About a week after I bought my new car, I was driving down the street minding my own damned business on my way to work when I felt something tickling the inside of my nose.
WTF is that?
It was immediately clear that it wasn't your standard run-of-the-mill booger.
And then it happened.
<PLOP> right down the front of my white shirt.
FUCK.
My nose is bleeding.
NOW what? I scrambled to the glove compartment knowing I wouldn't find the napkins that I hoped would somehow miraculously appear.
NOTHING.
The funny thing is, I could have cared less about getting blood on ME... JUST NOT MY NEW CAR.
It was then that I felt it.
In my pocket.
Thank GOD for Aunt Flo (believe me that is one of 3 times in my life that very thought came to pass.)
My saving grace.
A tampon.
Not wanting to roll into work with a shirt on that made it look like I wrestled a grizzly bear on my way in, I didn't even stop to think about it.
I unwrapped that rocket & launched it up my nose with such ease & precision you would've thought I worked for NASA. I didn't even have time to think about what I was doing. It was like some kind of animalistic survival instinct kicked in.
Ah. Disaster averted.
Not so quick.
As I neared work, the hot guy that works upstairs that I made an effort everyday to intentionally run into pulled up next to me.
GEEZUZ. I ducked & kind of hid my face but it was too late.
My dumbass had shown him my new red car, so I was tragically difficult to camouflage.
HOLY SHIT. Is this light broken? HURRY THE FUCK UP.
I saw something moving out of my left peripheral & there he was - waving at me.
FUCK IT.
I turned my head, tampon up my nose, string dangling precariously in the wind with blood on my shirt and waved back with a crazy-psycho look on my face as if to make a joke of the whole thing.
The look of fright & confusion on his face was priceless. And then the light turned green. I sped off & saw him still sitting there with a look of disbelief as I turned into work.
Of course my crush on him died that day, and nothing more was ever said about it. In fact, I rarely saw him after that.
Sometimes I reminisce about what might have been... had I not be forced to snort tampons on that sunny Tuesday morning.
Oh fucking hell. At least my car remained untarnished.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Restraining Order Spiders
Some people don't like snakes.
Some people don't like the dark.
Some people don't like spiders.
I am one of THOSE people.
Centipedes & spiders will send me running and screaming like there is an axe murderer on my ass.
There is a spider in my mailbox. As a result, my sally-ass refuses to get the mail in. Every time I gather up the balls to retrieve the mail, the spider is somewhere within and the mail ends up scattered across the lawn. Then it becomes a game of pick-up-sticks - poking & flipping each piece of mail with oven mitts on until each individual piece has been deemed safe.
Eff you junk mail. You make my life difficult.
Fucking spiders.
And its not just one. I don't think, anyway. In order for it to be just one spider, it would mean that the asshole would have to crawl all the way across the lawn from wherever I flung him and all the way up the wall & back into the mailbox to wait for me the next day. I shiver at this even being a possibility.
I instead, prefer to believe that the mailbox is just a preferred piece of real-estate, ready to be inhabited the moment it goes on the market and spiders are clamoring for a piece of some of my mailbox action.
Maybe the mailman watches this fiasco from afar and delivers me a new spider daily. I rule out nothing.
Today is my birthday, and it rained today. I'm not in the mood to go through the entire ordeal and get the cards wet in the process.
I've tried RAID, and everything else I can imagine. I have even mastered a "flip & peek" maneuver, but I am a chicken shit - because inevitably I know there is one in there lurking - stalking me. I wish I could get a restraining order on spiders, because this is harassment.
I guess I'll have to wait for my mail.
You live to die another day spider.
People with apartment building style indoor mailboxes have no idea just how good they have it.
This post is dedicated to Kim DeCoste. It was NOT done on my laptop, so I am NOT responsible for any lack of amusement within.
Some people don't like the dark.
Some people don't like spiders.
I am one of THOSE people.
Centipedes & spiders will send me running and screaming like there is an axe murderer on my ass.
There is a spider in my mailbox. As a result, my sally-ass refuses to get the mail in. Every time I gather up the balls to retrieve the mail, the spider is somewhere within and the mail ends up scattered across the lawn. Then it becomes a game of pick-up-sticks - poking & flipping each piece of mail with oven mitts on until each individual piece has been deemed safe.
Eff you junk mail. You make my life difficult.
Fucking spiders.
And its not just one. I don't think, anyway. In order for it to be just one spider, it would mean that the asshole would have to crawl all the way across the lawn from wherever I flung him and all the way up the wall & back into the mailbox to wait for me the next day. I shiver at this even being a possibility.
I instead, prefer to believe that the mailbox is just a preferred piece of real-estate, ready to be inhabited the moment it goes on the market and spiders are clamoring for a piece of some of my mailbox action.
Maybe the mailman watches this fiasco from afar and delivers me a new spider daily. I rule out nothing.
Today is my birthday, and it rained today. I'm not in the mood to go through the entire ordeal and get the cards wet in the process.
I've tried RAID, and everything else I can imagine. I have even mastered a "flip & peek" maneuver, but I am a chicken shit - because inevitably I know there is one in there lurking - stalking me. I wish I could get a restraining order on spiders, because this is harassment.
I guess I'll have to wait for my mail.
You live to die another day spider.
People with apartment building style indoor mailboxes have no idea just how good they have it.
This post is dedicated to Kim DeCoste. It was NOT done on my laptop, so I am NOT responsible for any lack of amusement within.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Carpet surfing cat
The other day I was shootin' the shit with a few co-workers when the topic of pets came up. So I decided to explain to them how lately my cat has been doing that weird "ass-drag" with back feet in the air thing on the carpet and its driving me mad. One of my co-workers looked at me with a perfectly straight face and said "It's asshole probably itches."
No shit. You don't say?
But since I already blew money taking my breathing ball of fur to the vet only to find out he didn't have worms, I needed to find a way to keep my cat from giving me an artificially plaid carpet.
The co-worker continued, "Its not his fault, its not like it has hands to scratch."
Again. You don't say, Einstein. Your insight is Earth-shattering.
So I turned to them and said "WTF am I supposed to do? Manually scratch his asshole for him in order for him to not use the carpet as an ass-scratcher?"
Their response? "Depends how far you're willing to go, & how nice your carpet is."
I'm sorry but there is no carpet in the world that would make me pick up my cat after a fresh shit and digitally scratch his asshole. NONE. ANYWHERE.
Because the second I turn around if i didn't get the right spot you know that little shit is gonna be sliding across the carpet. And as long as it took to get him to know that is a no-no, he's now hiding to do it so now I imagine invisible shit streaks everywhere. For a germaphobe, it makes life hell.
Fuck my life, my cat, and the imaginary shit stains everywhere.
No shit. You don't say?
But since I already blew money taking my breathing ball of fur to the vet only to find out he didn't have worms, I needed to find a way to keep my cat from giving me an artificially plaid carpet.
The co-worker continued, "Its not his fault, its not like it has hands to scratch."
Again. You don't say, Einstein. Your insight is Earth-shattering.
So I turned to them and said "WTF am I supposed to do? Manually scratch his asshole for him in order for him to not use the carpet as an ass-scratcher?"
Their response? "Depends how far you're willing to go, & how nice your carpet is."
I'm sorry but there is no carpet in the world that would make me pick up my cat after a fresh shit and digitally scratch his asshole. NONE. ANYWHERE.
Because the second I turn around if i didn't get the right spot you know that little shit is gonna be sliding across the carpet. And as long as it took to get him to know that is a no-no, he's now hiding to do it so now I imagine invisible shit streaks everywhere. For a germaphobe, it makes life hell.
Fuck my life, my cat, and the imaginary shit stains everywhere.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Genius of a New Generation...
So Tuesday morning, I had a bad case of dragonass. (dragging ass... for those with difficulty reading between lines, appropriate for this post). After slumbering my way through 2 briefings in the morning, I had just finished my lunchtime smoky treat and was mentally preparing for a hectic afternoon. After playing elevator roulette for about 5 minutes, I finally boarded - prepared to "ascend into greatness." Gag me with a fucking spoon.
As we stopped on the 2nd floor, a woman and her infant in a stroller entered the elevator. Kids freak me out when they are young, if you can't tell what sex they are. Makes me all kinds of uncomfortable when I ask "How old is she?" (because it has a shitload of hair for a baby), only to be corrected that it is - in fact a boy. So I appreciate beyond explanation when people dress them in sex appropriate clothing. That way, if I get it wrong - it's their fault anyway.
Again - I digress...
As they entered & maneuvered around to face the front, I looked down to see 5 letters ironed on his shirt. You know, the homemade looking ones that came before airbrushing and tend to look crooked and easily peel. The little t-shirt was blue (Thank GOD!) and said B-R-O-C-K. I could tell by the fresh ironing job, that it was pretty safe to assume it wasn't a hand-me-down. So I smiled and said politely to the mother in as congenial a manner as I could muster, "Brock - that's a cute name."
Right about that time the elevator arrived on her floor and she began to disembark. She looked down at him, then up at me with a smile as she began to exit and said "Yeah, I named him after the president. Obviously."
Thank God the doors closed sooner than later because I could not contain the holy dumbass look on my face.
Named after the president. Obviously.
As we stopped on the 2nd floor, a woman and her infant in a stroller entered the elevator. Kids freak me out when they are young, if you can't tell what sex they are. Makes me all kinds of uncomfortable when I ask "How old is she?" (because it has a shitload of hair for a baby), only to be corrected that it is - in fact a boy. So I appreciate beyond explanation when people dress them in sex appropriate clothing. That way, if I get it wrong - it's their fault anyway.
Again - I digress...
As they entered & maneuvered around to face the front, I looked down to see 5 letters ironed on his shirt. You know, the homemade looking ones that came before airbrushing and tend to look crooked and easily peel. The little t-shirt was blue (Thank GOD!) and said B-R-O-C-K. I could tell by the fresh ironing job, that it was pretty safe to assume it wasn't a hand-me-down. So I smiled and said politely to the mother in as congenial a manner as I could muster, "Brock - that's a cute name."
Right about that time the elevator arrived on her floor and she began to disembark. She looked down at him, then up at me with a smile as she began to exit and said "Yeah, I named him after the president. Obviously."
Thank God the doors closed sooner than later because I could not contain the holy dumbass look on my face.
Named after the president. Obviously.
Angry Birds - Bathroom Edition
So... yesterday afternoon I went to the ladies room in the office, which is a standard bathroom with 2 sinks & 3 stalls.
I'm going to digress on this next part, but for PETE'S SAKE... How do you people use those paper toilet liner thingys? Perhaps they should offer a course, because I have yet to properly master the art of
1) not ripping the damn thing.
2) achieving the quick sit before the fucker falls in the toilet.
At any rate, after finally achieving moderate success on the 4th try, I was going about my business. I HAD thought I was alone in the bathroom - I'm not one of those feet peekers. Much to my astonishment midstream I hear the sound effects for Angry Birds coming from the far stall (I was in the nearest). It scared the bejeezuz out of me and instantly sent me upside down like a possum (while still seated) to get a good look at the shoes of the lazy bitch who is chillin' in the bathroom playing Angry Birds.
Either I was making too much ruckus with the liners to hear at first, or she thought she'd go into ninja-stealth mode & I would go away quickly. Her unlucky day I guess, as it took me quite awhile before I could even take a seat. Either way, at some point she said 'Fuck it', and continued on with her game.
After burning the image of the shoes into my head, I took my time, thinking - surely she is about to exit and I didn't want it to be an uncomfortable experience for both of us as I had just totally busted her playing Angry Birds on the shitter. BUT THEN... she started a new game!
WHO DOES THAT?
I had several issues with this.
#1) Angry Birds is so 2011.
#2) WTF? No wonder no work gets done in this shithole.
#3) WHO SITS IN THE OFFICE BATHROOM & PLAYS ANGRY BIRDS?
I'm going to digress on this next part, but for PETE'S SAKE... How do you people use those paper toilet liner thingys? Perhaps they should offer a course, because I have yet to properly master the art of
1) not ripping the damn thing.
2) achieving the quick sit before the fucker falls in the toilet.
At any rate, after finally achieving moderate success on the 4th try, I was going about my business. I HAD thought I was alone in the bathroom - I'm not one of those feet peekers. Much to my astonishment midstream I hear the sound effects for Angry Birds coming from the far stall (I was in the nearest). It scared the bejeezuz out of me and instantly sent me upside down like a possum (while still seated) to get a good look at the shoes of the lazy bitch who is chillin' in the bathroom playing Angry Birds.
Either I was making too much ruckus with the liners to hear at first, or she thought she'd go into ninja-stealth mode & I would go away quickly. Her unlucky day I guess, as it took me quite awhile before I could even take a seat. Either way, at some point she said 'Fuck it', and continued on with her game.
After burning the image of the shoes into my head, I took my time, thinking - surely she is about to exit and I didn't want it to be an uncomfortable experience for both of us as I had just totally busted her playing Angry Birds on the shitter. BUT THEN... she started a new game!
So then I washed my hands without delay & GTFO... certain I would soon solve the mystery of the nutjob playing Angry Birds in the bathroom stall. I decided to inconspicuously find something to do near the exit & hover until she emerged, but after another 5-10 minutes passed, I started to look stupid and went back to work. Yet my resolve to solve this mystery was as resolute as ever.
I must have done 50 laps around the building all afternoon staring at people's feet trying to find the nutty bitty playing Angry Birds. I got a lot of exercise, a few weird looks, and very little work done and when I left at the end of the day I was convinced she was STILL in the bathroom... playing Angry Birds. I get it - work grinds to a slow crawl on Friday afternoons, but REALLY? A part of me wanted to go tell her it was 5 o'clock & she could go home now, but internally I was truly frightened at the possibility she would actually still be there.
I had several issues with this.
#1) Angry Birds is so 2011.
#2) WTF? No wonder no work gets done in this shithole.
#3) WHO SITS IN THE OFFICE BATHROOM & PLAYS ANGRY BIRDS?
Either way, I will never forget those shoes. And I'll be watching.
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