ll call IMer. Because I clicked the window closed in horror, I’m paraphrasing the following:

IMer: lunch today?
Me: brought lunch
IMer: you sure? i’ll pay
Me: got to eat my chili

(Later)

IMer: how was your chili?
Me: tasty
IMer: i’m glad
IMer: how’s your tummy?
Me: full
IMer: how are your bowels?
IMer: from your silence, i think i should retract that comment
Me: uh, yeah… was reading something
IMer: gotcha, i will let you work, i feel like i am the annoying guy you wish you’d never met
Me: don’t think i know you well enough for bathroom talk
IMer: i understand

And that’s the end of that. Just a wild guess, but I’m thinking had we been talking face-to-face, he wouldn’t have inquired about my BMs. Is electronic communication causing us to be too comfortable with relative strangers? I know I’ve sent a few alcohol-induced texts I’d like to take back. Or maybe this new technology is a good thing. Maybe it has allowed me to spot stalkers and number two fetishes before any real damage is done, i.e. before they know where I live…

Please vote ... on tipping eitquette

I forgot to tip my Peapod delivery guy yesterday, and it's haunting me. Their Web site says tipping is optional, but the man carried $160 worth of groceries to my doorstep, in 2-degree weather. And he was extrememly friendly, and didn't say anything about me being in flannel Christmas pajamas.

Okay I didn't really forget. I felt stupid because I never know how much to tip, like it's better to tip nothing than tip too little. This is especially disturbing because I was a waitress for five years. Please help remedy my ignorance by participating in the poll to the left.

The results are in! Fifteen people voted (very excited that 15 people read my blog, or that one person felt so passionate about tipping that they voted 15 times!), and the majority think $5 is a sufficient tip. Here's the breakdown:

• Nada: 0 votes
  
• $5: 10 votes
• 15%: 2 votes
• 20%: 3 votes