Cookies, Unicorn Poop and the best resume - ever

I didn't want to get out of bed today.  I knew nothing good could come from an "Open House" day at work where we try and lure the best of the worst to come work at our company.  I'm not trying to be mean about this, but I understand that someone actually wore a T-shirt that had a rainbow on it  with a pile of poop under it and it said "Unicorn Poop."  Personally, I haven't had to look for a job recently, but I am pretty sure wearing a Unicorn Poop shirt is probably not what I would wear to a perspective employers open house.

At any rate, I got out of bed and got ready for work.  My first stop was Wal-mart.  I had to purchase approx 12 dozen cookies and a bunch of water.  As I checked out the gal looked at me like I was on some sort of cookie cleansing diet, or that possibly, I was creating a new reality show called "Fat Girls Gone Wild."  I explained we were having an open house at my work.  She seemed skeptical. Whatever.  Then my boss informs me that I also need to stop and get some special cupcakes for this little recognition thing at work. Now it would appear I am store hopping for junk food.  I'm innocent.  Framed, really.

My day continues on. Craziness consumes most of my day prepping for the open house and then navigating through the screening process.  Being a "screener" is interesting.  I learn all kinds of things about people.  Most times I keep a straight face and behave...and then there are moments when my inside voice escapes.  Case in point: this gal comes in that I think I have seen before. I asked her if she was here last time.  She said she had been.  I said, "oh, that must be where I know you from."  Then I started asking her questions and she informs me that she worked at Lane Bryant.  For those of you skinny people, Lane Bryant is a clothing store for "plus size" girls.  So, I say to her, "oh, I bet that is where I know you from."  She says, "well, I haven't worked there since 2004."  I said, "Well, I've been fat for a really long time, so that doesn't mean anything."  Perhaps that was an over-share. She seemed semi-amused.  I feel like we bonded, however, really, what I did was just call her out for being fat for a long time too because Lane Bryant usually only hires "chubby" girls.  Awkward.

People kept coming through and I found myself being less able to cope with reality as my tights were really chaffing. I wore a long skirt, which was probably not my best choice for an action packed day. Not to over-share, but I had issues. In order to save myself from any further agitation, thusly leading to further inappropriate comments to potential candidates, I decided the tights needed to come off.  I whined to Valerie one more time and she was like, "GO TAKE THEM OFF."  The problem is that I was wearing these cute boots.  This was a big project to get them off and I sure as hell wasn't taking my shoes off in the women's bathroom. Don't make me go on a rant about that again (read previous bathroom blog for full detail).  I decided the best action to take was to find a pair of scissors.  The scissors and I went in the bathroom and what happened next could only be described as pantyhose mutilation.  The good news is, I didn't have to take my boots off.  The bad news is, the janitor is going to wonder what in the hell happened in there.  No, wait, she won't.  At this point, nothing could possibly surprise her in there.

I finished my tour of duty as a screener and then the best resume of the day came across my desk.  It is a resume that I could only dream of writing.  It was six pages.  The bold heading across the top was "Untitled."  Immediately, I knew... this was solid gold, baby.  This person went on  to describe every job they ever had and listed IN DETAIL the reason they left the company.  I've never seen anything so honest, so pure, so bitter, so angry and I ate it up like candy!  This person left one job due to the boss allegedly scamming them.  Left one job because the boss was breathing down their neck all day. Another job because of a sick family member and my one of my favorite reasons was being let go due their focus on professional wrestling school.  It is the best resume - ever.  I love it when someone is bitter and unafraid to show it.  It sure makes screening easier.

My second favorite resume of the day was the pink one that was sprayed with perfume.  This person is clearly a fan of Legally Blonde.  I am definitely going to do this for my next job.  I mean, that resume got passed around to everyone.  She definitely got noticed.  How about a round of snaps for her?  I'd put a compliment in the snap cup for her.

At 7:20pm, I finally dragged my butt out of there.  The joy from the best resume ever had me on some sort of high.  I called my husband to let him know I was on the way home.  I then kept him on the phone and asked him in depth questions about his feelings and then interrogated him about why he does what he does.  He didn't seem to have answers and quite frankly, didn't like my questions.  I told him I was just curious and then asked him why he was never curious about me.  I mean didn't he find me interesting?  Should I be offended? Am I boring?  He was also unable to answer those questions.  I was actually smiling as I knowingly made him uncomfortable.  I then asked him if he would feed the horses before I got home so that I could just relax when I got there.  He jumped on doing that for me and quickly got off the phone.  He has never been so happy to agree to something and get off the phone as he was tonight.  I smiled.  I'm a little bit evil.  I'm a little bit smart. Maybe next time he will see it coming, but I don't think so.  When I got home the horses were fed.  Mission accomplished.

Can't wait for tomorrow.  I get to go through another open house.  I'm super excited.  You never know who's gonna come in there.  What I do know is, I won't be wearing tights.

Gotta go, Will's watching another episode of American Hogger. I think it's time to have another in-depth conversation....

An Open Letter to Chocolate

The following is an open letter to chocolate.

Dear Chocolate,
You bastard.  I hate you and I want you out of my life. I am sick and tired of you seducing me with your smooth chocolate exterior and inner goodness. You think you are clever hiding nuts inside, but I'm on to your games.  All you ever do is adhere yourself to my butt, thighs and stomach and I'm sick of it.  You call to me from the drawer, from candy dishes, from the freezer.  I hear you.  Your cries have never gone unanswered, but I must break the cycle.  I know you will fight me on this, but this break-up is for real.  We are over.

I know I've tried to say good-bye before. You've wrapped yourself seductively in shiny foil wrappers.  You've even partnered with the frickin' Easter Bunny, Santa Clause, St. Valentine and, you S.O.B., you have partnered with the most evil of all holiday's, Halloween.  This is crap.  I can't fight this.  And you know it.  You think you are all cute in the shape of a bunny, like you know I can't resist your solid milk chocolate goodness as I gleefully bite your ears off.  You barbarian.  I even got a chocolate "man part" on a stick at a party once.  Pull yourself together Chocolate, stop the madness!

Like all that isn't enough, you've even enlisted the help of your friends.  You're all innocent, like, "oh your chocolate got in my peanut butter, no your peanut butter got in my chocolate!"  That is, by far, the cruelest thing you have ever done.  Go ahead, make yourself a Reeces peanut butter egg, Christmas tree or heart, hit me where I live.  This time though, this time I will be stronger.  Oh, and just go ahead and try your mint Hershey's kisses or Ghiradeli carmel filled squares.  I will not be seduced by your friends.  And, stay the hell away from my ice cream.  I'm not even kidding here.  You tell Ben & Jerry to stop calling me.  Call off your dogs!

And then, your lowest point, prostituting little girls.  That's right, those little Campfire sluts pushing their mint cookies.  They sit out front of every grocery store with their sad little eyes in their cute little outfits in the rain begging for your support.  If you don't buy any, their Mothers look at you with their judging eyes, like, "come on fat girl, don't tell me you don't eat cookies..."

Chocolate, you are the worst.  You are horrible.  You're smothering me.  Dare I say, you're killing me.  I'm defriending you on Facebook.  I'm not buying your propaganda, I don't care if you do claim to be healthier in your darkest form.  You clearly can't be trusted.

That's right, as soon as those chocolate chips are gone from the freezer (one more batch of cookies for old times sake), as soon as those M&M's are gone from Will's truck, as soon as those Riesen's are gone from my bosses secret stash, IT'S O.V.E.R.  You won't win this time.  Move on, find yourself some gym bunny that needs the extra padding so she won't freeze when she is out jogging.  Don't call. Don't show up in my cart at the store and do not even think about talking me into a hot chocolate from some random espresso stand on a cold day.  I said no.  NO means NO.

Sincerely,
Angry Pony

Parking, it seems so simple...and yet...

Why do the asshats and jackholes always park by me at work?  Why?  Today I was assaulted by a silver Nissan.  This person, in their infinite wisdom, decided to back in.  By backing in, this person put their driver door against my driver door.  They backed crooked, so their back tire was just inches from my front tire.  When this person got out of their vehicle, I am quite certain that they had to have touched my door with their door.  I know when I got into my truck, I certainly let my door touch their door.  Fat girls need room to maneuver.  I don't know if I have been clear about that in any of my other blog entries, but it is true. 

Was this person blind in one eye? Were they unconscious? Were they eating an egg mcmuffin? Was their spirit guide driving the vehicle on their behalf?  What possesses people to do this?  I mean, surely when they went to get out they realized their parking job was less than ideal.  They are lucky I was not driving some old beater, because I assure you, had I been,  I would have left a mark on that car.  Stupidity should be painful.  There should be consequences for bad parking and bad driving.  I would like to form a group to rise against these offenders.  I'm going to call it, B.A.A.D. - Bitches Against Asshat Drivers.  Our mission statement would be something like, "To create a world of spacious parking spots, uneventful freeway merging and bass free living."  B.A.A.D. members would be responsible for calling out and marking asshats and jackholes cars so that others would know to be wary of them.  We could come up with a symbol that represents what it means to be an asshat and then mark each car or truck on the hood.  You know, like the sign of Zorro, but maybe just leave some sort of big B or something.  I don't know, I just think these people should have their own parking lots and lanes on the freeway so the rest of us can navigate without trauma and near death experiences. 

It's either that, or I'm going to start carrying a baseball bat, in the name of justice, and leaving "love dents" in their doors.  We'll chalk it up to education.

Where is MY spirit guide?

Spent the a good part of the day with Mom today, which is fun because we don't get to do that very often due to Dad's illness.  Mom's a fun gal.  After all, she raised me, didn't she?  Who doesn't have a sense of humor after that ordeal? Anyway, Mom "needed" to go to the fabric store today since she is trying to become this sewing expert or something.  We went through the store and found all the pony fabric in the store and bought some, plus some lace stuff.  I'm pretty sure the fabric cutter girl thinks we're nuts. "What are you going to make?" she asks. Mom and I look at each other, "I don't know."  Buying pony stuff, it's what we do, we can't help ourselves.  I don't even sew and I buy fabric that I will allegedly someday do something with.  Mom and I have what Will calls, "pony eyes."  Pony eyes are what allow me to go into any store and locate something of a horse like nature.  It has amazed Will more than once.  I have found pony items at Sportsman's Warehouse, Cabela's, the grocery store, gas stations, mini-mart's, those Toy Shoppe vending machines.  I'll see an ear or a color and sure enough, it's a pony.  It's a skill. It can even be a curse.

The day progresses and we run a-muck accordingly, finally returning to my parent's house.  Mom decides to make dinner and we find ourselves hanging out in the family room while Dad watches back to back football games in the living room.  Dad is in and out of slumber due to recovering from his last chemo treatment and being under the influence of a variety of drugs. My sister comes in and informs us that Dad is talking in his sleep.  Mom says, "I wonder if he is talking to his Mom."  (side note: his Mom is no longer alive)  I ask Mom what would make her say that and she says, "Doesn't anyone ever talk to you?"  Um....no...not dead people. Haven't had one conversation with a dead person lately.  My sister and I exchanged looks.  Ok, I'll bite, "Mom, does anyone talk to you?"  She informs me that yes, quite frequently.  I said, "While you are awake or while you are sleeping?"  Mom says it happens when she is awake.  Again, I look at my sister, "Does anyone talk to YOU?"  Nope, no one talks to my sister.  So, then I ask, "Who talks to you?"  Mom informs me she thinks it is her spirit guide.  She says everyone has one.  She looks at me as if in disbelief, "Really? You've never heard anyone call your name?"  No, can't say as I have.  This is what happens when you start reading a lot of Sylvia Browne books, I think.  Now, I'm not saying my Mom is crazy, she isn't.  I believe her. Apparently she has had ghost interactions in the house as well.  My sister and brother have also confirmed odd goings on in the house from time to time, so it is possible.  Mom used to fall asleep on the couch and then say weird things in her sleep like one time she said, "Duct tape."  Another time she said, "Um...Bird."  And then, yet another time she said, "I wouldn't have said anything."  Were these musings with her spirit guide? If so, what in the hell were they talking about?  Sounds like hers is pretty random.

Here's my thing, I'm pissed off.  I have a spirit guide and he/she says nothing?  I want a new one then.  I have a lazy spirit guide.  This is crap.  How did I draw the short straw?  Is this what makes me eat ice cream when I shouldn't?  Is this my spirit guide trying to live out some sort of spirit fantasy? What is my spirit guide doing now?  I mean, I can't sleep, so I am down here writing this blog, where is my spirit guide now?  Will is sleeping upstairs, this would be a perfect time to clue me in on some things or give me some guidance. It isn't like I don't need any.  Does my spirit guide watch me?  I mean, like when I am in the shower or having sex? Is he/she/it here now?  I don't hear anything except the refrigerator. Is it possible my spirit guide is in Spanky's body? I mean that dog climbs up, gets like an inch from my face and stares at me..for long periods of time...is this the spirit guide trying to communicate?  If that is the case, maybe my spirit guide never talks to me because it is spending too much time chewing on Spanky's toenails, licking or scratching.  Just a thought.

Well, I guess I am going to try and go back to bed and get some sleep...unless my spirit guide has anything to say....last chance....Bueller?  Bueller?  Anyone? .......eh, screw it.

Gym bunnies are annoying

So I went to the gym on Monday right after all the skinny girls finished Zumba.  Nothing like getting undressed and into your gym clothes in front of Barbie and friends, but whatever, I got over that phobia in 6th grade phys. ed. Mostly what I learned is that it is never a good idea to run out of the shower to hurry back to your little locker to hide while you are buck naked with a towel the size of a dish cloth.  Fat girls fall hard and they make a slapping sound on the floor.  How do I know this?  It happened to me in 6th grade.  So, I owned it from there.  If you want to stare at the fat girl in her undies that have the day of the week printed on the back and training bra, go ahead.  And why did they use such small towels?  Buncha bull if you ask me.

Anyway, today, I go to the gym a little later to avoid gym bunnies.  I walk into the locker room and the place is empty.  Yes!  I pick the spot in the corner where I could have some privacy if others came in there.  I mean, I need room, do you know how hard it is to get back into your fat controlling device (FCD) after you have worked out and are damp either from sweat or a shower?  I need room to move around to get that accomplished.  Arms flail, bending happens, it is a separate workout all together.  So, I have the perfect spot for that.  I leave my stuff there so it is clear I have marked my territory.  It couldn't have been anymore clear if I had pee'd on the bench.

I go out into the gym and do all the stuff the trainer showed me on Monday.  At least, I think I was doing what he told me.  I'm not going to lie, while I was balancing on that ball with my hands and was in push-up position, I was trying to remember to breathe and tuck my butt and focus on my core, but it wasn't pretty.  I might as well been trying to ride a unicycle and juggle.  None the less, I got 'er done.  Meanwhile, in the midst of my extremely athletic performance on the balance ball, Barbie and friend enter the gym. Skinny bitches. Hate em.  I continue my circuit on the bike and then the eliptical and then back in for some work on my legs.  My muscles were screaming.  They warned me not to go to the gym, but I went anyway.  After Monday, they were not amused.  It was good though.  I was breathing good and sweating. I was a cardio machine.  Nothing could ruin my buzz, not even catching a glimpse of myself doing this stretchy thing with my hands up and my belly peeking out from under my shirt as I raised my arms.  I was a work-out goddess and a vision.  I was sporting a bright pink Hanes Her Way t-shirt and some black sweat pants with red and white racing stripes down the side.  Those gym bunnies could only dream of looking THIS COOL while working out.  I owned it.

Ok, so show is over.  I walk into the rather spacious locker room and what do I see?  Barbie and Buffy had set up shop on both sides of me.  One of them had their bag next to mine on the bench and then the other one had it on the floor next to mine.  Why would they do this?  Were they making a fat girl sandwich?  I was so irritated.  I wanted to kick their stuff or sit with my naked sweaty butt on the bench.  That would show them.  But then I started thinking, I know what these girls do in the bathroom, who is to say someone else hasn't sat their sweaty ass on the bench?  I decided to take the high road.  I got cleaned up and left. 

These gym bunnies will learn, if they are going to crowd me, they are going to see a lot of cellulite.  I'll walk around the locker room naked if need be.  I bet they start working out in the morning instead of on their lunch then.  My next attempt at athletic excellence is Friday.  I'll keep you posted on if I had to resort to any unsavory acts to claim my FCD dressing area.

I'm not friendly, I keep telling you people...

I've never made it a secret that I am not an extrovert.. I am friendly and social in situations that I choose to put myself in.  I do not view the grocery store as a social situation.  I view it as a necessary evil.  I go in, get what I need and get out.  I don't want to make small talk with strangers in the aisles or in the check-out line.  I don't talk to you, don't talk to me.  That is just how I feel. 

Today, I was "violated" at the grocery store.  I had to run to Safeway at lunch to get some gift cards for work.  As luck would have it, the ones I wanted were not out on the display.  I went to customer service to see if they had any more.  I told the lady at customer service what I needed and her reply was, "They should be out there." Well, genius, they aren't, I looked.  Apparently my word was not good enough, so she headed off to go check out the display.  While I was waiting for her return, a young girl/woman walked up to me with her little 3 year old son.  She was the picture of youth.  She was wearing some dark gray sweats with big jewels all over the legs, a bright pink sweatshirt with some bold image and her hair was shoved up in a scraggly half ponytail, and if memory serves me correctly, she was wearing slippers.  She sparkled like glitter in the gutter after a parade.  She looked to be about 16, but I suspect she was older because she had produced this small child and, as I would come to learn, she had an 18 month old at home.

Let's call this girl "Gidget."  Gidget asked me where the customer service lady went.  I told her she was looking for something for me. Gidget then told me that she needed change to do laundry because her really sick 18 month at home was really sick and vomiting and had a snotty nose and pooping everywhere so she really needed to do laundry.  I took a step back, clearly this girl was infectious. Gidget continued on about how bad this flu was because the vomiting happened first and then the snotty nose and then it just ran and ran, and then the fever came and isn't it weird how the fever came after?  Didn't I think that was odd?  I just nodded politely and faced the counter.  Gidget didn't stop.  Apparently she had more to tell me about vomit, snot and fever and so continued on about every step of her childs influenza journey.  I had about enough. I was giving off all of my best bitchy/aloof body language.  Gidget was immune.  Where the hell is that customer service lady? Checking for gift cards in the produce department?

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, this other lady comes walking up and pushes Gidget out of the way, she needed to check her Lotto ticket.  Let's call this lady, "Hilda."  Hilda had really short, odd hair that was kind of yellowish greenish and the top was in a pony tail. Honestly, she looked like a Teletubby. Hilda was instantly irritated that the customer service lady wasn't there, she had just broke even and won a dollar and she needed it put on her debit card.  Hilda asks, "Are you two in line? Where is the customer service person?"  Well, Hilda, we are not congregating here for our health, that is for damn sure, I'm probably going to need a flu shot after this.  I explained to Hilda that yes, we were waiting and that she was, in fact, third in line and that customer service lady was helping me. Hilda backed up.

Finally, the customer service lady comes back empty handed and informs me that it appears they are out of the gift cards I need.  Thank goodness she checked for me, I mean, I just wasn't sure if there was any or not SINCE THERE WEREN'T ANY ON THE RACK!!!  Now I need some hand sanitizer, some sort of haz-mat suit and a flu shot thanks to her thorough investigation. 

Now, I know that I, too, over-share at times.  I mean, I do go on about probiotic side-effects, bathroom behavior, nudity and boob placement, but people can stop reading whenever they want.  No one has to read this.  And if you are reading this, you probably know me and know that I will say just about anything. Except sex, Will says I can't talk about that, even though there have been some blog-worthy events in that department.  Nonetheless, I am hardly Carie Bradshaw from Sex in the City, so I spare you all.

Today Gidget went too far and I just want to go on record that I didn't appreciate it. And, her sweats were dumb, who  wears that?  I asked my friend why these things happen to me and she said I just have one of those faces that makes people want to tell me things.  I looked at her with that look that says, "are you for real?" and then she looked back.  I said, "I do not have a face that makes people want to open up.  I've seen my face, that isn't what it is saying."  She agreed and then we both laughed about the absurdity of my alleged friendliness. 

Anyway, just another day in the life of an extrovert.