Geico Pig or John McClaine?

I had a pretty wild weekend.  I fought with allergies, I took a Benedryl, was rendered unconscious and upon rousing from my drug induced, drooling coma, I decided to go shooting with Will.  Drugs and guns, why not?  I said I would just watch, so I went along with Will and my sister.  She had never shot a gun before, so I could at least mock her, right? 

On the way to the middle of nowhere, where we would find the gravel pit of destruction, I think the Benedryl took an odd turn.  I don't know what happened, the window came down and my sister and I ended up hanging our head out the window screaming "Weeeeee, Weeeeeeee, Weeeeee...." like that stupid pig on the Geico insurance commercials.  ( in case you need to see it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9H3KwVH_dE).  I don't know what was happening.  Our heads were out the windows and we lost all sense of...well....sense.  Will just shook his head, what else could he do?

Upon arriving at the pit of doom, we proceeded to shoot a lot of random objects.  It was great fun. At one point, I had Will's .44 Magnum Carbine rifle in my hands and I screamed, "Yippe ki ya Mother F'er!"  and shot the gun a few times.  Will was like, "what in the hell are you doing?"  At that moment I was John McClaine.  I was the meanest SOB you ever wanted to cross.  I got all crazy for a moment, I wanted to run around and shoot everything and scream like Rambo on crack.  I wanted to be in camo and face paint.  I wanted to walk out of the woods, a little ragged from battle, maybe some blood on my face, maybe some steam or smoke behind me.  I wanted to be that badass.  Will took the gun away and I returned to the "viewing" area and sat in my camo folding chair and sat quietly.  Then, in a moment of brilliance, I grabbed my 30-30 and had my sister capture the moment on film.  I walked behind a tree and posed, like a BAD ASS.  In retrospect, looking at the picture now, I wook wike I am hunting wabbits.  I wasn't going for Elmer Fudd, but that's what happened.

Anyway, we all lived to tell the tale.  Someone looked at the picture today and said that I lost credibility since I was wearing capri pants.  I didn't know I couldn't be bad ass in capri pants and Sketchers.  I didn't know I was going to be that bad ass. I didn't know all that repressed glass palace aggression was going to come out.  I mean, it doesn't come as  big surprise, but still.  I wasn't prepared.  Next time, I'm wearing camo.

And so the day would finish.  I went to bed tired and yet replenished, ready for Monday. Or, so I thought. I woke up this morning, took a shower and as I finished, there was  knock at the door.  Seems one of my sister's horses decided she had enough in the neighbors pasture and was headed home (about a quarter mile down the road).  Apparently, she was headed there fast, like the Pony Express in Indian territory.  Turns out she was in heat and was headed for the stallion.  Who was I, in my pony pj's, to stop her.  I rounded up the other horse and secured her.  Upon realizing the horny pony was safe, I returned to my work preparedness plan.  It was going to be one of those days.

I arrived at work and it seemed to be going okay.  It was quiet, too quiet.  I survived all day without incident. Something was not right.  My spidey senses were keen.  And then, it happened.  My boss waited until there were were enough witnesses around and a desk between us and he was getting ready to leave and then he dropped the bomb.  It was cute how he delivered it, like it was a question, like I had a choice, like it was up to me, but we both knew what was happening.  I think they call it being "rail-roaded."  He advised me that we needed a "point of contact" for the big move the call center needed to make.  It made sense for me to be that person.  A million thoughts went through my mind.  I just gritted my teeth and allowed it to happen.  I had no choice. 

To put it in perspective, we have to move the whole south module of the building to the north module, where there is no call center.  We are essentially starting from scratch.  We have around 250 people in my department alone that are going to whine. It's going to take a lot of building areas and adding equipment and organizing.  It's going to suck.  People have since come forth and offered their sympathies and advised I need a hard hat, a bull horn, and a clip board.  To all of you, I say no.  If I learned anything over the weekend, what I need is a holster, some ammo and my 30-30 rifle.  Someone has to keep the peace and it might as well be me.  I have two choices, I can be the Geico pig, or I can be Rambo, the Terminator or Spartacus.  I think you know where I'm going with this.  That's right, time to go to Cabela's and get supplies.

Yippe Ki Ya Call Center...Yippie Ki ya.

Stealthy Fat Girl Eats Chocolate and Kills Intern

One of my bosses has been gone all week.  In his absence, he left Life Coach Barbie in charge.  It actually worked out pretty well because she has been super nice.  She would be out of her mind to ride my ass this week.  She needed me and she knew it.  She told everyone, "I'm giving Cassondra the week off from life coaching since she is working extra hard this week while I am filling in."  She did, however, calorie block me all week.  Someone would say, "Hey Cassondra, I have extra ice cream sandwiches if you want one..."  Life Coach Barbie would chime in, "She can't have those."  Whatever.  You don't get between a fat girl and ice cream.  I looked at her and said, with a feeling of victory, "The only reason I am not going to have an ice cream sandwich is because someone already gave me one earlier and I don't think I need two."  She shook her head and walked away.  You've got to monitor this situation 24/7 if you have any hopes of stopping me. I'm stealthy for a fat girl.  And ice cream, that is a covert operation worthy of the risk.

To further prove to Life Coach Barbie that she is not the boss of me, I went so far as to buy some almond Hershey's Kisses while I was at the store picking up some gift cards for work.  The only thing that slowed me down from consuming the bag in one afternoon was those damn little foil wrappers.  Who decided those were necessary?  I mean, they actually have to go to the extra effort to wrap the little bastards up and they have to put one of those stupid tags inside.  You think I don't know it is a Hershey's Kiss?  I'm damn-well counting on it being a chocolate kiss.  Dumb.  Then, I'm throwing the wrappers towards my garbage can, which was only a success story a fraction of the time. It looked like a pinata took an explosive dump under my desk.  You know how hard it is to get those damn little paper wrappers to fly and make it into the garbage can?  Well, it's very hard. And then those damn foil things, even when you ball them up, they bounce off the rim of the garbage can.  Son of a bitch.  So, now, I'm bent over under the desk trying to pick all this crap up so I don't look like I really did just chain smoke a bag of Hershey Kisses and I go to put my head up and my hair gets stuck in the lock to my desk drawer.  I bonked my head on the drawer first, then the lock grabbed a section of my hair, I jerked back and now it looks like my desk drawer has a freaking pony-tail. Crime doesn't pay and my body will not listen. Food karma rears it's ugly head again. Although, I wonder if all that bending over to pick up the wrappers burns calories...? You think? It's a stretch, I know.

This brings me to the "back-up" package of Dove Dark chocolate pieces that have the almonds in them.  Those are a better choice. Sure, again they are wrapped, but you get a better throw to the garbage can with those wrappers and no stupid skinny papers telling you it is a Dove chocolate.  Also, you don't eat as much dark chocolate because it is so rich.  This is what I tell myself and it seems to comfort me in some way.

Anyway, I don't think I am the only person that thinks about food while I am at my desk.  Today, the intern from another state instant messages me.  He's coming to visit in a couple of weeks to my work site.  He says, "Hey are we going to eat together when I come up?"  I sat there, baffled.  First of all, I don't want to get all friendly and have lunch with the intern.  Second, it's two weeks away and NO, I have not considered if we will eat together.  Hadn't thought about it and now that I do think about it, I've decided I'm not going to think about it anymore.  I wrote back in a language he would understand, "IDK."  For those of you uneducated in the lingo of a college intern, that means "I don't know."  Then he starts asking if there are a lot of good places to eat and if there is a cafeteria on site.  Dude, relax.  I tell him there is a McDonalds across the street and vending machines downstairs.  He says, and I quote, "oh man, I'm going to have to bring hella snacks!  I get hungry."  This is the future, people.  Today's graduates.  I inform him that I bring my lunch and I survive every day.  I leave out the part where I binge on chocolate.  I blame that on 50 Shades of Grey.

I started to consider the intern's visit a little more.  I don't want to be all friendly.  Why do people think I'm friendly?  I mean, I am friendly, but also, with an air of, "I'll kick your mother-scratching ass if you cross me."  I thought I had been clear.  Damn it. Well, maybe I'm going to have to scare the intern a little when he is here.  No, wait, I just had my mid-year review and my boss told me I had to be nicer to his department.  Apparently my sarcasm and  my passionate "search for justice and what is right" is not always appreciated.  Who knew?  Shit.  Now I have to be nice to this kid.  Ok, I'll do it, but I am not holding hands and skipping to McDonalds because he is hungry.  I've got plenty of chocolate to survive on, I don't need his help. I guess I won't worry about it yet.  I have two weeks to prepare.  And, Life Coach Barbie will be riding my ass again next week, which means I'll probably have a lot of pent up aggression.  I pity Hungry Intern, actually.  He's toast, no pun intended.

Now, if you will excuse me, I think I hear the dark chocolate M&M's calling from the freezer...and 50 Shades...I'm on page 180...gotta go....

Eeyore is My Spirit Guide

Today, I had to cut Dr. Feel Good loose.  I called Dr. Feel Good and left a message telling her I had to break up with her.  I told her it wasn't personal, but that I didn't feel our personalities meshed well.  I guess that is kind of personal, oh well, woops.  Between her having the body of a stick bug and all the awkward silences, I couldn't take it anymore.  I have now found a new therapist.  I can't "blog name" her yet as I have only seen her twice and I get the feeling her name will come in good time.  So far, I like her. She doesn't look at my belly, she doesn't get that look on her face when I talk about that Haagen Das ice cream bar I ate yesterday, and she doesn't force me through awkward silences. 

During today's session, we talked about my core beliefs.  Turns out, my core beliefs suck and mirror those of Eeyore.  This isn't a new revelation, but grim news nonetheless.  I need to change those core beliefs.  This is going to take time.  I told the new therapist about Life Coach Barbie and her plan to "fix" me.  Life Coach Barbie wants me to journal about all the positives and talk positive and all that crap. So far, the journal is empty.  According to the new therapist, there are a few steps in between and it will be more of a gradual change.

All this got me to thinking, maybe I don't need to do all this soul searching.  Maybe I just need to cut through the crap.  The therapist says I need to change my core belief and Life Coach Barbie is banking on that I can do it right now, so, here is what I came up with on the way home.

• First step, severe shock therapy.  I mean, shock the crap out of me.  Put one of those dog collars on me and if I even say one thing negative, shock me until I piss myself.
• Second step, convince myself that I will be successful, no matter what.  Why entertain the idea that I might not succeed?  Why question the methods?  I will just know I will achieve it.
• Third step, create a meal plan.  Breakfast, donut & hot chocolate. Lunch, corn dog and Mountain Dew, Dinner, Cheeseburger, Fries, Coke and for desert, apple pie ala mode.
• Fourth step, exercise.  Surfing channels on TV.

Seriously, if I believe it and think positive, it will happen.  I just have to BELIEVE it.  It's that simple.  All these years I have been thinking that I needed the perfect storm, but I was wrong.  I just have to convince myself and be positive about it.  For example, "This cheeseburger sure is yummy, isn't it wonderful that it isn't going to adhere to my ass?"  Believe it, that's all.

And, I will journal about positive things every day.  For example, "I had a great time doing expense reports!"  "I loved it when I started my period today, isn't the physiology of a woman's body wonderful?  Isn't shedding your old uterus every month a gift from God?"  "I can't believe how my boss told me at lunch time that we needed 50 pizza's right away to feed the center, why, I am so fortunate to have been there to feed the hungry."  "Wow, look at that crap stain on the toilet, isn't it wonderful that person's bowels are moving and they are not constipated?" " Isn't it great news that social security will be gone by the time I retire? I'm going to love building a home from cardboard and getting health care from Crazy Dr. Ed out back behind the mission hall.  What exciting changes!"

This is all I have to do.  I can do this, right?  I can change my core belief that I am going to die fat, in a pair of Spanx bent over the counter at Baskin Robbins, right?  Why didn't I think of this before.  I can't wait to start my journal!

I don't know, maybe I should see my therapist a few more times before I commit to anything. Crap, there goes Eeyore again.  Maybe skipping steps in this process isn't going to work.  No, refer back to steps one through four.  I can do this.  I can haz cheezburger!

50 Shades of oversharing...

So, my friend at work gave me all three Shades of Grey books to read.  I hear they are pretty racy, so, you know, why not, let's see what all the hub-bub is about.  I started reading the first book last night, it was the quietest two hours my husband and I have ever spent together.  I'm sure Will enjoyed me not complaining about him being on the computer or watching TV.

In the two hours I spent, I read to page 122.
 (I'm going to tell you right now, this is about to be more of an over-share than you are prepared for.  It's not too late to stop reading.  This is your last warning.)

By page 122, the first sexual encounter was out of the way.  Now, I don't want to ruin it for anyone, but the girl is a virgin.  The encounter described is nothing short of magical.  I mean, that is why we read this stuff, right? Still, I couldn't help but think that it was the biggest bunch of crap I had ever heard.  No one has three orgasms their first time.  No one does it once and then says, "oh yeah, let's do that again, RIGHT NOW!"  No one.  And, if I'm wrong, I'd actually like to hear from that person.

Let me tell you how it went down for me for my first time.  I thought this guy, Dirtbag, was all that and a bag of chips.  He was funny, kinda cute, smart (and later would find out, a player and a liar, but I digress).  We played couch gymnastics and while he wasn't very good at gymnastics, I thought, why not?  For those of you unfamiliar with couch gymnastics, that is when you make-out on the couch until your head is down in the crease between the arm rest and the cushion, he's on top, you are kind of upside-down, your shirt is kind of off, your bra has been pushed up on one side exposing your boob, and now cutting it in half and your pants may or may not be unbuttoned.    In fact, you're stuck...in the couch... and you look like you may have just been a victim of a crime.

Anyway, after couch gymnastics going so well, it was clearly time to take it to the next level on the next date.  I was an adult when this happened.  I should have had better judgement, but I wanted to be kicked off The Virgin Islands in a bad way and, I guess, Dirtbag would have to do.

It was the perfect set up, he puts the movie Open Range on and we are allegedly just going to watch the movie.  First, the movie is boring as hell.  Second, he starts in on couch gymnastics.  Things are progressing, turns out, I'm kind of a slut.  The underwear are off and he holds them up and says, "wow, these are smaller than I would expect."  Yep, he just called me fat.  I should have kicked him in the nuts.  Refer back to the fact that I wanted off the island.  So, then, I'm all naked and he informs me he needs condoms, he has to run to the store.  Awkward.  I just sit there for a second and think, this is stupid and get dressed part way.  Dirtbag returns with his condoms and we move to the bedroom.  We get naked and he is completely hairless, even more so than one of those hairless cats. It's Creepy.  He asks me if I want to touch his thing-a-ma-bob.  Nope, not really. I keep waiting for that thing called "foreplay" to happen.  A quick version of wax-on, wax-off on my boobs and we were ready for the big show.  I know how to pick them.

We are finally, "doing it" and he says, "oh no, my [thing-a-mabob] just went numb."  Now, I'm not a trained professional, but I don't think this is normal.  He says he is allergic to the lube on the condom and so leaves to go to the store to get different ones.  I'm not making this up.  Seriously.

He returns and again, skip the foreplay and head for the main event (putting the peg in the hole).  He's going along and I'm  thinking, why exactly did I want to leave the island?  THIS is it?  Then, in mid coitus he stops and says serious into my face, "Don't even think about faking it....are you close?"  Close to what? Boredom?  So, he finally finishes without the big finale, damn condoms anyhow.  He does the complimentary cuddle and tells me it's time for me to go.  This is where I got even, by accident.

Turns out, my first time was as close to an animal sacrifice as you could get.  Blood everywhere.  He is freaking out because he is a total neat freak and it is all over the sheets and has soaked through to the mattress.  The sheets are whipped off, I'm ushered to the shower and he attempts to clean up.  Now, it's on his towels, it's everywhere.  Woops.

I get myself together and go home.  He calls me in a panic when I get home.  "Are you home, did you make it okay? What took you so long?"  I said, "yes, I'm home. What is the big deal?"  He said, "There is so much blood here that if anything happened to you, everyone would think I killed you at my apartment!"  This was the last time I saw him.  Thanks for the ride off the island, Dirtbag.

It's romantic stories like this that make me call bullshit on 50 Shades of Grey and the story about how one girl got her grove on three times on the first night.  Where was my hot millionaire?  I got the lying Dirtbag.  Don't get me wrong, I'm going to keep reading the book, I'm just saying, who makes this crap up?  A woman that had sex with Dirtbag the first time, that's who, so I guess fantasy isn't all that bad.

(disclaimer: this story is not about Will, just in case anyone was wondering.  I got much smarter after Dirtbag).

Monday is rodent removal day...

It was my first day back after my week long vacation. Not a fun day.  It started at 3AM when my good dog Spanky was wimpering.  He had the last week to wake up whimpering when I could have cared less and gone back to bed and slept for hours, but no, on this morning, he needed outside at exactly 3AM.  I let him outside, forced the other two out of bed and then waited. Apparently, the 3AM yard patrol was more thorough than most mornings, because it took them forever to return to the door.  I put them back away and returned to my bed.  Do you think I could go back to sleep?  No.  I was awake to hear Will's alarm clock go off at 3:30AM, 3:37AM, 3:44AM and again at 3:51AM.  Apparently he didn't want to get up either as I laid there and listened to him hit the snooze alarm all four times. 

Finally, Will got up, got ready for work and left.  Spanky came up and got into bed assuming the man of the house spot.  We spooned and both of us finally fell back asleep.  I'm sure he was thinking about whether or not he should lick his butt and I was thinking about what I should wear.  We both succumbed to the darkness and slept until my alarm went off at 5:15AM, again at 5:22AM, again at 5:29AM and then again at 5:36AM.  I finally got up an went about my morning routine.  It was going to be a drag-ass kind of day.

I arrived at work and Life Coach Barbie was waiting close to my desk, "Good Morning!!! Welcome back!!!"  She was all jacked up and perky.  I hate that.  I mumbled good morning back to her.  She says, "Now come on, don't be grumpy.  Why would you be grumpy, you just had vacation!"  I wanted to stuff her into a drawer.  I said, "I'm not grumpy."  She pressed on, "Did you bring your shoes so we can walk today?"  I said, "Nope."  She said, "Well, what size are your feet, we'll find some."  I said, "I'm not walking today."  She was on dangerous ground and pressed on, "Stop being grumpy and negative."  I repeated, "I am not being grumpy, I am being factual, we are not walking today."  You couldn't bring her down, "Ok, well make sure you bring them tomorrow!"  I had shoes down in my gym locker, but I sure as hell wasn't giving her that information.  She asked if I had written in my journal while on vacation.  I said, "Nope."  She asked why not.  I said, "Aren't I supposed to write down three positive things I did to contribute to making my weight loss goal?"  She agreed, that was the plan.  I continued, "So, yeah, I didn't journal."  She continued on with some sort of positive rambling and I just said, "uh-huh" and went about the business of settling in.

Shortly after our inspirational start to the day, there was a crisis at the glass palace.  A "rat" had crawled on to one of those sticky pad mouse traps and died, probably over the weekend.  No one would touch it.  Life Coach Barbie asked Pansy Boy to go dispose of it.  Pansy Boy wasn't going to do it.  He required gloves or he wasn't going near it.  Life Coach Barbie was at a loss.  I said, "Are you sure this is a rat?  It is probably just a little mouse. "Well, Pigtail Friday Girl said it was a rat."  I couldn't take it anymore.  We were moments from calling in some sort of SWAT team or hazardous materials specialist when I said, "I'll do it.  I'm a farmgirl, it isn't like I haven't ever seen a dead animal."  I go over there wondering where in my job description it mentioned anything about rodent disposal.  I'm adding this to my third quarter accomplishments for my year-end review.  I arrive at Pigtail Friday Girl's desk and ask where this humongous rat is and she grimmaces and points to the corner.  I look over and there it is, a baby mouse, maybe two inches at full length.  It was in the middle of the sticky pad, so I picked up the edge of the sticky pad and hauled it off the the garbage.  All I could think is that some man had convinced Pigtail Friday Girl  what "big" was and really did her a disservice.  

I returned to my desk and went about my day.  My boss had been missing for some time and finally re-appeared.  Apparently he had been off on the edge of the property checking out what could be some sort of homeless people cemetery.  The last several years the homeless have been taking over around where I work.  Apparently there was some sort of bum-gang-brawl in the parking lot last week and now this discovery.  Creepy.  One night I fully expect to go out to my truck and find some guys sleeping in the bed of it.

Anyway, I had a variety of issues come up during the day.  No Email Girl came up and told me her email wasn't working.  I did what I believe would fix the problem and then sent an email out to the entire distro.  But wait, I'm smart.  In the subject line I typed, "Test for No Email Girl ONLY. No Email Girl if you get this, plz respond...everyone else, remain calm."  See, this way, I won't get 250 responses.  No Email Girl will be the only one.  And then it started.  An email from Dudley Dumbass comes in, "Got it."  I responded back, "so YOUR name is No Email Girl?"  I couldn't help it.  Then my Nakie friend responded, I sent her a reply that said, "Are you KIDDING ME?!  Is YOUR name No Email Girl?"  No one reads emails.  It kills me.  I called a couple of other people stupid and then the problem seemed to stop.  My work here is done.  The good news is, I fixed No Email Girl's problem.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful.  I hadn't worn a bra or FCD for a week, so I was growing irritated, but still, not to a hostage level.  I had some chocolate.  I hadn't had Dove chocolate for a week and now, after grazing on it, I felt sick to my stomach.  Somewhere, Life Coach Barbie just got goosebumps.  She just felt a victory and she doesn't even know why.  I'm not telling her.  Don't you do it either.

Hallucinogenic Cake, Zombie Apocalypse and Sex

Went over to Mom's house last night to scrounge for dinner since we were having the usual conversation, "What do you want for dinner?"  "I don't know, what do you think?"  "Are you hungry?"  "I don't know, not really, but I should eat something."  And so it went.  Mom had some left overs from a horse back ride/camping trip she and her friend were catering over the weekend. We ate some left-overs and all was good.  Then I saw there was cake. Mom's friend makes this chocolate cake from scratch, it's good. It's moist, it's chocolaty, it has a frosting that is not your normal frosting.  It's yummy, and I had some.  Life Coach Barbie, if you read this, I don't know what to tell you, it just happened and I am not going to do 5 sit-ups for being naughty. 

Soon enough, it was time to leave.  As Will and I walked out to the truck, we couldn't help but notice how quiet it was.  The air was cool, no breeze, the sky was bright with stars and it was quiet...too quiet.  I said to Will, "It's spooky quiet."  He agreed and we went home.  As we were laying in bed, shortly after, he says that the reason it is so quiet could be due to the zombie apocalypse.  I asked him if we had the proper amount of artillery in the house to handle the zombies.  Will wasn't confident that we did.  I sense a business case being built for buying a new gun.  Anyway, Will said that we needed bigger bullets and that we needed a lot more, and on he went.  He lit up like a kid at Christmas.  I asked him if he really felt we were in danger from zombies.  He then proceeded to tell me that some people do believe that zombies will exist.  Apparently, there are people that snort bath salts or something and then they loose their mind and then want to come and eat our brains or something, I don't know, I wasn't completely listening.

Well, all this talk about zombies and guns got Will all frisky.  What the hell?  I can slather his favorite lotion on and walk around naked and I can't get action, but we talk about zombies and guns and he is all "romantic" suddenly.  I guess I need to change my seduction tactics.  Anyway, zombies lead to romance and we'll leave it at that.

Fast forward to me falling to sleep.  What happened during my hours of sleep can only be categorized as a hallucinogenic experience.  I don't know if it was the cake (I'll have to ask the Cake Master what her secret ingredients are), I don't know if it was the zombie talk, I don't know if it was the post zombie talk activities, but I had the weirdest freaking dreams.

It was end of times in my dream, I was living in the Brady Bunch house, my family was dead, and the FBI was coming to check my house because they wanted to make sure there were no drugs.  I knew there couldn't be drugs in the house, but suddenly all these kids showed up and started spreading toys out all over the roof to cover up some drugs they found in the rafters.  They got all the drugs except one bag that fell off the roof.  Suddenly, this guy shows up like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible and is rappelling off the house trying to get the drugs.  Then, all these people started coming in the house, but I didn't know if they were zombies or FBI and I was running from room to room.  It was chaos. And more importantly, why were drugs hidden in the house? No wonder my Mom is always believing that everything is going to be okay and has that PollyAnna attitude. Anyway, I don't remember all the details now, but I woke up feeling like I was lucky to be alive.  I survived some sort of zombie/FBI raid.

Now that I'm awake, I guess it's time to do a Google search for zombie sleepwear.  A girl has to do, what a girl has to do.  Oh, and bullets...I'm going to need more bullets.