The Few Readers I Have Left Will Now Abandon Me

There is something so disgusting, so foul SO UTTERLY DISTURBING on my person that I almost contemplated not sharing it. But I share everything else, to the point that it makes me uncomfortable. With the exception of the truly introspective pieces that I leave to Brittany-- her sweetness and affirmativeness and introspectiveness is stomachable and lovable because I know her and love her but rest assured if I didn’t know her I’d think those musings unbearably sappy and I’d want to send that person an internet smackupsidethehead so they could shutthehellup about it already. Lovey-ness has always made me uncomfortable and it is only tolerated in the ones that I love because I know I need that perspective to give depth to my callous ways. And yet STILL I share vastly inappropriate pieces of information. And share. And share. Perhaps I have displaced my dependency on the nicotine with the dependency on the internet sharing. Hoping that someday, someone, somewhere will start a world-wide coalition to ban me from all societies of internet bloggers because I JUST SHARE TOO GODAMN MUCH.

It started with a wee bump on the side of my moderately delicate second toe, the one that is longer than my Big Toe. I add this in because I hear it indicates riches and whatnot and if for some reason I was supposed to be on the Second Toe Is Longer Than Big Toe list and was, in fact, accidentally left off, then I can certainly do my absolute best to notify The Powers That Be of their oversight.

The wee little bump was beside the nail, a minor mystery in my world, one that necessitated an action of absolutely nothing because LET’S BE HONEST it was just a wee little bump.

But then the wee little bump became two, then three little bumps. And they kind of banded together to show a united front blossoming out from the side of my toe, nestling alongside my to-the-quick short nail. At this point I pointed it out to my doctor during one of my visits back when I sick for about 17 weeks in a row. His response?

“Looks like athlete’s foot bumps.”

He recommended getting an athlete foot spray- even after I informed him that I’d HAD athlete’s foot in the past (oh yes, let you’re gagging begin- but it was back in the day of four hour dance rehearsals and mass changing rooms so IT WAS SO NOT MY FAULT) and whatever this was, these little obnoxious bumps growing slowly and steadily, were definitely not a side-effect of athlete’s foot.

So I went home and did nothing.

Naturally.

About a month later I noticed four more wee bumps on the pad of my toe, these being separate from the mother ship and obviously making a go of it on their own. I’m happy to report that the little offshoots must have found conditions to their liking because though they didn’t sprout off any more wee little bumps, they CERTAINLY GREW IN SIZE to the tune of me being quite concerned about the utter scariness happening on this one square centimeter of my body.

So I decided to be proactive and telephoned my mother, the one who so blithely informed me last year that my super delicate pinkie toe pain was due to inappropriate shoes and a disposition to the cringe inducing word of CORNS. So obviously her weird foot thing knowledge was going to be vast.

Her Words of Wisdom indicated that I may have something more revolting than CORNS.

WARTS.

OH MY GOD JUST TYPING THAT WORD OUT MAKES THE BILE RISE IN THE BACK OF MY THROAT AND PLAY TAG WITH MY TONSILS.

So I dutifully schlepped to the nearest Kroger to buy some *gag* wart remover. I settled on the kind that comes in liquid form that you paint on twice a day. Because I wasn’t paying $25 for the freeze off thingamabob and I knew the chances of those little bandaid things staying on were, um, NONE. So paint-on remover it was.

The first couple of days nothing much happened. I followed the instructions to wash and dry my feet before applying the mixture twice daily. I waited until it formed a weird shell-like coating on my toe before putting my socks on. I did this for a week and a half* before I noticed on Saturday that something sinister was definitely afoot.

*The box said to apply for up to twelve weeks and hopefully after reading the next few paragraphs you’ll understand why I find that UTTERLY FRIGHTENING.

My Saturday was spent out at the 4-H center working for the nursery I normally work for on Sundays. Some kind of Holy Spirit Lord of the Rings and All Else That Is Holy Retreat Weekend. Not that I’m being sarcastic, I really do think it’s great that people are religious. I’m only being wanky because I had to take care of their kids from 9am-5pm in a wide open room with a non-working TV, three basketballs and a puzzle. Trust me when I tell you that this DOES NOT entertain seventeen kids between the ages of 7months to 15years AT ALL.

After coming home I took off my shoes to, well, be at home. I don’t wear shoes in the house. Not out of some idea that my house must remain clean, more because I don’t like shoes and I know who’s stepped on my floor. So I sat on my bed and tucked my feet under my knees to converse with the kittycats because Mommy had had a long day and wanted to curl up and look at cute furry faces and wet noses. But when I moved my feet over the sheets, something felt notquiteright. Something was catching on the sheets. And it was bordering on being OH SO uncomfortable.

Upon further inspection I found that the offending object that was catching on my sheets was MY TOE. Specifically, THE SKIN ON MY TOE.

The skin had actually started to SLOUGH OFF where I’d placed that day’s application of *gag* wart remover liquid.

I sat on my bed, toe in lap, fixated with what was happening to my now VERY DELICATE second toe. The skin OH THE SKIN was COMING OFF and WHAT WAS I TO DO.

Well, pull it off, of course. Can’t have that shit just hanging about like that.

So I removed it.

And I almost threw up in the process from both the pain and the sheer disgusting-ness of it.

And then I stared at it in total fixation. Who knew that’s what your foot looks like under the skin?

And then I almost threw up again.

And then I had to go to work Sunday morning in flip flops, raggedy toe hanging out covered in faux Neosporin.

And then the girls in the nursery made gagging noises until one of them had the presence of mind to bring out the first aid kit and force a handful of bandaids in my direction.

And then every single 2-year-old wanted to play with my boo-boo toe, which prompted me to hide it from the vicious mongrels by sitting in the corner cradling my foot in lap.

Just like the chickens, I DO NOT JUDGE YOU FOR NEVER RETURNING TO VISIT ME AGAIN.

A Gold Star For Anarchy

Today I have had three cans of Diet Dr. Pepper, four cups of coffee, a Michelina’s Lean Gourmet (shrimp with angel hair pasta) and a small bag of Munchies- Cheddar! mix.

So it should come as no great to surprise to you that I can’t focus on any one thing for longer than .486 seconds, seeing as how my liquid caffeine consumption has OUTWEIGHED my food consumption in mass and volume.

It’s a bit like being drunk, only the really bad drunk when you can’t focus and you really really want to focus and you already have the beginnings of your hangover headache and for the life of your pet cats you just CAN’T FIGURE OUT why you want to curl up in a dusty, unused corner and sleep it off.  Onlookers be damned.   

This is how I feel today.  After my excessive caffeine ingestion.  I also want a cookie.  Or maybe a piece of chocolate cake.  The good kind with the buttercream frosting made by a fat lady who fucking knows what buttercream is made out of – BUTTER AND FUCKING CREAM.  It is not made with splenda and it sure as hell doesn’t get apple sauce as a substitute for oil or faux milk carton eggs as a substitute for eggs that got pushed out of a chicken’s pooper hole.  Not that I’m sure eggs come out of the pooper hole.  But it must be in the nearby vicinity.  Perhaps I should beef up on my chicken anatomy.  Do they have two excrement holes? One for the poop and one for the pee? One that accepts that gentle prodding protuberance from the rooster cat?  Surely not.  Chickens seem like such efficient little animals.  Even if they regularly walk around in their own poo and eat their young.  But maybe that’s turtles or something that eat their young.  I know if my young came in a hard shell format and I had to sit on those fuckers for days, weeks, months on end I’d probably eat one, too. 

I don’t judge the chickens. 

I have to pee for like the eightieth time today.  I should not have had that last can.  It’s just that I was bored and I still had a bunch of ice left in my cup.  It’s the finisher complex.  I can’t buy packs of gum because I will eat them all in one sitting.  Not all at once like a hamster, but sometimes two to three pieces.  I chew until the flavor goes away and then I replace it with a fresh and tasty piece.  AND GOD HELP ALL CREATURES if I buy Tic Tacs.  Gone in fifteen minutes, tops.  I have to finish them.  I have to complete the project of breath freshening. 

GOOD GOD MY BLADDER MAY EXPLODE.

But I just went like 15 minutes ago so I’m waiting for the rest to process so I don’t have to get up in another fifteen minutes because I’m lazy and I think I have an old lady corn on my delicate pinkie toe and it hurts when air touches it. 

Oh, and that cute little Sasha girl at the Olympics got a silver- god job little Sasha girl! You beat out that evil Russian named something like Slutsville (so yeah, I’m like the bazillionth person to make fun of her name BUT I HAD MANY PEOPLE MAKE FUN OF MY NAME when I was growing up so she should take it like a man.  How’s the Bat Cave, Robin? How’s your nest of eggs, Robin? Are you rockin, Robin? SHUT UP. It’s not original, loser. And neither am I by giving Irina a dirty last name but IT’S JUST SO DAMN EASY holy crap my bladder I may die). So yeah she’s Russian and it’s still the Cold War and wah wah wah.  But God Bless Their Vodka.

Today Is Like A Urinary Tract Infection

I am, for all intensive purposes, a giant blathering pussy.

Which is better than a crusty wank but worse than an ill-fitting asshat.

A phone call this afternoon from The Big Boss confirmed my suspicions that the world at large does in fact know that I FUCKING HATE MY JOB AS AN ASSWIPING SPECIALIST.

But instead of being a self righteous gonad or even the aforementioned crusty wank he was nice.

Just. Plain. Nice.

GAH.

Now I have to be mature and shit. Suck up my bad attitude. Plaster the smile back on. ALL BECAUSE HE WAS FUCKING NICE.

Dammit.

These Are The Days Of Our Lives And I Bet Marlana Got Brainwashed Again

Today I have received no less than five comments regarding the fact that I am inappropriately garbed for the apparently vicious weather raging outside.   All comments stemming from the fact that I wasn’t wearing a coat and for that matter, have worn a coat only once this year. 

 

To which I say – ARE YOU MY MOTHER? NO? SHUT THE FUCK UP.

 

I like wearing neither shoes nor coats, the latter being bulky and cumbersome and an article of clothing that WILL make you look like a bloated version of that marshmallow thing from Ghostbusters.  However, most places of business have that pesky rule about No Shoes No Shirt No Service so shoes are a necessity even though you’re guaranteed to get a blister or corn or weird foot smell from what will inevitably be the prettiest pair in your closet.  But there are no such rules regarding coat usage so I say to you again, the person(s) who make it a point in their Very Busy Day to point out my non-coat-ness:

 

ARE YOU MY MOTHER? NO? SHUT THE FUCK UP.

 

Besides, it’s not even that cold outside.  When the temperature hovers at 38-39 for a daily high, it does not give you license to refer to it as ‘bone cold.’ That temperature is regarded as Chilly But Definitely Bearable.  You want to talk about bone cold go build yourself and igloo in whatever that territory is in northern Canada.  Or try and excavate some of that tar sand crap and extract the oil out of it using the heat from your very own breath.  Then we’ll talk about fucking bone deep cold BUT UNTIL THEN you may cease talking.

 

And I’ve totally just had a douchebag moment because I can’t for the life of me remember what they call their little sectioned off areas.  Alberta? Check. Quebec? Check. Is it a state? A territory? A province? It’s like the banality of my job has sucked dry the once bountiful store of useless knowledge buried within the confines of my head, eh?

 

PRETEND THERE IS A TRANSITION HERE

 

So I’m quite looking forward to the evening I have planned with myself.  First on the list is a bottle of orange juice so that I may mix the gallon and half of vodka that’s been chilling in my freezer for countless months.  Not the whole gallon and a half.  Probably just like a cup.  But I’m excited about getting to open up the new kind I bought with the purple label because I am total suckered in by things that are new! and have snazzy labels.  YOUR MARKETING STRATEGY HAS WORKED, MY FRIEND.

 

Though I kind of take that back.  If the marketing strategy had worked I’d remember the NAME of the vodka and not the color of the label. 

 

Upon further review I retract my kudos given to the marketing team of the vodka bottle residing in my freezer with the purple label. 

 

Along with the vodka drinking I’m going to be celebrating the release of season one of Grey’s Anatomy on DVD.  Last night I called the video store on my way home and made sure they had a copy before I got out of my car in the rain.  They did and I was very happy and I didn’t mind getting out in the rain so much.  Light at the end of the tunnel and all that shit.  Bleh bleh bleh.  

 

ANOTHER TRANSITION GOES HERE

 

Today on my lunchbreak I was surrounded by idiots who personalized their license plates to the tune of the following:

 

The tan Yukon with the plate: NPULSV

*soooo are you advertising your impulsive nature in regards to jumping in the sack with random males? The fact that you run up charges on your credit card due to impulse buys of a Gucci nature? What? BE MORE SPECIFIC.  Because left to my own devices I will just mock you incessantly.

 

The gold Buick with the plate: RPM 70

*seriously? This is what you want to put on your BUICK? Are you referring to the rotations per minute completed by your tires because in THAT CASE I would agree with you.  Your tires probably complete a full circle seventy times a minutes, making your approximate fucking speed somewhere around 2.4 MPH.  Thanks, Grandma

 

The white Corolla in the Target parking lot with the plate: CAT TALK

* yes. This is egg-zactly what you want to advertise TO THE WORLD on the back of your car.  I couldn’t have guessed how deep the river of your cat-love ran because I totally didn’t see those I LOVE MY CAT and I’M PROUD TO BE OWNED BY MY CAT stickers on your back window.  I bet you get laid all the time.

The Nexium Isn't Working Yet, So I Can Effectively Blame All Hate Crimes On My Stomach Pain

 

1. Banana clips are not making a comeback.  Sorry.
2. Do not ask questions during a meeting FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF ASKING A QUESTION. It wastes seconds of my life and please, when I cut you off every time you open your vast oral cavity which emits a carrion-screeching-bird-like voice LEARN FROM YOUR MISTAKES.  I will continue to cut you off and stare you down UNTIL YOU LEARN.
3.  If you’re too vapid to remember what happened in LAST WEEK’S meeting, then SHUT YOUR TRAP and keep your talking hands TO YOURSELF.
4. Do not rehash what I, or anyone else, just said.  Everyone else understood it.  SHUT. UP.
5. We sit in chairs that come attached with their VERY OWN armrests.  Do not lean sideways and REST ON MINE. 
6. We gave you the least important, least involved and least annoying (or so we thought) position in the presentation.  DO NOT pretend like it’s the most crucial portion.  DO NOT ask us to review your notes for the bazillionth time. DO NOT. DO NOT. DO NOT.

 

On a slightly different but always related note, I still hate my job. 

My stomach is still tearing through what little gastric lining is left and preparing to munch on my colon because I’m still at a loss of how I’m going to accomplish quitting my job, going to summer school sans reliable income and healthcare and hoping like a fat kid hopes his momma baked him some cookies for an after school snack that I get in to the program come August.

 

Also, some under-educated overall-wearing buddha-belly sporting ASS SECRETION decided to chainsaw something very important from 6:50am until 7:45am, when I finally gave up the ruse of sleeping and made some coffee.

 

Now, sometimes things just need chainsawing. 

 

Offending trees.

Winter firewood.

Hanging branches.

Live power lines.

Small woodland creatures.

 

BUT TO DO SO in what is effectively the WEE HOURS OF MORNING is just uncalled for.

 

Also, you need a bigger overall size.  Your hip fat was hanging out you ball-less twat.

 

 

SWF seeks a work environment where The Phone is not surgically implanted in my skull.

I need some suggestions.

As previously stated, there's a strong chance I won't get in to radiology school because of those pesky prerequisites.

I'm in a weird work position- my company was dissolved, leaving me in a transitionary stage with another company that took over the responsibility of it's employees. And yes, I'm tempting the hands of fate with this post because I don't necessarily want to get dooced but I can't say I'd just shed a whole bucket of tears if they fired me because of my website. I'd make a button and wear it everyday so people could know how dagnabit cool I am.

Aforementioned transition is how I became an Ass Wiping Specialist.

Which is why I stand at the coffee pot and absorb the blessed silence, away from the idiots of the world who INCESSANTLY CALL MY PHONE.

I turned down two job offers because I was OBVIOUSLY HIT IN THE HEAD WITH A BLUNT OBJECT and thought it would be good and trustworthy and loyal and shit of me to stick out the transition.

Oh, how I was mistaken.

So now, here are my skills:

Writing - I love it, just not sure if I want to make a career in it again. I used to work for local new stations and write newscasts. Fun times- just lots of death and destruction.

Post-production - I can budget and post produce a mean Volvo radio spot. With Benjamin Bratt*, no less.

*I rode the elevator with him when he came to do his voiceover in New York. I almost fainted he was so yummily scented and delicious looking. He asked me how I was doing. I grunted. Obviously I lost about a bazillion cool points for that episode of COMPLETE UNCOOLNESS.

Automotive dealership - I can smile at customers, tell them about throttle bodies and oxygen sensors and file a warranty claim.

Automotive finance - I can approve a contract, check for errors, chit chat with dealers and be generally unobtrusive.

I can make simple power point presentations.

I can work alone and without the micromanaging interference of superior monkeys.

I can work in conjunction with the micromanaging interference of superior monkeys.

I can make simple non-linear edits on FinalCutPro and AVID.

I can bullshit people into thinking I'm smarter than I really am.

I fail to color coordinate my shoes. <-- not necessarily a skill, but it definitely livens up office decor.

I like puppies but not dogs, stacks of post it notes and long walks on the beach with my laptop.

HELP. ME.

I'm willing to go back to school- but not for a masters in rhetoric and writing which sounds like oodles of fun but guarantees NADA in the job department. I'd just be 40 grand in debt working a less-than-30k-a-year job with a really snazzy degree.

HELP. ME.

I am SO having a mid-twenties life crisis.

What's really funny is that I totally just burped on the phone while leaving a message for a customer.

Ayudame, por favor.

Yesterday I used the day I had taken off work to get one of those nifty tube cameras shoved down my throat while heavily sedated (thank you Mr. Valium and Mrs. Demerol) to attend my advising session for the school I want to attend in the fall. According to the ever-so-knowledgeable nurses I would be coherent and talking within an hour of the surgery, giving me plenty of time to be driven home, dress to impress, and be driven to my advising session.

The driving portion was accomplished by none other that my mother, who decided that having a camera shoved down one's throat was a terribly risky procedure and getting a little prick on my arm with a needle full of sedatives was just too dangerous to fathom. Which meant she immediately "volunteered" herself to drive up from Texas to sit in a freezing cold waiting room for close to three hours.

Because a high tolerance for sedatives runs in the family (thanks, Dad) I was extremely conscious for the procedure and was none too pleased with having a plastic coated camera shoved over my tongue and down into my gastro cavity. The nurses were astounded when I immediately started talking as soon as the gag-inducing device was removed- and talking IN COMPLETE WHOLE SENTENCES, MAKING COMPLETE WHOLE SENSE-- and promptly wheeled me into the recovery room where they ordered me to lay down for 45 minutes for "observation."

After about 15 minutes and after I'd asked for something to drink about a half dozen times, they finally acquiesced and provided me with a cup of lukewarm apple juice. Which was delicious seeing as I hadn't ingested sustenance in liquid or solid form since 7pm the night before.

Five minutes later, after a conference behind a curtain (I COULD STILL HEAR YOU, IDIOTS) they agreed to let me go early, seeing as how my vital signs were stellar and my ability to walk, talk and be a crankypants bitch had been proven many times over.

So my mother dutifully signed me out of the clinic and immediately drove me through Wendy's where I inhaled a spicy chicken sandwich, lettuce only, in about 2.5 seconds. And then gulped down a 20oz Aquafina in half that.

After my stomach had been righted to the proper balance of Full, I smoothed out my hair as best as possible, put on some makeup and hopped back in the car to be chauffeured to my advising session. (Pesky nurse rules. If my mother hadn't overheard them telling me not to drive all day I could totally have convinced her it was totally okay for me to drive.)

I walked into the room 15 minutes early, sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and began to review the handy dandy little packet someone had so conveniently left for us hopeful students to review.

Then we watched a 30 minutes film.

THEN we had a speaker who informed us of the following:

Over 200 people have applied for this program.
Only 22 will be accepted.
Yes, only TWENTY TWO PEOPLE OUT OF TWO HUNDRED.
*suddenly I was unable to breathe

We were called, one by one, into our personal advising sessions where I was informed of the following:

My college algebra is over 7 years old, I have to retake it
I need not only Anatomy and Physiology with a lab, I need Anatomy and Physiology ONE AND TWO with labs.
I have no proof that I took a computer course in college (my degree being so advanced in the use of computers, no beginning class was required. THIS IS WHY IT SAYS MY MAJOR WAS TELECOMMUNICATIONS- did you think I graduated unable to use a COMPUTER??) So guess what else I need to take?
That's right- A BEGINNING COMPUTER LITERACY COURSE.

Oh, and I was INFORMED that though my transfer GPA was stellar, because I have four, count them FOUR classes I need before I can start in August, it is unlikely I'll get accepted. I may, MAY, get a provisional acceptance. Or I may get alternate status.

So here's the thing: I don't mind taking these extra classes. I'll smile when I give my two weeks to attend Summer 1 and Summer 2. I WILL SMILE, I TELL YOU. But to say I may not be accepted?? That my chances are so slim??

I THINK MY HEART ACTUALLY STOPPED BEATING FOR AN ENTIRE MINUTE.

I can't do this. I can't be in this job, work in this company, smile at these idiots. I can't do it. The only thing that keeps me sane is the fact that I'M LEAVING. I have to. I have no choice. Staying here, in this job, with these people IS NOT AN OPTION.

It's just NOT.

Every time I get up for coffee I pray that the pot will be empty.

Giving me reason to stand, silently and without need for conversation, for three and a half minutes.

Midol Ain't Got Nothing On This

Turns out Matteo was less inclined to turn down free punani than I thought, no matter how much he may have wanted to defend my honor.

After a tearful two-hour long phone conversation- Matteo, apologizing for being such a blatant heterosexual and me, accusing him of being a disloyal and opportunistic legless amphibian- I hung up the phone with a two ton brick residing in my lower intestinal track.

Not only had The Notsoex NOT learned her lesson, Justin Bloober never displayed any outward signs of jealousy AND MY BESTEST FRIEND NUZZLED WITH THAT HEINOUS COW OF A GIRL.

And so I went to college that next year. Where I learned all about karma.

AND SUDDENLY ALL BECAME CLEAR.

Fucking life lessons.

Hot Shots, Part Deux (featuring a post-Heidi but pre-Denise Charlie Sheen)

Personally, I love learning valuable life lessons.

Though, if I'm honest, I'll admit to you that at THE TIME of the aforementioned incident I was not aware that a life lesson was, in fact, being learned. I was merely overcome with the kind of blinding anger that makes you think (if you're female) that maybe that Bobbit guy really did have it coming.

Because hacking off human appendages is a totally acceptable manner in which one may channel their anger. Totally.

So, getting back to the actual story, I was only able to bask in the glow of my revenge for a grand total of two days. But back in high school two days was like 4.7565 months. You could wow your friends with your long-standing relationship of two weeks because IN THE WORLD THAT IS HIGH SCHOOL two weeks was like an unfathomable eon-ic amount of time. So two days... well. That was a long time in which to bask.

But at the end of day two I was informed of some very unfortunate circumstances. Though 'informed' may be the wrong word choice. Witness, maybe. Yes, we'll go with witness. Because it definitely happened within my field of vision. But it was transmitted into my brain via a fax transmission from the Powers That Be with the glaring RE: line first gaining my attention:

RE: Your revenge has backfired you ignorant pissant

Because there in the Burger King, a moderately popular hangout simply because the land that is Small Town America is populated with generic eating establishments rife with possibility for the teenage adventurer, WAS THAT BLAZING HUSSY OF A NOTSOEX GIRLFRIEND AND MY BEST FRIEND MATTEO, NUZZLING LIKE DEER IN MATING SEASON.