I'm not ready to be naked in public

So, I was invited to a nakie party (a party at a location where clothing is optional).  I don't know about this.  I mean, first of all, I'd like to say, I have no problem with nudity and people who want to be naked.  I especially like it when people like Channing Tatum want to be naked.  This is a good kind of naked.  I don't care if he is sweaty or dirty or whatever.  He has earned the right to be naked in a public setting.  I'm not saying I'm superficial, but I'm not saying that I'm not either. I just think that there are a lot of pretty people that like to be clothed and a lot of...shall we say..."real" people that like to be naked.  I wouldn't expect to go public all naked, not in this body.  Who wants to see that?  I'm just lucky that Will has bad eyesight and that he loves me.  Love forgives many imperfections. My point is, going to a nakie party seems like a lot of awkwardness.

One of my work pals invited me and she really enjoys the nakie lifestyle.  I enjoy the nakie lifestyle too, but only in my own home...with the blinds down.  And, I'm going to be frank here, while I don't think nudity is a big deal, I don't want to see my co-workers naked.  I can just see it now, I'm at the water fountain and I see nakie guy from the party, "Hey Saggy Malone, did you get that sun spot on your ass checked out? I think it could be pre-cancerous."  Or maybe I now know that Trixie Tube Boob has a tattoo on her belly button that wraps around and disappears into her butt crack.  I don't want to know.  Seeing these people dressed, in business casual attire, maybe even occasionally in shorts, is all I ever want to see. 

And let's talk about food.  It's supposed to be a taco feed.  What if someone has a stray tomato or olive on their boob and I say something about it, then all the sudden, I'm looking at their lady parts. I don't want to. Or I say, "I think you have salsa on your penis...oh, wait...never mind...you should really see a doctor about that...."  Or, maybe we are all sitting on plastic chairs and I happen to know that Saggy Malone is really sweaty from playing volleyball.  He gets up and says, "You can have my chair, I'm gonna go get another taco."  I know that his sweaty "buddies" have been touching that chair.  I don't want to sit there.  What if he goes to eat his taco and drops sour cream all over his junk?  Try not to look at that hot mess.  It just seems awkward.  I guess it would for someone like me who isn't used to letting it all hang out.  I mean, I rarely leave the house without a bra on.  And I don't even have big hooters.  Actually, that is probably why I do wear one, so that people will know I am a girl.  With enough padding, anyone can have boobs.  Anyway, back to the taco feed.  What if someone has been scratching their ass, boob cleavage or pits and then grabs a handful of chips? Ew.  And, I'm not saying naked people are gross, that isn't it.  I'm just saying, "what if?"  A person needs to ask these questions to be prepared for these types of events.

Now, let's talk about the dancing.  There is supposed to be music.  If Trixie Tube Boob starts getting down with her bad self, where will I look?  I mean, people dancing is funny.  People dancing naked sounds scary...and possibly dangerous.  It's all fun and games until your boobs slap somebody and gives them a welt.  And, what if Saggy Malone decides to make his pee-pee dance?  I'm not ready for that.  I just don't know if I could be mature about it.  I know, I know, it's just the human body, it's no big deal.  And everyone has one, fully equipped with boy or girl parts...and some people have both.  That is where the term "moobs" came from.  Man boobs exist.  I've seen them.  I just don't know about going public naked.  I know clothing is optional, so I wouldn't have to go naked, but what if I got liquered up?  What if people wanted me to get all naked because they wanted to post to Facebook that I'm a nakie club member?  What if I start taking my clothes off and then I'm all like, "Look at me? I'm sexy..."  and I start putting my boobs in their face?  I mean, I'd have to do some lifting to do that, but still.  Or I started singing, "I'm too sexy for my shirt....so sexy it hurts...."  Then, there is a You Tube video, it goes viral, I get people asking me to do fat girl porn, I get fired because I am inappropriate in the social media sites, then I end up jobless, but then get a job at "Fat Baby Espresso" and have to do a little jiggle dance with every hot cup of joe? Then I have to get tattoo's to complete the look. What if?  You people think it can't happen, but this is how people end up on the Jerry Springer show.

I don't think I'm ready for a nakie party.

Me & Jenny, just like peas n carrots again...

It's been a stressful couple of days.  With my audit in progress and the other daily tasks, I've been a little tense.  That's probably an understatement. The situation hit it's climax early on today when I had to send an announcement out advising the employees of the audit and how it effects them.  I sent the email and walked away from my desk.  I needed a cleansing breath and to touch base with my pal Valerie.  I get down to her desk and I'm feeling stressed.  People are stopping me and asking me about the email.  I'm trying to remain calm.  And then I hear the song that almost created the perfect storm.  Free Bird. I stopped and listened for a moment. The scene from Forest Gump where Jenny is on the ledge considering jumping played through my mind (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsqDaTWgtp0  here it is, in case you don't know it).  I thought, that is exactly how I feel right now.  I had access to a ledge, the song was already playing, I just needed to remove my bra, put on a sparkly top and some platform heels and I could totally recreate that.  I mean, I would be "fat Jenny, " but I could still make the scene work.  Hey, I might not do cocaine, but I do chocolate and I think that is pretty dangerous, too.  Anyway, the moment passed and I decided to just go back up to my desk.  Chocolate was waiting for me there.

When I arrived back to my desk, I had about 20 emails waiting for me asking about the audit.  I expected as much.  Heavy sigh.  Then, my boss comes walking out of his office with a box of donuts.  He puts them on my desk.  Apparently High Heel Barbie brought them in for his birthday today.  Yeah, we don't want the birthday boy to get fat, better put them on the fat admin's desk.  So, I did the only thing I could do, I ate one.

It wasn't long after the donut incident that it was time for lunch, so I opened my salad and tried to eat it.  I just sat there and stared at it.  No lard, no carbs, no sugar...it was all natural.  How do I eat this with the taste of lard and sugar lingering in my mouth.  I took a bite.  The spinach leaves taunted me with their unsatisfying spinachy taste. At that moment, I hated spinach. I hated everything it stood for and I wanted it to taste like jelly filling.  No amount of fat girl hallucinations could make this happen.  I ate half of my salad and then gave up.  I wasn't really hungry anyway. 

Soon enough it was time to have my weekly appointment with Dr. Feel Good.  Did I mention Dr. F-G is tall and skinny?  I hate her guts and everything she stands for (that's the cranky fat girl talking...I don't really hate her).  I arrive and I sit down on the most uncomfortable couch, EVER.  I think she found it with a FREE sign outside a frat house.  Seriously, if you are charging $265 an hour, freaking buy a couch.  I mean, I don't pay her that, thanks to insurance, but if I was paying cash, I'd be mad.  I'd want someone giving me a massage ( NOT Rainbow Brite) and a pedicure while we talked about my feelings. Anyway, she asks me how the last week went.  I start to tell her about the ice cream bar incident over the weekend.  She is looking at me nodding sympathetically like her body even knows what ice cream is, whatever, anyway, she keeps looking from my face to my belly.  What the hell?!  You'd think her Ph.D would have taught her not to stare at fat girls' bellies!  I thought she was a trained professional.  I felt like my belly was the white elephant of the room.  I mean, it kind of was, I was wearing a white tank top under my button up shirt, that didn't really button and I was sitting on this broke-dick couch that forced my belly out.  That's right, I said, "forced."  I can't control that thing.  Even when Ass Kicker tells me to suck it in, you can't tell.  Somewhere deep inside I might be sucking it in, but the outside is clearly defiant, but I digress.  Dr. F-G listens and then continues to give me insightful advice like, "don't eat while watching TV...don't eat a donut just because it's there."  I mean, really deep stuff I would never have thought of myself.  She is a genius.

As I sat there, I thought, can I really be helped by a  7 foot skeleton with skin?  What does she know about weight loss?  She is probably one of those people that struggles to gain weight.  But then again, if I had some fat lady telling me how to lose weight, I think I would be pissed.  Look fatty, if you have all the answers, why are you still fat?  I'm kind of stuck in a quandry.  Maybe I need to see an average sized person that isn't too pretty, but not too ugly.  Not too nice, but not too mean.  Not a leather couch, but not a futon either.  I don't know.  I don't want to give up on Dr. F-G yet, but I can't help but think that she hasn't reached me yet.  As I was getting ready to leave her office, I was thinking, "I wonder if Ambular has a good pot-luck today?" and "I bet I could make it to Baskin Robbins and still get back to work on time."  I think this is going to be a long process.

I got back to work and talked to Angry Stallion and he told me all about what it means to be mentally unstable and how they test for it.  I think I need some tests done because as soon as he was done, I walked over and checked out Ambular's potluck.  In my defense, I did take a moment, like Dr. F-G said and I did think about whether I wanted the cookie or not.  Turns out the answer was yes, and I took a couple because correct me if I'm wrong, if one cookie is good, then three are awesome. It's like Forest Gump said, "Me and Jenny was just like peas and carrots again..."  This is how I feel about chocolate chip cookies.

This is why my appointments with Dr. F-G are weekly.  I can't be left unattended.  I guess I'd better pitch in for a new couch,  since clearly, I'll be putting some miles on that piece of crap.

Free massage...

One of our managers at work purchased some chair massages for his work group and arranged for this massage group to come in and do them.  Just my luck, he had an extra spot, so he gave it to me.  I asked him who he was having come in.  He said it was just someone he found here locally.  "Go on in," he said.  "You get the old lady and she does some great pressure."  Great.

I walk in and this woman, who I am guessing is in her 60's, has long, permed gray hair in a high, side pony on her head, bright green eye shadow and bright pink lipstick.  Her pants had a high waist and her shirt was loudly colored, I can't remember if it was tye-dyed or rainbow.  I was clearly over stimulated by what I was taking in.  She was nice, so I sat down in the chair and she started tweaking the chair to my needs.  Then she stops and says, "I have a great product that will work for you, it's called, It Works!"  I think she just called me out for being fat.  I said, "Yes, I've heard of it and tried it before."  She seemed excited, "Oh, you need to do the wraps, it will take inches off of your waist!"  I said, "yeah, I've done it."  She looked at me and continued on about how I could do the cleansing too (since clearly the wraps hadn't worked). Turns out she is having an "It Works!" party and I'm invited.  Clearly, taking all that is me in, she was seeing dollar signs. 

Finally the massage started.  Rainbow Brite puts in a cassette tape of really loud, obnoxious, allegedly relaxing music.  Who has cassette tapes?  Who?  The quality of it was horrible.  I felt like I was at a naughty smoke shop in downtown Seattle. Anyway,  I'm just starting to relax, and out of no where, her hot breath is in my ear, "Is the pressure ok?" she whispered loudly into my ear.  I damn near fell out of the chair.  Holy crap, who does that?  I told Rainbow Brite that I was fine.  She continued on and did a mediocre job of a massage.  I mean, it's a chair massage, you can't get too involved, but hey, someone was working out the tension in my neck, so it's all good.

A short 15 minutes later, we come to the end. Again, here she comes in my ear in a loud whisper.  I mean, she is so close, I could almost feel her tongue. "Now breathe in through your nose..." and she breathes in right in my ear. "Now breathe out through your mouth..." and breathes into my ear.  Ok, this is CREEPY.  She did this like three times.  Then, she decides it's time to have me sit up, so as I do, she puts her hands over my face and tells me to keep my eyes closed and continue breathing.  She again, breathes into my face.  If I'm the one that is supposed to be breathing, why is she working so hard?  And how can I breathe when I am afraid to breathe in her air?  Ew.  So, now she tells me to slowly open my eyes and focus on her palms, all the while, breathing.  Then she takes her hands away and her face is like 2 inches from mine in this crazy smile.  It was like having someone shove a clown in your face.  I moved my head back.  This was too much.

Finally free from deep breathing, Rainbow Brite gives me her card, a pamphlet on It Works! and yoga.  She says she'll call me when she is having her next party. I think I'm busy that day. And now, my neck is kind of sore.Warning, do not be suckered into free massage from Rainbow Brite and her ethereal friends. 

I seriously can't get the image out of my head of her removing her palms and her face being two inches from mine.  I know why people are scared of clowns now.  It's a serious condition.

My ass...out to sea....

Today was supposed to be the perfect Friday.  After a hectic week, all visitors were gone, both bosses were gone.  The potential for my inner peace while at the work place was high.  I had a crazy night of hardly any sleep due to heavy rains and thunder storms and I was tired.  I needed a calm day.

My first stop on the way to bliss was to get a hot chocolate.  I pulled up to the espresso stand and tried to get my window down, but it turns out that you can't get your window down by pulling on your turn signal.  I sat there for a brief moment in a panic, and then I remembered I should use the uppy/downy button on the door.  You know, the one that works the window.  For crying out loud, what was wrong with me?

I proceeded to the freeway.  There is a light lit up on my dash, something is wrong.  This can't be good.  It looks like a squished turtle.  I started to really worry, and then I realize it is a headlight indicator.  One of my lights must be out...?  I put my turn signal on and it goes completely ape-shit.  It was like a turn signal on Viagra.  It was blinking fast as fast can be.  Great.  If it goes out on the way to work, then I will be one of "those people" that don't use their turn signal.  I hate those people.  I cuss at and make fun of those people.  It might be time to trade it in.  I mean, it has almost 45,000 miles on it and now the turn signal is going out.  Plus the remote lock thing-a-mabob is only working part of the time.  I mean the upkeep we are looking at, this is getting big.  I'm going to have to go manual on unlocking the door and then rolling down the window to signal when I am turning?  This is too much.  So Ghetto.

In spite of my broken-down, ghetto vehicle, I do arrive at work safely.  It's raining.  Good 'ol summertime in the northwest.  But I'm not going to let this ruin my boss-free Friday.  I'm going to get stuff done and I am going to be peaceful. The only thing really ruining my buzz was that I had an appointment at the gym with Ass Kicker.  I thought of 100+ excuses to give him so I wouldn't have to go, but alas, I put on my big girl panties and went down there to the gym.  He worked me over pretty good.  By the time I was done, I had spagetti arms.  I just sat at my desk with my hands resting on the keyboard.  I was willing them to type.  My lunch was on the desk next to my computer.  It was a couple inches higher than my keyboard.  I could not will my arms to reach for my lunch.  I just didn't have the power.  Anything weighing more than a post-it was going to be a problem.  If we keep at it like this, this could be the best weight loss technique yet.  Render my arms useless and I am screwed.  I mean, I'm not flexible enough to get a cheeto between my toes and then all the way up to my mouth.  Yes, we might finally be on to something.

As my post work-out haze was wearing off, I received an email that would completely and undeniably ruin my day.  I'm not going to go into a lot of detail, but let's just say the corporate card folks wanted to audit my October, November and December expenses.  I had spent over $20,000.  Through some sort of accounting snaffu by myself, the people helping me with my expenses while I was out with my Dad, and computer glitches, most of the data was missing.  I pretty much felt like offing myself.  In a weak moment, I looked at the two balloon weights that had been left on my desk earlier in the week and exclaimed, "I'm going to tie those to my ankles and jump in the river!  I will never be seen again!"  Ok, so a little dramatic, especially since the balloon weights were like, a pound a piece. Thong Barbie was at my desk and we discussed that I probably would not need the balloon weights since my butt and thighs are so fat, that they would float, thereby forcing my head under water.  How do you keep your head above water when your ass is floating it's way out to sea?  I can see it now, the search and rescue people would say, "I see a life boat...no, wait, is it a whale?  What?....it's a giant floating ass...where did that ass come from?  Who's is it?  This can't be...why is a random ass floating around?"  Only after retrieving my ass out of the water will they see that sharks and other wildlife ate off the rest of my body, but they couldn't eat my ass because it was like bobbing for apples.  Sometimes it just isn't worth it.  The  bigger problem is, how do you identify a random ass?  You can't fingerprint it, no dental records...I mean, it's a problem.  And if you do some sort of butt-skin DNA test and find out it is me, do you have an open casket? Do you put me in a really cute pair of jeans?  You know, the kind with bling on the pockets?  I'm just saying, it could happen.  I need to have a plan if I want to prepare for this type of thing.

I know everyone thinks I'm being dramatic, but it was right after all that was discussed that I opened my personal email and my husband had sent me an email about us going river rafting.  You see, it COULD happen.  You don't know that it couldn't, so don't try and tell me otherwise. 

Anyway, that sums up my relaxing Friday.  Never a dull moment, unfortunately.

I am NOT poopy.

I don't know what the hell is going on.  It's like karma is ganging up on me all at once.  Today was another shining example of "in your face, bitch." Once again, I was an innocent bystander, minding my own business and I was victimized.

Today, we had a training.  All employees had to take it.  There were approximately 120 people per session and all employees from all different departments were required to attend.  In an effort to remain obscure about my place of employment, I shall rename the title of the course to, "I Choose Abuse."  The goal of this training was to guide employees through a little "self discovery" of why they work for the company and how attitude is everything and that ultimately, if we choose to work here, we need to be in charge of our attitude.  I came in and chose my seat in the back row.  I would be a casual observer, incognito you might say.

The trainer, Trainer Dude, was entertaining and guiding us through relevant life experiences he had and how it related to his choices at our company.  As he brought up scenarios, he would look into the audience and ask someone their name and then use them in his examples.  Everything was going fine.  I was entertained, I was actually enjoying his presentation.  And then, all at once, the winds changed and a darkness settled on the back row.

Trainer Dude decides to present a scenario where there is a type of person that is positive, perky and the kind of employee you kind of almost can't stand because they are so sweet.  You could stab one of their eyes out and they would still look at you and say, "Well, it sure is lucky I have at least one good eye!"  He drew a picture of a smiley face and that represented one of our employees.  And then, he looked around the room, and out of 120 people, he looks at me, in the back row and says, "you, in the back, what is your name?"  I tell him it is Cassondra.  I know where this is going and it doesn't look good for me.  He draws a frowny face and informs the room that this is the kind of person that has a "poopy" personality and that is the downer you don't want to talk to. Every person I know burst into immediate laughter. He went on, "Cassandra (yep, he did it, he freakin called me CassAndra) is the person that you avoid in the morning.  She is the person that has the whole parking lot in the morning, but chooses to park next to you and then gets out and traps you in your vehicle while telling you about the cat she has and she hates.  She is the person that makes you pretend to be on the phone to avoid her."  Everyone in the room that knows me is laughing so hard, they are almost peeing themselves.  I have a straight line of sight to the front row where my friends, Mamma Chris, Pocket Barbie and Crooked Parking Princess (formerly known as the Jackhole in earlier blogs) are sitting.  Their faces are red, they are rocking back and forth and then Crooked Parking Princess lets out a snort because she is laughing so hard.  Tears are rolling down their faces.  My boss is sitting there, along with some of the other managers.  I hear their laughter. Trainer Dude carries on about how "poopy people" like CassAndra just suck the life out of you and "smear poop everywhere."  My face was red.  I sat there quietly and took the lashing and the laughter knowing it was all meant in good fun.

I couldn't help but think, as I sat there, "why me?"  Why was he drawn to me?  He didn't know me. Was I being punked?  I mean, sure, I mock perky, happy people.  And, I don't like to talk to people in the morning, unless I have to.  And, let's face it, during the rest of the day either.  In my defense, I try not to talk to people, they are the ones that provoke me.  Trainer Dude didn't mention that the poopy people might be justified.  What caused this to happen? 

The "training" finally ended and people looked at me, a little scared, a little amused.  All of them wondering what my wrath would be.  I had people say, "I don't think you are poopy, CassAndra."  Everyone had a poop joke.  I got back to my desk and my instant messaging system was lit up.  Apparently word of my starring role in the scenario was traveling.  Everyone thinks they are hilarious.  A couple of the managers came to see how I was holding up and said I handled it so well.  Well, what was I going to do?  Go up there and bust Trainer Dude's chops?  And then, as the winds once again turned, I saw Trainer Dude coming up to Boss number 1's office with our visiting VP.  I called him out, "You, Trainer Dude, I wanna talk to you..."  He looked for an escape route.  He was screwed.  I hassled him about it and told him due to his random defamation of character, he would need to put his head into the Spartacus cut-out at my desk and get his picture taken.  He declined.  I insisted.  I got his picture.  I own him now.  That is going into my collection to be used as I see fit.  If I didn't want to get fired, I'd post it here, but since I do have bills to pay, I will keep it within the walls of the Glass Palace. 

The follow-up to the training was that we had to take a survey and then fill out a worksheet about what we took away from the training and what we were willing to do as a result.  What were we committing to our supervisor that we would do?  I immediately took the survey and filled out my worksheet.  I wrote the following:  "I will continue to put my big girl undies on each day and deal with whatever it is that I need to.  I will also continue to provide my opinion as needed as a result of aforementioned "stuff."" I mean, come on, it isn't like I had a break through, I am the poopy person, those people don't change, right?  In reality, I might be grumpy, but I don't drag people down and I don't talk about my cat, unless she sh*ts in my flowerbed.

I don't really know what to expect for tomorrow.  I have to see Dr. Feel Good tomorrow, that will probably be my next kick-ass karma moment.  Can't. Wait.

KFC Catastophe or Food Karma?

It was a long day today.  Will, nor I, wanted to cook.  Will said, "just stop and get some Kentucky Fried Chicken."  I know better.  It's not on my list of acceptable foods to eat.  It's bad for me.  It's a bad idea.  So, I stopped at KFC on the way home and ordered a small family meal and, what the heck, let's get two apple pies, they are only .99 cents.  I'm pre-PMS'ing, so it seemed like a logical thing to do.  Maybe I should bring this up in therapy this week and see what Dr. Feel Good has to say.  Anyway, I ordered and felt it was a slight victory that I didn't order the chocolate cake for dessert.  Right?

The guy in the drive through was less than excited to be working at KFC.  I could tell.  I mean, it probably was 300 degrees in there, but still, freakin' get with the program.  According to my receipt his name is Theresa.  Look, I don't judge, if his name is Theresa, it is.  Whatever.  I have bigger concerns.

Anyway, I don't want to over-share on the events of the evening, so let's just say Will was happy to see me when I got home with the chicken.  I hadn't rubbed it all over myself or anything, but nonetheless, he seemed pumped. So, after he was no longer "pumped," we had our extra crispy chicken.  I know what you are thinking, "hey fatty, if you don't want to gain weight, why don't you order the grilled chicken?"  Well, they never have grilled chicken ready at dinner time.  It's a real inconvenience for a restaurant that serves dinner to not have dinner items, but KFC seems to thrive on mediocrity and sometimes, out and out failure.  Kind of like where I work sometimes, but I digress.

The chicken was dry-ish. Whatever. And don't even get me started on the biscuits.  Remember when KFC had good biscuits?  Remember how they were flaky and yummy and soft and you could eat like a six-pack?  Am I the only one that remembers that?  Well, now, they rival hockey pucks for flavor.  I guess good 'ol Col. Sanders great, great, grandson who needs to buy crack to survive decided to skimp on the biscuits and grilled chicken. 

Who eats this crap?  It's deep, deep, deep fat fried chicken, powdered potatoes, frozen biscuits and coleslaw that is laced with sugar.  My guts hate my guts for even thinking about it, let alone eating it.  I'll be having a serious conversation with my fatty liver and my gall bladder before the night is over.

But now, let's talk about the injustice of the whole evening.  My freaking apple pies.  Where are they?  They sure as hell are not in the bag.  I look at my receipt.  I sure paid for them.  They are no where to be found.  I am livid.  I was depending on that apple pie for some semblance of happiness.  I needed that deep fat fried crust with the warm processed apple goo inside.  That KFC, mother-trucking-zit-picking-sissy-named-disco-dancing-friend of Dorothy didn't put my friggin apple pies in the bag.  YOU.  BASTARD.  You don't treat fat people like this?  How am I supposed to maintain my daily caloric intake?  We don't keep crap in the house, so now I'm screwed.  Will says, "Call them."  I don't want to call them, I want to be sitting on the couch, scratching and watching some sort of reality TV eating my mother-trucking apple pies!!!  What are they going to do?  Deliver them?  I'm not driving back down there.  I'm in my underwear and have no intention of making myself presentable.  The only thing missing is my single wide trailer, my pit-bull chained to my truck bumper and a beer in my hand to really class up this moment.

I'm mad.  So, I get the receipt and I take their friggin "Tell us how we are doing!" survey.  I don't ever want to talk to the dumb-asses, so I take the survey as Will.  He won't care.  The survey made me angry too, so by the time I got to the open comment section, I decided to go white-trash on them.  I told them the following: "I ordered and paid for friggin applie pies and you didn't give them to me.  My wife is PMS'ing and I needed those friggin' pies.  This was a real buzz kill."  I provided them with all of Will's pertinent information so that they could contact him and we could get some apple pies the next time we go in.  At this point, due to the severity of the situation, they owe me 100 apple pies.  This is serious and they need to learn a lesson.  Stupid Theresa the drive through guy.

Some might say that this is food karma.  I didn't need the apple pies, but I wanted them.  The Universe just told me no.  The Universe just said to me, "I'm tired of listening to you talk about being fat, stop eating sh*t!"
I want to know where the survey is for The Universe.  I have a few things to say to The Universe.  Or, it could have been divine intervention and if that is the case, I guess I'll hold off on God's survey, I don't need any hassles with the law.  I didn't inhale and there is nothing more to see here.  Move along.

I still want an apple pie.

The "Snuggery" gave me an idea...

On the way to work today, I heard about a woman that was unemployed, so decided to start her own business.  I guess she calls it a "snuggery."  Basically, she charges people $60 per hour to come and just snuggle with her.  Clothes on, no hanky panky, just straight up, big spoon, little spoon action.  I guess her business is thriving.  She says some guys do get turned on and get a boner, but says, "it's perfectly normal."  She insists nothing happens as a result of these forbidden boners.  Just snuggling. That's it.  I'm not even "huggy," this wouldn't work for me.

All this got me to thinking, there must be something I can do to earn some cash.  I mean, I have talents, right? Let's see, what do I know a lot about that people might pay for?  I mean, I've given riding lessons and trained horses, but I need something that a broader spectrum of people could benefit from.  Hmmmm...

Ok, option one: Jedi Bitch School.  I mean come on, I am the Yoda of this.  People come up to my desk and totally piss me off.  I look at them, silently, yet forcefully, letting the offenders know that I think they suck.  No words are spoken, no weapons used, I remain calm until forced to engage into warfare, at which time, I raise up my middle finger in a battle cry and go forth with sarcastic disdain for their behavior.  I never have to leave my chair.  I think this could net me some cash.  And if people wanted to really learn the sarcasm, I could offer additional training on How to be a Smart Ass and Still Keep Your Job.

Option two: Proper Pranx Ettiquette.  I thought about calling it "The Spanxery," but I think people might get the wrong idea.  I'm talking about people that wear fat controlling devices (FCD's).  I mean, come on, look around, people are fat and they need support.  Big girls in search of flat bellies and smooth thighs...and men too.  My pal, Alligator Horse Guy, was wearing his today.  I didn't know they made man Spanx, but they do. Hooray for equality!  He couldn't wait to get home and unleash his belly.  Anyway, if you read my previous blog about Pranx, you know these spandex contraptions can be difficult, frustrating, and let's face it, dangerous.  You ever see a fat girl with one leg in her Pranx, hopping, trying to get her other leg in, but the Pranx are stuck to her leg and then she loses her balance and falls down?  I'm not saying it's happened to me, I'm just saying, the danger is real.  Or, maybe you get Pranx too small because you want to look like the Barbie doll on the package?  It will pop your spleen right out your nose.  Or, consider getting so mad at your Pranx that you cut them off and in the process, you stab yourself with scissors.  I'm telling you, do not purchase Pranx without the proper training.  Additionally, you will need to know how to adjust your Pranx while in public without all the skinny people realizing you are rolling your one leg down while pulling your waist band up.  Yes, indeed, this could be lucrative for me.  I could probably get the Surgeon General's endorsement for my program.  I see book deals, infomercials, support groups...yes, this has possibilities.

Option three: JibJab & Faceinhole Academy.  I see amateurs making Jib Jabs with jagged edges on the heads, or picking the lame e-card options.  No, come on, get it right.  You get your cropping points correct and you put your parents heads in the Olivia Newton-John workout video dance and laugh until you cry.  Then you post it on their facebook page and you wait for all of their uptight friends to be aghast at how it looks like your parents are dry-humping while working out.  This is the gift that keeps on giving.  Or, you create a bogus reason to get your bosses picture and you put it in the Luau dance where two men are wearing coconut shells and stroking their belly buttons while dancing half-naked.  You will pee yourself.  People just don't know the right way to do these things.  Then, there is Faceinhole.  This site alone provides unlimited amounts of fun.  Say you want to completely lie on a dating site about being a fatty.  Just plug your face into Pamela Anderson's Baywatch body and presto, profile picture!  So you look a little different when you meet your guy in person.  He's seen your picture, he knows, with the right diet, you will have enormous boobs and a tight ass.  By the time he figures out it was all a lie, you will have fattened him up a little bit and ruined his self-esteem so that he won't leave you.

Those are just the few I can think of now, but what about collecting ponies, or how to tell when your husband just bought guns and won't fess up.  I really think my solution to long term wealth is here.  I just need to decide.

Good Boob Day, Bad Bra Day...

Any day that you come home, step out of your truck and walk towards the house with your purse and lunch pail in one hand and your bra in the other, it's been a hard day.  And, inside the lunch pail is my FCD( fat controlling device). It was a rough one. The impromptu thunder and lightening that kept me awake half the night combined with the fact it was my first day back after five days off and we have executive visitors coming this week, well, just shoot me already.

The day started out simple enough.  I woke up tired and pissed off, like any other day.  I put on a new bra that I had purchased over the weekend and it felt good.  It lifted and separated.  It made me look like I had boobs.  And, ladies, correct me if I am wrong, but if you are having a good boob day, what else can you ask for?  Well, hair of course, but let's not get greedy.

I arrived at work and looked around.  We still had some work to do to be ready for the VIP's visit, which begins tomorrow.  Sigh.  I was hoping it would be done so we could just work out the last minute details.  This was beyond details.  I was instantly pissy, but at least I was having a good boob day.  Fast forward about 30 minutes.  I hate my new bra.  It started pinching and poking me on the sides of my boobs.  This made me even crabbier.  My boss came in and said "good morning" and I couldn't even look at him.  He hadn't done anything wrong, but his mere presence was a reminder of my projects that needed to be done today. 

I found myself getting snippier and snippier as the day progressed.  As I was walking around moving stand up movie poster things around the center, I noticed my pink tape dispenser on a random desk.  Who in the eff took my pink tape dispenser?  There was no authorization for this blatant thievery.  I went back to my desk, sat down and composed the following message to send to the suspected offenders: "Dear Crossfit Crazy & High Heel Barbie, you do not, nor did you have authorization to take my pink tape dispenser.  Do not ever do this again. Failure to comply will lead to decapitation."  I don't mess around with these people.  This is bullsh*t.  What next? My pink, heart-shaped pop-up post-it dispenser?  You have to set boundaries.

As the day continued, I could not contain my hostility. I had told Thong Barbie that she sucked at Power Point presentations, I had barked at a parking lot violator and had snipped at Valerie for losing the wire that we use for balloon arches. Doesn't anyone know how to put things away anymore?!  Additionally, I had told the new hire class that this was not Glamor Shots and that yes, I probably would go to my desk, load their pictures and mock them, without remorse, before sending their badge requests in.  Then, one of my bosses decided that we needed to do a walk-thru of the center and check for problem areas.  Mind you, we just did this last week.  But, this is my job, so I dutifully follow him as he looks at each cubicle with scrutiny.  He asked me at one cube, "don't you think we should have them clean that up?"  I looked at him and said, "See, this isn't a good time to ask me that, because what I want to tell you is that I don't give a crap what happens with that."  He looked at me, like maybe he should say something to me about my attitude, but then changed his mind.  He knew it was a lost cause.  I continued to follow him around like a dutiful servant until I couldn't take it anymore and I told him, "I don't have all day, I have sh*t to do."  And with that, the inspection was over.

I returned to my desk. My bra was applying so much pressure I thought I might go insane.  Finally, I couldn't take it, I had to go home. I packed my FCD up inside my lunch pail that I had brought just in case things got out of hand, and then left. Upon arriving safely inside my truck, I took the bra off.  Liberation was mine.  My boobs returned to their normal residences of southeast and southwest.  I looked down and all I could see was my belly.  My boobs assumed the position of "non existent."  My seatbelt had no where to reside, no boob cleavage to be wedged in.  I'm lucky I wasn't beheaded with the damn seat belt.

I arrived home and Will stepped out to greet me and there I was, purse and lunch pail in one hand and bra in the other.  I walked up the steps, put my bra in his hand and walked past him into the house.  Finally, now I can take off my pants....but that is another story.