Friday, September 23, 2005


About five seconds ago I missed New York so totally and completely that I saw the edges around my eyes go black.

I feel stagnant.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

A Gift From The Peanut Gallery

I came back from lunch today to find a special surprise.

The ingredients of this surprise?
1 toilet plunger
2 napkins, slightly dirtied
1 sugar-free pecan delight chocolate turtle, melted and stretched

The toilet plunger is an object we of sick mind pass around the group to indicate those that truly SUCK to the best of their ability. A client yells at you over the phone and you sweet talk your way out of a reaming by telling the client how MUCH you ENJOY working with them on a DAY TO DAY basis and can't we just all be friends? Plunger on desk. The boss comes by and comments that your sunglasses are on your head, perhaps you didn't notice that you were inside? Well, they're there in case you walk by, you're presence brings such an unimaginable brightness to all our lives. Plunger on desk. You're coworkers hear you give a hearty fake-laugh over a joke that is most assuredly not hearty-laugh funny. The joke was from a senior vp notorious for being a waste bin of dead jokes. You guessed it-- plunger on desk.

So I go to lunch, eat my animal crackers, drink my diet dr. pepper and play the tetris game on my phone for a full 40 minutes. I come back to my floor to find the not-so-surprising addition of the plunger on my desk. (Not surprising after the ass-kissing I participated in this morning) But what was surprising was the new addition to the plunger game.

THE SUGAR-FREE CHOCOLATE CANDY WAS MADE TO LOOK LIKE A PEANUTTY TURD, THE NAPKINS WERE SOILED TO LOOK LIKE DIRTY TOILET PAPER AND THE PLUNGER HAD MELTED CHOCOLATE SMEARED ON IT. And let's not ignore the total irony in placing a piece of chocolate on my desk that some marketing genius labeled as a "mild laxative." Yeah, I'll be rushing out to by a bag of those.

My boss later told me they had debated whether or not to try out their new plunger scheme on me. He said they were all a little nervous about me making one of my comments that always seem to come out when the room goes completely quiet.

For instance, last week one of the girls made the following statement:
"I didn't ever think we'd get a person hired for that shift."

Her statement was met with laughter from another employee, who claimed that the phrase "did not ever" was not a grammatically correct statement. I chose to disagree. And so I used several sentences to demonstrate my point. Those sentences were:
"I didn't ever go to the store on that side of town."
"No officer, I didn't ever see that girl come in the bar."
"I didn't ever have sexual relations with that woman."

Well, quite naturally, the last sentence happened to be made just as the room had fallen unnaturally silent, letting my voice carry across the field of cubicles like some spooked rabbit. Taken out of context, I look like a defensive lesbian.


But, as my boss informed me, they decided to risk a scary comment because the sheer amusement far exceeded any inappropriate remark I might choose to make. So now I have a brown chocolate stain on my desk and a plunger by my feet. And the peanut turd jokes are never ending.

The Tooth Faery Is Really A Mean Old Hag That Eats Cute Bunnies

My friend, Lilleeeee has a slight problem involving the #32's.

For those of you who did not spend 10 minutes on webmd yesterday, #32 would refer to the 32 teeth that we humans no longer have the capability to house in our teeney weeney mouths. So typically, you, the reader, have 28 teeth. Unless you're that douche bag that never got his wisdom teeth pulled and by some MIRACLE FROM THE GODS OF DENTAL THINGS managed to escape the spine twisting horror of having a very angry tooth attempt to push it's way into an area of the mouth that is, quite honestly, not ready for something of that size. For all you men who practice hetero and don't welcome objects in your anal cavity, think of this dental problem in these terms: Bobby Joe looks at your booty and finds that it looks right nice. So he takes a giant orange traffic cone and SHOVES IT RIGHT IN YOUR ASS WITHOUT THE USE OF ASTROGLIDE OR EVEN SPIT. That, my friends, is what an emerging wisdom tooth feels like.

And now Lilleeee has the above-mentioned problem and is fighting tooth and nail to avoid a trip to the dentist. Because it would take up valuable vacation days and we all know that vacation days are not used for anything except ACTUAL VACATIONS where you don't have to do ANYTHING. And though recovering from impacted-wisdom-tooth-extraction-surgery would technically put you in the "doing nothing" category, it would also put you in sub-category "doing nothing because of excessive pain, trauma, or heavy sedation not of your choosing." Which is why Lilleeee is mostly in the correct state of mind to eschew using a precious and hard-earned vacation day to spend it spitting up blood while your mouth is full of cotton and you're lying puffy and unattractive on the couch, sedated to the point of drooling.

Ah, but this morning Lilleeeee woke up to blood on pillow. In my world, blood on pillow clearly indicates a need for dental assistance, stat. I may read about a vampire every now and then but I bo NO MEANS find the thought of swallowing blood a fun activity. And so I think Lilleeeee has perhaps bowed to the Gods of Dental Things and accepted her puffy fate.

Though maybe the thought of left-over pain killers would be a better incentive.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Fried Green Randomness

I should be writing about one of those weird stories, one of those surreal moments that even when one looks back on them they are STILL utterly insane, slightly frightening (in the sense that you managed to leave through them) and completely weird. But- no stories today, kids. Just brief sum-ups and random things. Things that should scare away potential suitors, friends and pets.

I once drove home from a New Year's party so intoxicated I could not see farther than 3 feet from my bumper. I had abruptly decided to leave after seeing my boy-who-was-a-friend-with-an-exceptional-amount-of-benefits making out with two girls on the overstuffed, overpriced couch of the Maumelle Country Club house in which I was partying down. Mid-drink from the champagne bottle, I spied him-- tongue wrastling some 19-year-old hussy and groping under the skirt of some 21-year-old chinless slut. I was overcome with blinding jealousy, realized my jealousy was unfounded (which only angered me more) and then grabbed my then-roommate Kasi, fell into my SUV and drove the 23 miles home. Twenty of the said miles were spent no less than three feet from the tailgate of a 1998 Ford Ranger, who never once attempted to shake me from it's ass. I woke up the next morning, still drunk, grabbed Kasi out of bed and drove down Broadway to Back Yard Burger for breakfast. Drove home, still drunk, mind you- and fell asleep for 24 hours. To this day, Kasi and I have no idea how we managed to not become a New Years statistic.

I once dropped trou on a sidewalk in Spain because I had to pee. It was 3am. The natives got quite a show. I fell onto the sidewalk, thankfully avoiding my puddle. Obviously, I'd had too much to drink.

I do not eat the cup-o-ramen with the water in it, as the package indicates. I don't like it as a soup. I just like the noodles.

I cut my toenails to the quick <--- stems from years of pointe shoes. If you've ever thought about shoving your toes into an immobile wooden box and then standing on toes incased in said wooden box, then you understand how standing on toenails inside wooden box could be a tad uncomfortable. I can't give up this habit.

I rarely blow-dry my hair; hence the straggly, frizzy mess that normally inhabits the space around my head.

It takes a good fifteen minutes of constant tossing and turning to get comfortable for sleep and a good fifteen minutes of tossing and turning to fully wake up.

I have a tiny spot on the side of my nose from where the first nose ring left a small scar. Now I have a large red pimply looking spot on the side of my nose from where I ripped it out last Sunday by total and complete accident. I've been rubbing in Mederma to keep a heinous scar from forming. But I am still mourning the loss of my beautiful gold stud.

I'm not at all affectionate in public because I believe that some things should be kept private. Hand holding- check. Small cheek kisses- check. Exchanging spit- NO CHECK, DO NOT PROCEED, GO BACK TWO SPACES. I do however, harbor this secret side that desperately loves to (occasionally, not every single minute) touch and kiss and hug and hold. I would never admit to this side in a verbal exchange. I would DENY DENY DENY that my everyday demeanor is at all penetrable.

I never dreamed of what my wedding would look like, or what my bridesmaids would wear, or who would BE my bridesmaids or even the LOCATION of said wedding. I still don't. But I occasionally roll over in the morning and wish someone was there to smile at.

I don't particularly care for rocking chairs. (My legs don't touch the ground) I do, however, love gliders. I completed my transition into adulthood when I got a loveseat glider for my back porch. The back porch which is now decorated with begonias, salvia and mums. THIS is how I knew I was an adult. Having a back porch with flowers and a glider. By the way, this happened on Saturday.

I desperately want my cats to learn to walk on a leash. The Deceptively Cute One is accepting of the harness and not actively rejecting of the leash... But the idea of the harness + leash + walking is VERY BAD. The Fat One just gives me the finger when I suggest this.

I love that my mom is an artist and I love even more that she's a GREAT ONE and I wish she had more confidence in her work. As a whole, she completely amazes me. I love her more than I could ever explain.

I go to the dentist across town because he may possibly be the hottest dentist I've ever seen. And if someone is going to be digging around in my mouth, well, they might as well be hot.

I desperately lust after boys who will never look in my direction. Why? Well, we all have our theories. Some say it's because I avoid all commitment. Talk about marriage and you'll see a giant Birdie-sized hole in the door. I, however, think it's because that I refuse to settle and will eventually lust after a boy that lusts after me right back.

I don't like boys who talk excessively about their feelings. I don't talk excessively about MY feelings, so why do I want to hear about yours?? That's right, I DON'T. I don't necessarily want some grunting caveman but there SHOULD be enough cromagnon man left over to throw me against a wall and ravish me senseless. And then later tell me he loves me desperately and with great fervor, natch. :)

I love my friends.

It's impossible for me to be on time. I will forget about the conditioner I left in my hair and have to jump in the shower at the last minute to rinse, I will find it necessary to return library books RIGHT THEN, feed the cats THAT SECOND, mail that letter NOW, etc. Anything that needs doing will only be remembered at the last second and I will not be able to put off doing it, no matter how late it makes me. Thankfully, I have not been fired for this.

I don't exercise near as much as I should but I am basically healthy. I take my vitamins, watch my sugar, eat my whole foods, steam my veggies and bake my chicken.

I love giant earrings. Big dangly ones.

I have a mole between my toes.

I eat cold asparagus.

If I could be absolutely anything in the whole world, I would be a ballet dancer. Not just a ballet dancer, but a GREAT ballet dancer. I had a pretty decent amount of talent, a lot of grace and a lot of drive but I didn't have the genetics to go along with it. Even at my skinniest my boobs were disproportionately big and my ankles and knees were never strong enough to sustain years of destructive dancing. But how my body aches for it. Literally and mentally.

Tomatoes are disgusting.

I like lemon in my diet coke. But not the prepackaged Diet Coke with Lemon. THAT tastes like Triaminic.

I can remember what it was like to tap dance so fast it made my heart flutter with elation. That noise is the Ozzy to my Harriet. If there can be such a thing.

I like fall and spring the best.

I was afraid to learn to dive until I was forced to when I was 20 years old. I was a camp counselor and I taught swimming, among other things. In the days before the first session started, one of the girls took pity on me and spent 2 hours at the pool one evening convincing me to try it. I did, and got it right on the first try.

I'm hungry right now and resisting the urge to go buy the only available food in the building-- Vending Machine Crap.

I was Darth Vader for Halloween when I was five.

Friday, September 02, 2005

How An Alien Fetus Done Flew Out My Coochie, Finished

Wad of toilet paper in my hand, I mentally pleaded with my bladder to empty PRONTO while I began the high-pitched whine/scream that females can do when faced with an unknown stressor. We keep our mouths shut, scrunch our eyes tight and SCREAM with growing intensity until the stressor either a) goes away and you resume your normal activity or b) continues and the scream becomes a full-fledged, open-mouthed glass-shatterer.

Just as the urine came to a blessed stop, not even waiting for residual droplets, I sprang up only to have something brown and winged fly STRAIGHT BETWEEN MY THIGHS AND UP PAST MY NOSE, FLITTING AROUND MY HEAD BEFORE SHOOTING OUT THE OPEN BATHROOM WINDOW.

Naturally, my previous closed-mouth loud whine became a full on heart-stopping scream.
Ruby flung open the door in total concern while my two suitemates crawled over each other to get to the other door, flinging it open with such force I was sure the hinges would break.

The last of my scream had just died in my throat and the room took on the total silence normally only found within the depths of a closed and sealed casket.

"Whada fuckh is goin on?"

A very distinct, and very male voice asked from behind Ruby's shoulder. It was my roommate's random Drunk Friend, who'd happened to surreptitiously drop by while I was in the loo.

"Why've ya got no pants on, Birdie?"

At which point the only thing I could think to say was:

"An alien fetus FLEW OUT OF MY COOCHIE!"

Note: Pants still around ankles.

I could see Drunk Friend's eyes begin to focus on my nether regions and I hastily yanked up my slacks, covering the most notable areas.

"Ah say WHAT?" everyone asked in unison.


More casket silence.

Looks are exchanged between the Fanatical Suitemates, Ruby and Drunk Friend.

"You and Ruby been schmokin agin?" Drunk Friend asked.


At this point, I knew I sounded crazy. But the gut-clenching fear of the alien movie + weird attack to my ass/coochie area was JUST TOO MUCH.

"Um, why don't you come lay down for a second and I'll get you a drink."

Bless Ruby. She always did know just what to do.

And all I could do was be led to my bed, clutching my pants around my waist while turning to stare out the bathroom window, terrified that whatever had flown between my legs would come back and eat us all.

A very short time later, I did calm down and rationalize the situation. A general consensus was reached between Ruby, The Fanatical Suitemates and Drunk Friend that I had, in fact, sat on the toilet so fast that I had trapped a small moth in the bowl. Once I stood up, it made a mad dash for the only available exit, the window.

In my heart of hearts, I still maintain that I gave birth to an alien fetus.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

A Momentary Diversion From The Story

Before I continue with my story (and I do sincerely apologize for the cliffhanger-- I do most of my writing at work and I was running out of time to actually finish the things I get paid to do) I had to get out a bit of randomness:

1) This morning I had a doctor's appointment, one I'd been dreading for weeks. It was my yearly exam. You know. The special yearly WOMAN exam. But in addition to my very special spread-yer-legs-and-take-a-deep-breath exam, I had scheduled some blood work to be done. Most people seem to find it UNBEARABLY HARD to find one of my fucking veins so I naturally CRINGE at the thought of someone drawing a vial of blood. It's not that I'm terribly afraid of needles. Or blood. But if you've ever had multiple people DIG AT YOUR ARM for a fucking VEIN, then you know that the thought of some woman in pink scrubs with a big ol' needle and an even bigger empty vial (soon to be full of de blood) is NOT a sight one looks forward to. But today..... Oh my goodness, I'm getting teary. *swipes tear* Today... I met my soulmate. I have no idea what her name is but I swear to the GODS OF MEDICAL EMPLOYEES that I will send this woman a Christmas present because... well, here's the rundown:

Me: sitting in chair, having blood pressure taken.. pump pump pump squeeze.. releeeeeeeeeaaaase. pump pump pump squeeze... releeeeeeeeaaseee.

Nurse: "One-ten over seventy-two." Turns to write special medical runes on my chart.

Me: tapping foot, knowing what's coming. warily watching Nurse get rubber thing to tie around my arm. Nurse puts sqeegee ball in hand and tells me to squeeze it repeatedly. I do as asked. Start to hum to myself. Which I do when I'm nervous. Humming various Phantom of the Opera songs. la la la la la. Nurse takes cotton ball and swipes my inner arm with disinfectant liquid and I shudder involuntarily because I dread, absolutely DREAD what is coming. I can see the needle. The vial. I turn my head to the side to stare at the clock.

Nurse: "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

Me: Inhale large gulp of air. Can feel whole body being tense. Watching second hand on clock tick by. I figure Nurse is getting the vial thing attached to the needle thing. And then I feel a very slight pressure around my arm, the feeling you get when someone is gently pulling blood from your vein. I look over, and the needle is in and the VIAL IS HALFWAY FULL.
I stare amazedly at her while she fills the vial the rest o the way, gently pulls the needle out, puts a cotton ball over my arm and smacks on a bandaid.

Me: "You were unbelievably fantastic at that."

Nurse: "Thank you. You might as well do your job correctly if you're going to do it."


Nurse: "Thank you."

Nurse turns back around to scribble more medical runes on my chart as I sit with my painless arm resting on the table.

Me: "I hate to bother you again, but you can't be told often enough HOW WELL YOU DID THAT. Do you see the scars on my arm? Did you see? That's where people dig at me, DIG. You. Wow. You were fantastic."

Nurse: "Thanks." turns back to chart.


Do you know?? Do you KNOW how rare it is to find a perfect nurse? One who does not want to chitcat about my blood sugar level, or my thryoid test, one who doesn't pry into WHY I need these tests, one who can find a fucking vein and one who can deciper the medical runes on my chart! I LOVE HER!

2) After the festivities of my fun WOMAN exam, my doctor asked me a few questions once my feet had righted themselves on a perpendicular surface, as opposed to the fancy schmancy stirrups they'd previously occupied. No weird pains. No weird things coming out of areas that weird things have no business coming out of. Etc. And the last thing he says to me, as he's finishing up my chart:

"Do you have any prayer requests?"

Do I have any PRAYER requests? When has a doctor ever asked me for a PRAYER request? And so I was silent for a moment. And I thought. He may not be of the same religion or mindset or faith or ANYTHING that I am. But you know what? IT DOESN'T MATTER. This man in the span of TWO SECONDS reminded me what a giant selfish chick I can be. I spend more time thinking about my day-to-day bullshit than truly appreciating what I've got and giving THANKS for that.

So while he patiently waited for me to speak (which I appreciate in a person, the ability to let you think for a second before you act) I thought about all the things I wish I could change, all the people I wish I could help. I thought about the people scattered and trapped and scared and frightened in the wake of the hurricane. And it was honestly just so overwhelming, I didn't know how to phrase my request. I couldn't. So I moved closer to home. I asked him to pray for Becca's brother, who was injured overseas, his leg amputated before he'd even crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Because I can put a face to that request. There's a mother and father, sisters and brother, friends and neighbors, that I can put a face to, that I can picture in my head when I pray that they have peace and strength. And still part of me was embarrassed that I didn't have the ability to encompass everything I wanted to say, everything I hoped he'd pray for. People ask me to pray for things all the time, and I do. But never has anyone asked for something THEY can pray for, something they can add to their OWN daily burden. So, I have to say thank you to this man who reminded me how self centered I can be, how judgemental I can be and for setting the first GOOD EXAMPLE of a Person Of Faith that I can remember in a very long time.