The iPant...caffeine for your butt?

Some people might mock me for reading Cosmo magazine, but you know what, you really can learn some interesting things in there.  Of course, a lot of it is total crap, but today I came across something that could be the answer to my prayers and every woman I know.  It's called iPant Anti-Cellulite Shapewear.  This product looks like Spanx, but get this, upon reading the fine print, this underwear doesn't just suck your fat in, it actually claims to have "embedded  microcapsules containing caffeine to promote fat destruction; vitamin E to prevent the effects of aging; ceramides to restore and maintain the skin's smoothness; and retinol and aloe vera to moisturize and increase the firmness of the skin."  Are you freaking kidding me?  My ass and thighs are going to be so happy and energized, I won't be able to keep still!  I'm thinking I am  going to go buy a whole bunch of them and make a body suit.  I could literally be MELTING the fat away by wearing this stuff!  Of course the girl in the picture doesn't need the iPant, she is a freaking size 2....but wait, maybe she used to look just like me. Maybe the iPant SAVED HER LIFE.  And damn if her thighs don't look smooth.

I looked the product up online and for just $60.00 and 100 washes the aloe vera stays right in the shapewear. This is amazing!  And, if someone gets hurt, you can just rub your ass on them and the aloe vera can actually save someone else's life.  I mean, it doesn't say that, but I can only imagine a product as amazing as this must have super powers. And another great thing is they actually have one that has gel in the tush so that you get that shape you want after these panties have diminished your ass to almost NOTHING.

I do have concerns about something that is getting my ass hopped up on caffeine. I mean, it's never been jittery or excitable before.  Is it going to be like I have ants in the pants?  It says  the darn thing shapes and sculpts and releases ingredients as you walk around.  Am I going to feel like I just crapped my pants?  Are my pants going to fit in the morning, but by afternoon just fall off?  Do I need to bring a change of clothes? And, if I don't make it into a body suit, will I have a fat belly, but a tiny ass and thighs?

In the end, no pun intended, I don't know if I am ready for something that is allegedly "releasing" things into my butt and thighs as I navigate through daily life.  I might wait on this. If any of you try this out, let me know how that goes and if your butt and thighs really are lively and young looking after the fact.

Thanks for this informative advertising, Cosmo. Maybe tomorrow I will get to the article titled "What your Va-jay-jay is dying to tell you."  I had no idea my va-jay-jay was trying to communicate....geez, and I always thought I was  good listener. Go figure.

Olive Garden ruins romance with all you can eat pasta

Will and I's anniversary is coming up, which isn't really a big deal, we don't get all crazy about it.  Don't get me wrong, we still love each other and actually still like each other, but then, it's only been 4 years, or it will be this Labor Day weekend.  We saw a commercial on TV last night that brought all the memories back from our very first anniversary.  It was an Olive Garden commercial talking about "All You Can Eat Pasta."  Let me  tell you how Olive Garden ruined my very special, first wedding anniversary.

We couldn't afford to do anything very extravagant due to life's events that depleted our money supply, but we could afford to go to Olive Garden with our good friends Chuck and Pete and their little boy, our adopted nephew, Brett.  I knew immediately upon reading the menu that my anniversary was sunk.  They were advertising all you can eat pasta.  I could see the sparkle in his eye...I wasn't having sex tonight, this I knew with certainty.  Will ate his pasta dish and then the waitress, his enabler, came over and asked him if he would like to try this other kind of pasta, after all it was free.  Will could not resist free and it was yummy. As predicted, he patted his belly, clearly in agony and groaned.  He had maxed out the stomach area.

We headed out to the parking lot to bid our friends adieu as they needed to go to a meeting.  I said, "why don't you let me watch Brett for you while you go to your meeting."  They declined saying that they could not do that to us on our first anniversary together.  I assured them the following was about to occur.  We would arrive home. Will would get in his pj's, turn on the TV and shortly thereafter be asleep.  This was how it would play out, I was certain. Reluctantly, Chuck and Pete agreed to let me watch Brett.  And yes, I said "me" watch Brett because Will was not part of the equation, he had digesting to do.

Brett was very happy to be at our house because, at 3 years old, his favorite thing to do at Auntie Cassondra's was to pile all of my stuffed ponies (which, my collection is large and plentiful, so it is A LOT of stuffed ponies) and pillows in the front room and strip down naked in the middle of them and watch TV.  He, too, was predictable on this night.  The ponies were piled high, his clothes came off and he was asking for "hi-cream" aka ice cream.  I realized two things.  First, this was the only naked man I was going to see on this special one year anniversary.  Second, I really would like to try laying naked in those stuffed ponies and eat ice cream.  It really did look like a good time.  However, this was not something I wanted to do with Brett, that would be pervy.  But someday, Will is going to come home and find me naked in the ponies. Timing is everything.

So, I guess what I am saying is, we are NOT going to Olive Garden for our four year anniversary.  I saw Will's face light up last night when he saw that commercial.  I'm saying no to pasta coma and yes to romantic evening, even if it means starving him and breaking out the stuffed ponies. 

This could be TMI...

I think my insides have formed "An Extraordinary League of Organs" and are getting ready to tunnel out through the back.  I've had this stabbing pain for a few days and I think what is happening is that my body is calling bullshit on the amount of cellulite that has come to settle in these vast lands.  I picture angry villagers with their torches and spears.  They are in The Core and they are headed to the Open Range where stretch marks and stressed out skin play.  Not even my FCD (fat controlling device) can harness the rage.  I think the gall bladder is spear heading this expedition and getting everyone else pissed off.  My body has collected enough money to hire Billy the Spleen and the charge is on.  I truly am afraid I will be sitting at work and I am going to explode like a watermelon that has a stick of dynamite in it.  I'll be like ol faithful, and everything will just shoot out at high velocity.

I'm not saying it will happen, but I'm saying the chances are good.  I try not to be a hypochondriac but the signs are there.  To any of my co-workers, I wouldn't be wearing silk or any other delicate fabrics if you are going to be around me in the next week or so. Just to be safe.  Will says I over dramatize these things, but I think it is best to be prepared for worst case scenario, don't you?

Or, do you ever see those little key chains at the party store or any random souvenir shop where it is a cute little animal, but you squish it and either the eyes pop out or some sort of gross poop bubble comes out of it's butt?  Well, let's just say, no one should hug me very hard this week due to the impending geyser that is expected to come out of my back.

Consider this your warning.  To those of you expecting more of me this evening, it's all I have. I can't focus with my organs in distress.

Chicken sh*t, Angry Pony & Lucky Cat

Today as I drove to work, I passed a dead black cat on the road and then right after that passed the pasture that has a colossal pile of chicken shit in it.  It was glorious, steam coming off, stench so bad you could taste it, and then, just two driveways past,  there was Angry Pony's pasture.  That poor little pony was going to have to smell that all day.  Not a good day for Angry Pony. The only good news is, he wouldn't be able to smell the dead cat.

As luck would have it my day would mirror that of Angry Pony. Nonstop shit all day. When you work in a company that has done a lot of down-sizing, you become like the Lone Ranger, The last of the Mohicans, like a one-legged dog guiding a blind guy through the Iron Man competition, like a kindergarten teacher with 200 kids.  I mean, we are talking broken crayon chaos, paste eating out of control, kids crapping their pants and people have been on recess for hours.  The principal is eating Raisinettes and drinking a Slurpee for lunch. It's ugly.  I am one person, I keep reminding myself of this and try and remain calm, but then things like a fax machine with an attitude can just break you.

Since it would seem other departments think I have nothing but time on my hands and because people trying to get a job at my company can't take their lazy asses down to Kinko's or maybe even the local AM/PM to send a fax, they dump this responsibility on me.  Anything over like, say, two pages and my fax machine acts like a woman with PMS on the edge of a bridge waving a Ho-Ho in one hand and an empty Midol bottle in the other demanding someone extract her uterus and give her some ice cream (ok, so that was me and it was just one time and it was a long time ago...ok, not really, but it makes for a good story, I think...and it could happen), but I digress.  Anyway, aforementioned loser left documents for me to fax, like, probably 15 pages. My fax machine almost crapped its pants.  I cussed at it, it jammed, I cleared the jam and then it kept taking two pages at a time.  I was borderline hysterical and the intern says, "oh, you are not letting that fax machine break you are you?"  She said it in a compassionate way, but I had to admit, she had a point, that machine was breaking me.  It was 4:30PM.  I had reached my threshold for BS, dare I say, I had surpassed it. The machine did it again. I was almost crying.  I eyed the area under my desk and wondered if I could hide under there and consider it a test of the Evacuation Warden to test the area to see if it could fit a hysterical fat girl under there.  Who could question my commitment to safety?  However, I remained strong and kept at the fax machine. It continued to toy with me.  I wrinkled the pages, I threw them down, organized them and tried again. Fail. I started mumbling and did a laugh/cry combo.  The intern tried to comfort me, but I was too far gone.  The intern sent a secret SOS to one of the managers and said goodnight and slipped out before all hell broke loose. God must have known my next stop was the roof because suddenly the fax went through. There was a calm in the building, a miracle had occurred.

I'm gathering my belongings to go home when one of our managers comes over and asks me about some headsets I'm supposed to be ordering.  Now, I don't know anything about these damn headsets and I am supposed to get them ordered ASAP.  No one can give me definitive info on them, but I am supposed to order them and get the best price. Why don't I just order some parts for a Boeing 747?  Seriously sick of the whole, "we got rid of the person that used to do this....so could you do it?" mentality.  But this is my life.  I lectured aforementioned manager about what I knew about the damn headsets and that yes, I would order something.  I hope when they come they have those styro-foam balls on them on those bendy squiggly spiral wires that people wear for Halloween.  That'll teach them.

Finally, I escape the building.  I'm driving home and finally get close to home. As I approach Angry Pony's field, I think "that poor bastard had to smell shit all day and I had to deal with it all day, we are cosmically connected." The air still reeked of chicken shit.  And then I came to the dead cat.  He was just dead this morning, but now his intestines where stretched for quite some distance.  I thought about my day, thought about Angry Pony and then I thought....lucky cat.

How much naked is too much naked?

When we are growing up, we run around naked and never think much of it. My brother and I took baths together when we were little kids, like one or two years old.  I remember him farting in the tub thinking it was the funnest thing ever.  Gross. We didn't bathe together much after that. Then, as we got older, we ran around in our underwear and pjs, whatever.  Enter the teen years and things get a little more covered up as our bodies get weird.

Fast forward to adult life. There comes a time when naked is good and naked is bad.  I remember the day I brought Will home to meet my family for the first time when we were dating.  My sister was in a string bikini that left very little to the imagination.  Add into the mix the fact that she had an episode of Queer as Folk on the TV (with a pretty racy scene happening) and Will was thinking, "wow, liberal family..."  It was a lot of naked at once. 

I remember Will's parents coming over to stay with us when we were living together.  Our good dog Chip jumped in bed to say good morning, as excited as a wiener dog could be, and pee'd all over my future mother-in-law from head to toe, literally.  She whipped off her night shirt as soon as she realized she was pee soaked (complete with pee in her hair) and boom, naked.  This is too much naked.  My future father-in-law was not to be left out.  I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and there, with the door wide open illuminated in the bathroom under the glow of the night light with his "loosey looms" (the opposite of tighty whities) around his ankles, was my father-in-law.  I gave the courtesy, "woops, sorry" and returned to my bedroom...lying there wondering if peeing the bed was really that bad.  This is also too much naked.

I also enjoyed the time when Will's whole family was staying with us in our tiny house on the weekend of our wedding.  A dog fight broke out at the crack of dawn and Will jumped out of bed running down the hall putting his boxers on as he ran.  For Will's sister, who was coming out of the guest room, this was way too much naked.

My favorite naked moment was when we heard possums screwing and fighting loudly on our garage roof at 2AM.  Will in the backyard naked with his Daisy Red Ryder shooting possums was like Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves...he was magnificent under the full moon light. I've never been more proud...and I've never laughed so hard.  This is why I married this guy.  Perhaps for our neighbors, this was too much naked.

My sister has also learned to knock before she enters our house.  A couple of very close calls with Will making his way from bathroom to upstairs after shower, or "chillin" on the couch. I think my sister lives a little more cautiously ever since she ran across my brother in the driveway late at night sitting in his truck...waiving her by with a naked arm out of the window....apparently he had a visitor.  My sister still can't talk about that night without shuddering.

I guess what really has me thinking about all this nakedness is the events of the weekend. The in laws were visiting.  We live in a tiny house/cabin.  No privacy except the bathroom as the bedroom/loft is open.  My Mother-in-law came upstairs at 6:30AM to climb into bed with Will and I.  She realized upon coming upstairs that this was not really going to work since Will sleeps naked.  This is too much naked.  I draw the line about being in bed with my husband and mother-in-law while any one or all of us could be naked. 

Then, it happened, the perfect storm to be repeated once again.  I couldn't find my glasses, was looking high and low, and I thought, maybe I left them in the bathroom.  The door was not latched and I opened it.  There sat my father-in-law, all vulnerable reading what very well could have been my Glamour or Cosmo. I didn't stop to take note of what he was reading, but the bathroom really doesn't have many options in there.  If Will is  going to learn anything about women, this is what I have to do.  He spends a lot of time in there, so might as well get something out of it, I figure.  Anyway, once again, too much naked.

In conclusion, naked husband = right amount of naked.  Naked siblings or in-laws = WRONG amount of naked.

Barbie vs. Cassondra

While driving home tonight, sitting at a stop light fighting the seat belt because it is completely crushing my right boob and then bypassing my big gut that can only be likened to a 8 month maternity bump, I see this woman jogging.  Let's call her "Barbie."  She's jogging, her perfect ponytail bouncing side to side gleefully as she jogs with her cute spandex shorts, sports bra, perky boobs and sassy Sketcher Shape Ups.  I instantly hate her and everything she stands for.  She looks perfect.  I bet she is on her evening jog and is heading home to her perfect house to her husband, Ken, and their two kids, Skipper and Theodore and their dog Sir Kensington. 

Barbie probably got up this morning, before the alarm clock went off, sat right up with only slightly mussed up hair and put on her workout clothes.  She did Zumba with all her girlfriends, then some hot yoga.  She came home, showered, picked something, probably Ann Taylor, out of her walk-in closet in a size two and got ready for the day.  She probably took Sir Kensington for a walk and then took Skipper and Theodore to school. Barbie listens to talk radio to keep up on the hot topics while she drives.
Skipper has cheer-leading practice tonight and Theodore needs to work on his science project.  They are good kids. She will pick them up later. Ken probably got up and went to work early.  He's a rocket scientist and it's going to be a long day for him, he is the lead scientist at his lab.  Mid-day Barbie talks to the housekeeper, Betty, and works out a shopping list. She stops and catches her reflection in the fridge door, damn, she looks good. Then the gardner, Hector, shows up and Barbie and Hector get busy in the bungalow by the pool.  Barbie takes another shower and goes for her jog.  That's when I spot her.

If we parallel this to my life, here is how my day goes:

My alarm goes off.  I hit the snooze. It goes off again, I hit it again.  Then I lay there and listen to the Jackie & Bender show.  The discussion turns to someone sucking some sort of puss out of someone else's toe. It's riveting. I make an attempt to sit up and fail. I do some sort of maneuver that looks similar to a fish trying to flip itself back into a lake after getting on the shore by accident.  I shuffle downstairs.  My hair looks like I was on an all night bender.  I shower and go to the closet my clothes are crammed into along with Will's.  I go through several items before I find the outfit that makes me look the least fat. I kick the dogs outside to go to the bathroom and feed the horses.  I leave for work later than I want.  I stop for a hot chocolate, nonetheless. I drive to work where I glare at everyone on the way to my desk. You have to get the vibe out that you want to be left alone from the start.  Don't chat with me, I'm busy.  At lunch, I go the microwave and stand in line like a lemming to warm my left over spagetti.  I catch my reflection in the napkin dispenser. Damn, when did my hair start to look like that? Rough. I return to my desk. At some point I will have an outburst or a breakdown, but overall, I survive and no hostages taken, so the day is a success.  Then, I go sit in rush hour traffic. Traffic sucks and I identify all the stupid people and cuss at them, it passes the time.  I get home to my loving dogs who's biggest accomplishment was licking their ass, getting into the garbage and chewing on any shoes that may have been left out in error.  Spanky comes and licks me in the face with breath that smells like the ass of something dead.  He runs his tongue up my nose and across my lips. It's the most action I've seen all day.  If Will gets home first, he tries to kiss me first so that he doesn't get sloppy seconds. 

The night is almost at it's climax as we discuss what will be for dinner, "what do you want for dinner?"  "I don't care, what do you want?" And so it goes.  Then comes the discussion about whether it's gonna be the Military channel or So You Think You Can Dance.  It's a stalemate, so we end up watching Bones or NCIS.  Inevitably Will falls asleep on the couch since his alarm goes off at 3 freaking 30 AM in the morning.

All in all considered, I didn't diddle with anyone in the bungalow, I don't have a housekeeper or a gardner, but I think I will keep my life.  I wouldn't mind having Barbie's boobs though.

Safety Committee. You got the wrong girl.

Each day at the 'ol factory brings me more joy.  Today I learned there was a safety committee meeting, oh and guess, what? I'm on it.  Funny, I don't recall volunteering for this.  All of us that found ourselves in the same situation gathered in the elevator on the way to the meeting and agreed, no one asks questions. We're in, we're out, we don't have time for this. First one to break the pact gets a broken arm.  All in favor? Motion passed.

My favorite part of the meeting was the first part where they read off a statement that says something to the effect "Everyone has voluntarily agreed to the commitment of being on the safety committee and is acknowledging they are agreeing to do this.  If anyone is not able to fulfill this, speak now.  Well, I'm honest, I raised my hand.  My boss was sitting across the room from me. He looked at me, unamused by my gesture.  I put my hand back down.  Looks like I'm on the committee.  I guess I know who volunteered me.

We start to discuss our responsibilities.  Apparently I am some sort of Evacuation Warden, or something like that.  Basically, I, along with other key committee members are responsible for everyone getting out of the building if there is actually an emergency.  Like, I am supposed to stay behind until the building is clear.  Whoa.  I love some of my co-workers, but it is every man for themselves, I'm not dying for you.  I'm no hero. If things go bad, I'm bigger and meaner and chances are, I will knock you down and use you as a bridge to get out.  And, I'm not wearing that damn orange vest and hard hat.  I don't have time, I gotta get my keys and run like hell.

Then we start talking about all the different kinds of disasters that could happen; fire, flood, earthquake, tornado, hurricane, gas leaks, chemical hazards, etc. The packet mentions how we need to identify where the fire is coming from and what kind of fire it is.  This is what the little fire alarm pully thing is for and then the hot guys in the rubber boots and suspenders show up.  They are the experts.  I don't ask the firemen to do my expense reports, and they don't ask me to drive their firetruck. You know what I mean?  The material also covers identifying gases.  Look, I'm no chemist, but if everyone around me starts dropping dead mysteriously, I'll throw a chair through the window to get some fresh air...unless that turns out to be a bad idea because the the air and gas mix and causes an explosion.  If that happens, I'm going to be in trouble because, after all, I'm the Evacuation Warden and I need to make sure people get out safe in just this type of emergency.  If I'm dead, I can't do that.  We are also supposed to stay away from the windows in certain scenarios.  I work in a freaking glass building.  Where am I supposed to go? The bathroom?  Hell no. The bathroom is a hazard of it's own on any normal day, I'm not dying in there or waiting for someone to find me. No. Way.  How I feel about that bathroom could be it's own blog, but I digress.

We also covered the part about suspicious packages.  I don't care if it is a bag of dog crap someone set on fire at the front door, I'm out of there.  We don't know what that dog ate, let's not underestimate the power of feces.  Again, color my ass GONE.  And ticking packages?  Are you kidding me.  If the gals in the mail room deliver me a package that is ticking, then they damn well better take responsibility.  I'm not sticking around. Evacuate!   If someone calls to do a bomb threat, we are supposed to ask the person a series of questions, like, "where is the bomb? when will it go off? what is your name? what is your address? what does the bomb look like?"  No.  When my obit is written after I get my dumb ass blown up it will probably say, "If only she had evacuated with everyone else..."  And then people will say, "That girl was stupid, why didn't she run?"  Well, I'm not that stupid.  Some might say that is selfish, but hey, I'm more than willing to scream like a mad woman as I leave so that everyone knows this place is about to blow.

Now, for those catastrophes that happen outside that create a need for us to stay in the building we have "Shelter in Place."  I don't know if I have been clear, but I don't want to die in that building.  So, if it is like a toxic gas that will maybe just cause one lung to collapse and maybe my skin burns a little, I'm outty.

The meeting concluded with a mini tour of our basement.  I've never been down there, but heard rumors that sometimes people go down there to have sex.  Well, unsolved mystery - solved. NO ONE is having sex in that basement.  It's so dirty down there the rats don't even do it there.  There was rat crap everywhere.  I could smell the urine and I knew we were not alone...beady eyes were lurking.  I think I have Rat Fever now. My nose has been twitching and I have had a strange urge to scurry along the walls all afternoon.  It was horrifying down there.

Let me tell you the situations I WOULD be willing to sacrifice myself for the sake of all others.  If, say, I am sitting at my desk and some hot guy pretending to be a  window washer rappels down at my window wearing tight jeans and no shirt...and also happens to be carrying a firearm, I would totally be willing to pull him in and interrogate him until I got to the bottom of his issues.  I don't know what I could do for my company that would be more important than that.

So, for anyone that I work with that reads this, I don't want you to think I don't care about your safety, because I do, I just care about my own more.

Now, if they let me work the mega phone, I'm totally in.  I'll even wear the vest.

No such thing as free...

Today Will called to tell me exciting news.  A woman he met had three miniature horses to give away.  A stallion and two mares.  He was telling me how beautiful the stallion was and they were the perfect price, they were FREE!  The woman was excited to hear I was a horse person already, why, Will and I would be the perfect home for her horses.  I told Will we had a bad connection and that he was breaking up....in fact I was going to hang up because the connection was so bad.

You see, the thing about "free" horses is that they are not truly free.  They may be mini horses, but their feed bill is not free, their vet bills and farrier bills are not free either.  In fact, the farrier may charge us extra for him to roll out one of those rolling things mechanics use to work under trucks.  I'm certain of it. Mini horses crap too.  We are still going to have to clean up after them.  And where in the hell am I going to put them?  I can't put them out with the big horses.  I can't have my mini stallion dry humping the big horses knees when he wants action.  Maybe I could give them open range in the yard with the wiener dogs.  I envision that Jack-in-the-box commercial where they were singing the mini sirloin burger song and the mini cowboys were on the mini horses herding mini cattle. "Yippe yi ya...mini sirloin burgers..."

Then I got to thinking, we already live in a little house, we have mini wiener dogs, now mini horses?  It isn't like we are the keebler elves.  We are big people, what the heck are we doing with little animals that just make us look bigger?  What's next? A smart car?  A moped? Why don't I run down and buy some "fun size" candy bars, Barbie's dream house and maybe a mini sirloin burger at Jack-in-the-Box?  I don't want our farm to look like an episode of Gulliver's Travels, or like King Kong taking to the big city.

NO. MINIATURE. HORSES...

...But if I did, I would name the stallion Mini-Ha-Ha, and his mares Spirit and Littlefoot.  I would pet them and comb their manes and bring them in the house and I would love them and care for them and they would be the cutest miniature horses....EVER.  Crap. I just named them. I'm sunk.

Dammit, Will.

Nothing good comes from starting your day with Peter Cottontail

I woke up this morning pissed off at Peter Cottontail.  It appears I was having quite a dream about how I was responsible for delivering all the Easter eggs and I couldn't because Peter Cottontail took them.  I was visibly shaken by the dream.  I believe it was this anger that led to the hair temper tantrum that led to the burn from the curling iron on my left hand.  Time to CALM DOWN.

The thing about being calm and being in the work place at the same time is, it doesn't happen.  Today was pizza day.  Pizza day means I get to order pizza for 160+ people.  I hate ordering pizza.  I hate being the pizza police. I hate hearing, "when is the next round of pizza coming? I didn't get any." "I think we should order more, this isn't enough..." "This isn't fair, why is the pizza on the 5th floor when some of us are on the 4th floor?"  God forbid you march your lazy ass up the stairs and get yourself some pizza.  Consider it a cardio opportunity.  Or, screw cardio and take the damn elevator.  It's free food. SHUT. UP. I was so irritated I screwed up on the pizza guys tip each trip he made (I realized my mad math skillz on his last trip).  He's just an innocent bystander, this is B.S.  He probably won't be able to afford his new game controller as a result. I am a horrible person.


I check my voice mail and Larry the Copy guy leaves me a message stating that he doesn't really understand what the problem was with the copier.  The ticket mentions something about humming, but he feels I need to be more specific.  I call Larry.  I'm already irritated, just fix the damn machine, you are the freakin expert.  Larry says, and I quote, "You know why the machine hums, right?"  I say no, thinking he is serious and I am about to tell him I am not the one that has a PhD in copier maintenance. He says, "because it doesn't know the words."  Dead silence.  I'm not in the mood for this.  I say, "ba-dump-bump (like a drum hit). You are hilarious Larry." I was informed by Larry that sometimes the machines just do that.  Well my machine was clearly in agony, but whatever Larry says, he's the comedic genius behind copier repair. How do I get hired on at his company?

I go to our "prize room" (a locked closet with all our cool give-a-ways and random stuff).  The key won't open the door.  I tried every thing I could think of, I jiggled it, I pulled the door tight, I pushed on it.  Nothing.  I call the maintenance guy.  He walks over and asks me if I am using the right key.  No genius, I have been using the wrong key, do you think that is the problem?  He tries my key, it doesn't work. He puts his master key in and it opens.  He then looks at me as if I am the stupidest person alive.  I told him, "I may be blonde, but I'm not that blonde and I'm not the only one that had problems with that key."  He seemed skeptical. He then used my key and locked and unlocked it with success.  Stupid key. He explains he doesn't know how it happened, or why it happened.  Somewhere, he is telling someone how stupid some blonde girl was at work today. Dirtbag.

Then I get an email from someone from another one of our offices in another state asking me to take care of some things for her.  I'm sorry, my name tag doesn't say, "Looking for things to do."  Instead, I let my face reveal the true situation which is, "if you give me one more damn thing to do, I'm jumping."

Finally, the day takes a turn where I am able to give someone else the "are you a dumb-ass?" stare. To protect the innocent, I will refer to this person as "Professor Toner."  Professor Toner comes over and says, "hey, that toner you ordered me isn't the right one.  It doesn't work."  We discuss that it has to be the right one based on what I ordered, but I give him the benefit of the doubt.  I say, are you sure you have it in there right?  He says yes, but I see doubt in his eyes.  Professor Toner then goes and asks his good friend "Smarty Pants" to help him.  Professor says, "I have it in the hole, but I don't know if it's in right and I don't want to just ram the thing in there."  Smarty Pants is almost beside himself because his mind is inherently dirty and he instantly goes to the gutter with poor Professor's description.  Smarty Pants gets the toner cartridge in there easily and leaves the Professor feeling like his pants have been pulled down in front of the gym class.

I'm exhausted.  I'm sick of pizza. I'm sick of maintenance people telling me they don't know why stuff happens. And tomorrow is Root Beer Float Day.  I can't win here. Maybe tonight I will dream about Santa ripping off my presents so I can't make Christmas happen.

Who ever got ab's in just 7 minutes a day?

Not a lot of exciting things happen on a Sunday, for me.  It's usually, laundry, errands, grocery store, etc. and if we are lucky, some sort of relaxation or entertainment.  Today we hauled two loads of hay and then spent some time cleaning out the barn.  This is neither relaxing nor entertaining...unless you are going through your husband's old VHS movie collection. That is entertaining.  Most of it was the normal stuff from the 80's, but when I found the 7 minute ab workout by Sheena Easton, I had concerns.  Will says it was from an ex-girlfriend.  A plausible explanation. The video tape about sewing, another alleged ex-girlfriend keepsake, I suppose.  The country line dancing box set, ok, that was a craze for a while.  The movie Mannequin...the lead guy in that movie always gave me the creeps.  Will wasn't sure he wanted to get rid of all this prize VHS history, but with my "encouragement" I helped him become ok with it. We ended up freeing ourselves from VHS and that gave us time to move on to the box of beanie babies he had saved.  I can't really criticize the beanie babies, I guess, since I am the owner of about 10 boxes of stuffed ponies.  No one touches the ponies. They are mine. This is non-negotiable.

As we were leaving for the dump, truck full, small trailer loaded behind, Will notices our cat, Trouble, launching herself from the trailer.  That's right, the cat was trailer trash.  I'm assuming she wasn't suicidal since she jumped out while we were moving slow, but had she waited much longer, that could have gotten ugly.  Brings a whole new meaning to "sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug."  Can you imagine driving down the road and then, splat, cat on your windshield?  Graphic.  It's only funny now because no harm was done, I don't actually wish horrific death on the cat.  Put the phone down, do not call animal control.

As the afternoon winds down, I have to say, the cat thing was the most exciting thing that happened all day.  And I don't think we can count my temper tantrum in the barn when I threatened to rip off all my clothes and go naked because I was sick and tired of my jeans sliding down my butt and dragging my underwear down with them, thusly causing me to have to pull both items of clothing up all day. 

Anyway, the whole point is, Sheena Easton didn't give anyone abs in 7 minutes a day, the cat lived and I didn't go around naked all day.  I mean, you can't clean the barn naked, who does that?  Will and I clearly have a few things to learn about living life to the fullest.  Maybe next weekend.

More body observations...

You know how when you have a jar or container of something gel like, say ketchup, and it falls over on it's side and all the ketchup then settles on that side?  Well, all this free living without the FCD has got me noticing that my stomach is bigger on the right side than it is on the left.  I've been pondering this phenomenon and have come up with the following possibilities.

First, it is possible that because I mostly sleep on my right side that everything has migrated, like ketchup.  The problem is, how do I fix it?  When I stand up, it doesn't seem to correct itself.  With a ketchup bottle, you just smack the bottle, or if it is a soft squeeze one, you smack it on a counter or shake and squeeze the stuff out.  I don't really want anyone smacking me around, so that isn't going to work.  Maybe i need to build some sort of harness and sleep hanging from my right side so that all my organs are forced to either hang on, or make the trip back over. Kind of like Cirq du Solei (sp) therapy.

The second theory is that it could be some sort of organ party going on down there.  Like the intestines said, "hey, let's head over to the gall bladder! She just ate a bunch of ice cream and you know how the gall bladder hates dairy, there could be a surplus just sitting there."  And then the intestines and some of their friends came over and they are like, "crap, now we're all tangled up and can't get home."  If this is the scenario, I think surgery is the only option.

I do have other things that are bigger on the right than on the left, like my boobs and my feet, but I think that is pretty normal.  My concern is that all this lop-sidedness could cause some sort of walking problem, like now it constantly looks like the wind is pushing at me when I walk.  I'll have to get a cane to keep myself from falling over. Pretty soon, hunchback will set in and I will have this weird urge to ring church bells.  I'm kind of worried about it.

To anyone who might have stumbled upon this blog and read "Boob-do" and now this, you may be thinking "This chick sounds hideous."  I just want to clarify, it isn't like I have a googley eye, hairy moles, a beard, 4 inch arms and a peg leg.  I mean, on a scale ranging from Circus Freak to America's Next Top Model, I like to think I fall somewhere in the middle.

Anyway, that concludes the body observation portion of my day.

Boob-do

Do you ever look at your belly and say to yourself, "when the hell did that happen?"  When did I get a case of "Boob-do?"  Boob-do is when your belly sticks out further than your boobs do.  (For men, it's called "Dick-do.")

Today, I was feeling reckless and did something scandalous, I got dressed without my FCD - Fat Controlling Device.  I mean, it doesn't turn me into America's Next Top Model, but it does smooth it down so I go from roly Michelin man to round Stay Puff Marshmallow man.  But today I wore a top that didn't require such restriction, so with no cares, I went spandex free.  This is what leads me to my introductory question.  I kept getting glimpses of my unharnessed belly and I thought, "when exactly did this get so out of hand?"  I'll sit up straighter, I thought.  Nope, it's still there.  I'll suck it in, I thought...I said, I'll suck it in....crap, I'm sucking in and nothing is happening.  I mean, my pancreas might have twitched, but there was no outer sign that any sucking in was occurring.  I let my air out.  Then I stood there and let it all go and pooched it out and petted it like I was 16 months pregnant.  I think I need to do something about this Boob-do problem.  I have also noticed that when I lay down at night, my boobs head east and west and all I see is the belly if I look down.

I think I will take action, but it is going to have to wait a day or so, because my boss left me a bag of those mini chocolate donettes on my desk.  I can't let them go to waste. Well, then it's the weekend...by Monday, for sure, that's when I will really get on the wagon.

Open Items for Wednesday

First, I'd like to thank my dogs for abiding by the pet & pet owner co-habitation contract and peeing outside on command and without need for spray bottle or spurs.

Second, to all of you that were disappointed my hair extensions did not make a debut today, I apologize.  I will try and work up the courage to wear them tomorrow.  I looked like Lindsay Lohan during a mug shot. It was unpleasant and I had concerns.  I promise, tomorrow, no matter how bad I look, I will make it a point to brave it for you.  Because amusing you is apparently my job, somehow.

Next, I'd like to talk about Safeway and their clear discrimination against people that are running late and need a sandwich.  Specifically, I'd like to address their sandwich that they sell for $2.49 (plus tax) that is located in the convenience case close to the front doors.  While I appreciate you went to all that work to cut the bread and throw a slice of ham, a slice of turkey, one tomato slice and a haggard piece of lettuce on there, I think I deserve more, like, say...a condiment. I'm lucky I didn't get your three inch think french bread lodged in my esophagus, while choking it down dry.  Just because I am running late doesn't mean I'm a bad person. It doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good sandwich. It's not like I am rummaging in the dumpster behind McDonald's.  I came into your store with minimal expectations and you couldn't even rise to those standards. Safeway, you suck.  And, I couldn't go to Jack in the Box because I wasn't having a good hair day.  THEY have standards.  I guess I have to pack a jar of mayo in my purse to survive these rugged times.

Now, I'd like to talk about mens fashion.  I think we are all agreed, that for women, a muffin top is not appealing and while some display it with some sort of pride that even The Lion King can't equal, it is wrong. For men, you really have a problem if you are rocking a keg or even a six pack hanging low.  You either put your pants under the belly or you brave it and go over the belly and rock it like a Weeble-Wobble.  Whatever your choice, I respect that.  I draw the line at what I saw today.  A mens pant should not have a waistband that doubles as an empir (sp? empire) waistline.  If your pants are so far up that the zipper is almost rubbing on your pecks and forcing your "buddies" up inside you, this is not healthy.  I don't care if you are wearing underpants so massive that you don't get a wedgie, this is not okay.  My only request if you are going to low-ride under the keg is, make sure the belly is covered.  I don't want to see your hairy bellybutton. Ever.

In administrative news, I'd like to claim an Epic Fail today.  I just want to say, that had I known I was supposed to check the voice mail belonging to someone very important to my employment, starting back in April, I surely would have done that. However, I did take an hour out of my day today to listen to all those messages and some of them seemed pretty important.  On the upside, I bet all those problems have resolved themselves by now, so, am I really a bad admin or am I a problem solving genius? I don't think I need to tell you which way I'm leaning here.

I think that covers it. 

Wiener Dog Rodeo

Will and I do not have children, we instead have three mini wiener dogs.  Chip is Will's dog, Lilly was supposed to be my dog, but instead ended up the dreaded middle child, and then there is Spanky, the baby,the perfect dog, my dog.

This morning I shuffled down the steps and asked the dogs to go outside.  Usually, all you have to say is, "outside" and they eagerly run out the door.  This morning, Chip begrudgingly went outside, but then refused to leave the porch. I told him to "GO" which also usually works wonders.  He got to the bottom of the steps and stared at me indicating he was not going to move any further.  I finally threatened enough that he made it mid yard and that is where the show-down occurred.  He just stared at me as if to say, "F. You."  I told him to "GO!" and he just looked at me.  If he could have extended his middle finger, he would have.  I think I actually saw his mouth move, I think he was cussing under his breath, but his eyes, his beady eyes told the real story.  He was challenging me to make him pee. I could have squeezed him like a tube of toothpaste, but I didn't.  A breeze kicked up, I stood my ground, he stood his...a tumble weed rolled by and you could just hear the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly playing in the background.  Not needing this much drama, I proceeded to the barn, fed the horses and returned to find him at the door to the house waiting to get in.  That little bastard.  He didn't pee.  I got to the door and told him, "no, you stay outside" and tried to get through the door.  He snaked in past me and ran into his bed.  I asked him to go outside and he wouldn't.  I thought, fine, I'll get the spray bottle.  We trained the dogs with the spray bottle, just water, and it works wonders...until today.  Chip braved multiple squirts and put his head up gallantly like he was freakin Braveheart.  I found myself running that spray bottle like a machine gun. I had to get a hold of myself. He wouldn't come.  I jerked the blankets out and finally he came out.  I locked him outside with the others.

It was now time for me to leave for work.  I open the door and the good child, Spanky, comes running.  Chip and Lilly were hiding in a dog crate we had sitting on the porch.  They were huddled in there like prisoners trapped in a cave, clinging to each other for life. It was ridiculous.  They wouldn't come out.  I don't have time for this crap, I have to go to work.  I get the squirt bottle and Lilly finally comes out.  She runs to the door and shakes as if she has been to hell and back.  Chip was holding his position, he was prepared to sit this one out.  I felt like Mommy Dearest...NO. WIRE. HANGERS.  I walked over and grabbed the dog crate and tilted it so he would come out.  His resolve was strong. The dark-side is strong in this one. Finally, I tipped it upside down so he would be dumped out.  To my astonishment, that frickin dog had his feet on all four sides of that door, like a cat being forced into a bathtub and he wasn't coming out!  I gave it shake after shake and finally I got him out.  He ran in the house into his bed.  Again, Chip and Lilly clung to each other for fear of the unknown.

With that, I gave my dog a stern talking to about the days activities and what was and was not allowed and left.  My blood pressure was still a little high, so I felt the need to call Will and tell him exactly what I thought of HIS dog.  I find this to be therapeutic. From that point on, the day seemed to go okay.

On this day, I stood proud. I may not be the dog whisperer, but by God, I won the buckle at the Wiener Dog Rodeo, no spurs required.

Pay it Forward...

Today was my first day back after vacation. To say I wasn't feeling the love for the day is an understatement. I arrive at work to find an inbox full of emails and as soon as I signed on, everyone felt it was necessary to IM me and welcome me back and then tell me what their needs were.  I was trying to hang on to my vacation buzz, so patiently responded with only slight cussing under my breath.  And then my pal, Valerie, sends me an IM, "hey, I forgot my coat and I'm cold, so will you send down your blanket with my boss when you see him."  Like I have nothing but time on my hands. Does this look like you are flying the friendly skies? No.  So, as a friend, I try and help her out by responding, "You should really bring your own blanket from home so that you have one on hand."  She responds, "So, you're not going to bring the the blanket?" Valerie is smart, I like that. I asked her if she enjoyed the lecture, and I believe she said she did, can't remember her exact words.

And so the day goes on, and lunch time rolls around.  I didn't have time to make lunch, so I head to Jack in the Box.  Now, as a fat girl who just made a public proclamation that she was going to eat healthier, I figure I'll do my part and get a sourdough jack, no sauce and regular fries, not curly.  The drive up window order taker girl was very nice.  I mean, she spoke English, she was clear, she was friendly and she even offered me a funnel cake for just $1.  She was everything I needed her to be.  I did decline on the funnel cake, I mean, I did go easy on the sauce for crying out loud, didn't want to ruin my health kick.  I get up to the window and the order taker girl was super nice and she stopped and looked at me and said, "I really like your hair, it is really pretty."  I mean, she didn't say it just to say it, she clearly thought about it and said it from the heart. Clearly she was qualified to make that call, I mean, she probably sees a lot of ugly people every day, so I felt good about it.  I wish I had agreed to the funnel cake, I mean, maybe she gets a kick back for it, or some sort of funnel commission.  I left feeling good, nonetheless. I looked in the rear view mirror and had to agree about my hair, it was kind of fluffy today.

I went back to work, feeling my pretty hair buzz, when Valerie IM'd me again.  This time, she was clearly in distress. "I am losing patients!! And I am sick of people being negative and....blah blah blah."  Again, I felt like I should be a good friend by helping her education, and, I wanted to pay it forward with positive energy, so I told her, "I would only be concerned about losing "patients" if you were a doctor. Now if you are losing patience, I suggest you be the change you want to see in the world.  BE THE CHANGE."  Her response was, "Who is this?  Where is Cassondra?"  I told her about Jack in the Box and that I was paying it forward. She then copied and pasted the blanket lecture I had given her several hours before into our chat.  She had a point, who was I trying to fool. I promised not to let it happen again. People don't like it when I am positive, they like it when I am bitchy and snarky.  I realized at that moment that if I was going to be the change I wanted to see in the world, I was going to have to go chew someone's ass, because the change I want to see in the world is for everyone to be more responsive to MY needs.  So, I went and chewed out the manager filling in for my boss while he is on vacation.  I felt good about it and I think he did too. 

Everyone loves a parade...

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Today my husband and I attended a local parade.  Apparently, you can't just go and watch parades anymore, you have to be solicited while standing on the curb watching  50 different kinds of fire engines go by. I had my hands in my pocket and had my general, "don't bother me" expression on my face (which works pretty good, most of the time), so no one tried to give me any propaganda. My husband on the other hand, who is mostly friendly (to a fault sometimes), collected hand-outs for "Kegs for Kiltz" and "Square Dancing for the Health of it." They didn't give the flyers to everyone, seemed to be hand-picking their targets, so really, not sure what that says about the "vibe" my husband and I are giving off.  I do know that when the Youth Ministry came along with their pamphlet, my husband said, "No thanks, they already got me, got one."  I looked at him and said, "Did they really, I didn't see them...?"  He said, "no, they didn't."  So, to put this in perspective, my husband gladly takes the Kegs for Kiltz and the square dancing thing, but draws the line at youth ministry.  I just have a feeling, at some point, perhaps, post death, this is going to come up.  I have concerns.

The potato chip lecture

Sunday, August 7, 2011

There are a few times I miss having children.  If I see something really cute that my child would look adorable in, when I see a child that is cute, maybe even doing something cute and when I need to blame someone for something I may (or may not) have done.  Sometimes I can use the dogs for this purpose and it pans out nicely. Last night, I was faced with a situation that I could have used an extra family member for.

Before we continue, I should provide a little bit of background. My Mother taught me long ago that when you have hamburger (or chicken or hotdogs) and you have potato chips, you have the makings for a meal.  Your options are endless, so we always keep a bag of potato chips for just such a meal completing crisis. In addition, Will enjoys tortilla chips and salsa as a snack, so we keep those on hand as well.

Last night we stopped and got a new bag of chips to complete our turkey burger meal.  Upon arriving home and getting dinner underway, Will pulls out four or five bags of opened chips and looks to me as if I had been a very bad girl.  "Why did we just buy a new bag of chips when we have ALL these open?  Why did you find it necessary to open all these."  I was clearly in a bind.  With no one else to blame, I had to activate the blame deflector technique.  First step, become surprised by the situation. "I didn't know all those bags were open. And I thought you had eaten all the Lays potato chips."  Second step, come up with a plausible reason this happened. "Those bags probably got pushed to the back where I couldn't see them, otherwise there is no way I would have opened them. I mean, that shelf is low, I don't get on my knees when I pull stuff out. Besides, those organic tortilla chips were from when we had the Cooley's over."  Now, step three, close the deal - redirect the blame to the only other person in the house by reiterating that it isn't your fault. "Probably when you put them away last time, the other bags got pushed back, so how could I have known?"  Follow that with a look that combines innocence with dismissal of the situation.  Even when Will continued to give me a look that indicated he was skeptical, he couldn't argue with my logic.  I like to think it was a victory.