You’re Pregnant? Oh, No Thanks.

This is a letter to the pregnant ladies out there.. you need a fucking letter because not everybody thinks that pregnancy is awesome. And you’re rude. In fact, some of us think that pregnancy is downright ooky and weird and unnatural. Yeah, I said it. Unnatural.

Dear Pregnant Ladies,

Why are there so many of you? You’re freaking me out. Is it the water? Did they put something in the ice machine at the office? What’s HAPPENING??? You guys are everywhere and you need to know a few things about me and at least a couple of other ladies out there. In a world of 7 billion people (yes, billion. Thanks for making more) I cannot possibly be the only one whose gag reflex activates every time one of you says “Look! You can see his/her foot!” Make. It. Stop.

This. Don’t ever show me this.

Alrighty, here we go. Things you need to know about me when you’re pregnant:

1. Being pregnant does not give you a license to discuss your bodily functions in public. Especially not with me or within earshot of me. Really. Why do you think that I want to know about your gas, your hemorrhoids or your acid reflux?
2. I don’t ever want you to speak of that time you shit yourself pushing your Crotch Parasite out your vag and I don’t care that you pee your pants every time you sneeze. I don’t.
3. I get it. You’re chock full of progesterone and oxycontin and shit. You’re all love and rainbows and you shit fluffy bunnies. I am not and I do not, get the fuck away from me with your jacked up pregnancy Kool-Aid
4. I don’t like kids and I don’t think pregnancy is a miracle. Pregnancy is weird. It is. You’re a pod person. Kids are little pod people. You all freak me the fuck out.
5. When you bring your Crotch Parasite to the office the only thing I can think about is your vagina, where it’s been, what came out of it and WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?
6. Oh, you’re fat? Yeah, you are. Wanna know why? Because you’re pregnant, Dumbass! You’re supposed to turn into a Fatty McFatterson when you grow another human being. If you dropped 20 pounds when you got knocked up we’d all be doing it because What. The. Fuck, Dipshit.
7. Do not, I repeat – DO NOT say to me in that tone of voice “oooh, don’t worry. You’re still young, you’ll have your own one day”. Oh Hell no I will not and fuck you. Why do pregnant women do this? Stop it, you suck. I hear that’s what got you into this mess in the first place.

Yeah, so that’s about it. I’d like to see fewer of you around the office and stalking me on the streets. I’d also like to know which ice machine is doped so I can use the other one.

Thanks y’all!

And Then I Put My Foot In The Toilet

Holy, holy, holy fuck balls! Today I co-taught a class with some idiots that sit in the same office as me. Let’s call them Sidekick (not to be confused with my awesome dog) and The Gnat. Because that’s what we all call them at the office. For three weeks I’ve been prepping my material for this class and scheduling meetings with Sidekick and The Gnat only to have them bail on my meetings and meet with each other instead. Totally clueless as to the material that I planned to present. FUUUUUUCK.

We got off to a running start when they couldn’t figure out how to get the projector to work so they decided that the Cool Chick and I would just sit in the conference room and stare at them while they went through the live meeting on their computer. We’d look at nothing because god forfuckingbid this company tip toe into the 21st century and give us some modern day tech that follows us from room to freaking room. Nope, just sit and stare at the air bubbles across from us.

These people don’t use presentation mode ever so you have to stare at all the shit on their screen. Oh, you have five IM windows active and one of them is blinking? You must be so fucking important. Put yourself on Do Not Disturb, Twat! You’re teaching a goddamned class!

Um, um, um, um, um. Holy shit. Sidekick said UM every two words. She said it so often and interrupted herself so many times that I actually couldn’t understand 4 out 5 sentences that she vomited up. I was dying. Dying! Cool Chick and I barely contained our laughter.

Sidekick and The Gnat wrote themselves a script. Literally.
The Gnat: Blah, blah, blah.
Sidekick: Um, um, um, um, blah, um, blah, blah, um. So. Yeah.
And then they didn’t use it. Neither did they cover their key points and what they did cover was scattered and not presented in a logical order.

By the way, did I mention the part about being trapped in a small, windowless conference room with their Parmesan covered lunches that occasionally threw a whiff of vomit at me? That part was lovely.

What else did they do? Oh, right. They covered a key point of my section of the training class even though we discussed no less than three times that this was mine. Miiiine! 3, apparently, is not the magic number.

I want whatever those school kids were snacking on.

But wait! There’s more!

During the break I went to the bathroom where I dunked my foot in the toilet because the flushy handle thing was broken and I slipped. The only way to save myself was to slam my foot down into the toilet. I had Piss Foot for the rest of the day. Oh, and also? There was a dime sized hole in my shirt. On my boob. I walked around aaaaall day and nobody said a word to me. People, you have to tell a lady when she has a hole on her boob! Nobody seemed surprised by it when I came back to the conference room and yelled “Hey! There’s a hole in my boob!”

So. Thursday continues to reign supreme as shittiest day of the week.

I’m Shrinking! I’m Shrinking!

Crumbs of the Internet, it’s working! INSANITY is working! For two weeks I have been beating the ever loving shit out of my body and it’s paying off! Slowly but surely. Check out these measurements!

Okay yeah. The bust and thigh went up a little bit but look! My waist and hips have gotten smaller! Smaller than the other bits have gotten bigger!

This Insanity bullshit is hard work. I’m not gonna lie, 3 times out of 3 I really don’t want to come home from work and exercise. I pretty much don’t want to exercise ever. I’m more of the sit-on-the-couch-eat-Cheetos-scratch-the-dog brand of American. I expect that after every fucking exhausting workout I should be thin and have good hair. Right. Now. Shaun T is always telling me to use my core and I keep yelling at him that I don’t have one of those and can I get it on Amazon.

There’s this one guy in the DVDs that looks like a recruit straight out of Full Metal Jacket that just looks pained to point of HEMIGHTDIEPEOPLE! in every single DVD. Huh. I haven’t cried you fucking Pussy. The actually physically fit people crying does not bode well for me. Oh, there’s also this disgusting pig of a girl that spits and drools. They really couldn’t edit that shit out? Classy.

The ladies bounce their tatas all over the place but the joke is on them! Wait until they hit their mid-30s and they can tie ‘em a bow and throw ‘em over their shoulder. Strap those puppies down you morons.

I spend a lot of time spinning around in circles, do the pony and telling Mickey that he’s so fine he blows my mind because there’s a lot of jumping involved in this exercise program. Women my age, with my lack of coordination, and with my crappy knees should not jump. Not in public, not in private, not ever. I also see no need to run unless I’m being chased and even then I’d probably shove somebodies nose into their brain because, really? You’re gonna make me run?

I have come to grips with the fact that I will never look like these people. I am way past my prime chance of ever being buff so I’m going to settle for being able to sit at my desk all day without the waistband of my pants cutting off circulation to my legs. Because really, that’s what matters in life.

That’s how it’s going with Insanity. In other news;

I have buns of Play-doh.

Tomorrow The Insanity Begins

Tomorrow I shall throw myself into the Pit of Physical Despair. Tomorrow INSANITY begins! Google it and watch the video. That move with the feet over the head? If I don’t throw my back out I’m going to flip over and impale myself on the letter opener that I never put away. Actually, I never put anything away so if it’s not the letter opener it will be the scissors or garbage can or dehydrator.

I won’t lie. I’m afraid. Just watching the Fit Test left me out of breath but I know that I can do this. Once upon a time I was a fairly fit person. An athlete almost. I did Krav Maga! I ran walked a half marathon (ohmygod it was awful). Boofuckingya! That was once upon a time in a land far, far away. Now… well now it hurts just walk up the stairs and I get winded walking to the corner. I put off doing laundry because just thinking about dragging the heavy hamper downstairs leaves me needing a nap.

Why, you ask, would a sane person do this to themselves? Because it’s time! Also, very few people would tell you that I’m sane.

Ever have those moments when you feel thin and healthy? Then you look in the mirror and you’re like “Oh. Right.” Those moments suck the kind of ass that’s been trapped in cotton panties and slacks for 9 hours. It’s like those other moments when you wake up, look in the mirror and think “Ooo! My hair looks just like Samantha Stevens! Oh. Right.”

That's what my face looks like too when I wake up in the morning. I'm a stunner.

No? It’s just me trying to wiggle my nose and turn the water on with my mind? Sometimes I try to turn the lights on with my mind. Don’t even deny trying it.

Anyway. There will be pictures of my progress! But not for another two months because I am not posting the pictures that the Beast Master took of me today until y’all can look at the final picture and think “Bitch”. If you guys are especially good perhaps there will be video! Then you’ll get to see what the Beast Master puts up with day in and day out.

This is what I look like now. I might be a little fatter now. That's Sidekick. Sometimes I pretend to eat him. It freaks him out.

If I succeed, my reward to myself will be a new custom tattoo from Nikki’s Tattoo (best tattoo studio in Charlotte! She did my Hatchet fish on my wrist) on my leg to cover that gawdawful thing that my friend Joe calls the four tailed sperm. (Back off, it was my first tattoo. I didn’t know what I was doing). So I need all of you to encourage me and laugh at me as I cry, vomit and probably hurt myself.

Front view of a hatchet fish from the spine of a 2nd Edition printing of the Innes Fish Bible

I can do eeeeet! And I’m going to complain while I do it.

Words for Athletes

I’ve decided that Efficient and Agile are athletic words. Because my job is boring as hell and this is what it’s come to. Yes, using my imagination. The horrah.

If you’ve been living under a rock, Efficient and Agile are serious corporate buzzwords for – ooooh – about 2 years already. Maybe 3 years. Seriously, use them in an interview and you’ll be hired on the spot. Don’t take my word for it.

Efficient…

Agile…

These words bring to mind a toned professional athlete sprinting back and forth, back and forth. Maybe hurtling him or herself over one of those pole things. You know, the one that they knock over every. single. time. Muscles rippling obnoxiously beneath shiny blue spandex.

Y'all. I Googled blue spandex and this is what Google gave me. Um...

Check out of the rest of the site. I just don’t know what to do with this. I mean the Captain America costume, okay. But the others? I don’t know where you would wear one of those.

Faster and Quicker are the immature and less sophisticated little brother and sister.

Faster and Quicker are two first graders racing each other during recess because each is convinced that their Zipps and Kangaroos are magical.

 

La Cucaracha! La Cucaracha!

Today while I was walking to the bathroom (also called My Own Private Idaho or MOPI) I trotted by a THREE day old a tray of turkey sandwiches. Yes – THREE FUCKING DAYS OLD. This office has a cockroach problem. I can’t imagine why. It’s very clean here. People complain constantly about the roaches or they’re running, shrieking down the hallway because a cucaracha just fell out of the ceiling and onto their head, shoulder, down their collar.

Last week as I was walking to MOPI (What? I drink a lot of tea. It’s healthy. I haven’t been sick in almost a decade) when a giant cucaracha lept from the wall to the floor about a foot in front of me and stared me down.

Hola! Me llamo Juanita! Soy de Madigascar! Hola!

Wouldn’t you know it? As soon as I’m all like “Dios mio, Juanita! What are joo doing? Joo loco? Quick, hide before someone sees you, Chica! They’ll kill you dead!” (Yup, that’s my Mexican accent. The voice over people are lining the fuck up) some dude comes walking around the corner and catches me. He’s all like “Are you talking to the roach?” and I was all like “What? This is a roach? I thought it was someone’s service dog!” Y’all, this was a fucking huge Cucaracha.

Anywhats. Next thing you know I’m the Crazy Roach Lady. They had the floor fumigated last weekend. Juanita is no more.

Let’s reexamine what happened here, shall we? Can we do that? Good, thanks.

Those nasty, filthy pigs leave trays of sandwiches, bowls of coleslaw and pickles sitting out on cabinets for days. Not to mention the cakes, cookies, cupcakes and other healthy shit left sitting out for weeks at a time. This morning I came in to liquid creamer congealed on the counter in the break room. (Yes Ken, it was creamer. I’m sure). But I’m the crazy roach lady? I got news for you Sheeple…

I’M NOT THE ONE FEEDING THE ROACHES!

Sure, I told Juanita to run and hide but I’m not the Uptown Charlotte 2nd Harvest Food Bank for Las Cucarachas.

Who’s the crazy mother fucker now, Bitches! WHO?

My Office Cucarachas par-tay with the finest food available

The Part They Forget To Tell You

The part they forget to tell you about being an adult is that part where you watch your friends lose everything. Their jobs, their homes, their pets, their spouses, their children. Everything.

They forget to tell you about that part where you can’t do a damn fucking thing for your friend because you’re sitting in the seat two rows behind her on the roller coaster. Screaming your lungs out and holding on for dear life as you’re thrown left, right, upside-down and for a loop.

I wish that I could make things right for my friend. I wish that I could save her home, her family, her pets. If I weren’t consistently, persistently, forever one paycheck away from losing my home, my pets, my sanity, I would give it all to her so that she and her kids would never have to worry again.

The part they forget to tell you about being an adult is the part that aches of helplessness.

I daydream of winning the lottery and giving away houses and cars for $1 each to families who have lost theirs. I daydream about college funds for their kids. Food for their tables. Pets back at their rightful place by their guardian’s side, not dead in a gas chamber. Dreams.

The part they forget to tell you about being an adult is the part that hurts so much.

Oh, Yeah. I Totally Get It.

This is how conversations in animal rescue go;

Me: Blue

Them: Yellow?

Me: No, Blue.

Them: So what you’re saying is Orange?

Me: Blue! I said BLUE!

Them: Oh! Okay. What I think you’re saying is Fuschia.

Me: For Christ’s sake! BLUE you imbecile!

Them: Ah, I’m sorry. I understand now. Burnt umber.

Me: Holy. Shit.

This is how conversations at my day job go:

Me: Blue

Them: Yellow?

Me: No, Blue.

Them: So what you’re saying is Orange?

Me: Blue! I said BLUE!

Them: Oh! Okay. What I think you’re saying is Fuschia.

Me: For Christ’s sake! BLUE you imbecile!

Them: Ah, I’m sorry. I understand now. Burnt umber.

Me: Holy. Shit.

This is how conversations with my dog training clients go;

Me: Blue.

Them: Blue?

Me: I. Love. You.

Do Not Judge Me, For I Will Judge You!

Recently I came across this picture on Facebook, like, 2 zillion times.

Oh, ha ha.

Isn’t that cute? Non-tattooed people making sweet fun of The Inked.

I don’t know about the rest of my Inked brothers and sisters but I have a job that enables me to pay (more than my fair share of) taxes, I don’t have one dragon wing or “equivalent faggy lameness”, I don’t show off my tattoos and I won’t be making an appointment at my nearest tattoo removal clinic.

No, I have tattoos so that after I’m abducted, raped, tortured and have my head, hands and feet cut off my family and friends will be able to identify the body.

Well said

P.S. – I tried to find the owners of these pictures so that I might ask permission to use them but they were both shared over 1,000 times each and I couldn’t find the original owners. If anybody knows who owns them please let me know! I’d be pissed if somebody used my picture without asking.

How to Save the US of A

Given the current economic unrest and uncertainty in our country and the fact that election years consistently halt economic recovery, undermine trust, generally throw us into a tailspin and irreparably damage relationships – I propose the following for this 2012 election year.

• Screw the Electoral College and make the votes of actual citizens, those men & women on the ground trying to make a buck and feed their families, count!
• Put a cap of $20K on all campaigns. Hey Assholes, how ‘bout you Twits starting living and working on a budget?
• Debates go virtual. It’s 2012. We have the technology. Why are you all traveling to in-person debates? In person is so 1998. Have you ever checked the cost of travel and lodging not to mention meals for your entourage? Do you look at the bills? Do you care?
• All candidates must meet LEED certifications standards and must not produce more than 10% household waste.
• Any candidate that admits to or is busted for animal abuse shall be drawn and quartered by his nuts and nostrils (or her eyelids and especially sensitive bits). This includes hunting any animal from a helicopter or other airship.
• Each candidate must be able to explain Occupy Wall Street. They will then be rated on the extent of their lack of knowledge of what the movement is really about.
  • This will be a Pass or Fail grade.
  • Candidates that fail will be placed atop Mitt Romney’s car in an airtight crate and driven to Canada. (Sorry Canada, they’re yours now).
• Debates will be moderated by high school kids and questions will be posed by elementary school kids. When children ask why Daddy can’t get a job and why they live in a homeless shelter (or worse, on the streets) a straightforward answer must be given.
  • Candidates that dodge questions or need more than 10 seconds to think of an answer will have a rod shoved up their ass and receive a strong electrical shock.
  • When little Susie asks why her Mommy was denied treatment for her otherwise easily curable cancer… that candidate better be fucking thinking on his or her feet.
  • Unemployed/Underemployed, uninsured adults will rate answers and control the buttons attached to the rods shoved up the candidates asses.

Think about it. If we imposed caps on campaign spending and required environmental responsibility, animal compassion – if we The People demanded a higher quality candidate, if we didn’t back down and fought for fair representation for the world WE want to live in… Imagine how it would be paid back to our communities. Shit rolls down hill and if our candidates actually, really, truly gave a shit about our towns, our infrastructure, our education – if they gave a shit about US – imagine, just imagine how much better our country could be instead of spiraling down a long dark tunnel on a trajectory to Third World status.