So, What are YOU thinking?

Will and I took a road trip yesterday.  We drove over to Wenatchee to meet his parents for lunch since that is the half-way point for both of us.  Driving over Stevens Pass seems like it takes forever sometimes.  As Will drove and I sat quietly in the passenger seat, my mind thought about a lot of stuff.  Occasionally, Will would say, "Whatcha thinkin?"  And I would say, "nothing."  It was a lie, but he wasn't prepared to hear the answer, so why open that door?  My mind is open 24/7.  It doesn't ever rest and it analyzes and goes over A LOT of stuff, ALL THE TIME.  Even in my sleep I do not get a break.  My therapist says this is more normal for women.  Men just don't work that way.

On the way home, Will asked again, "Whatcha thinkin'?"  I said, "Nothing."  He seemed satisfied with that answer.  I said, "What are YOU thinking?"  He said, "Nothing."  I didn't believe him.  It isn't possible.  I said, "You know, when I say "nothing" it's a lie, right?"  He said he knew.  I said, "So, that means you must be thinking about something."  He said, really, no, he wasn't. I said, "So you are telling me that there is NOTHING going on up there?  You aren't thinking about anything? Solving any problems, thinking about plans for the future? Wondering how in the heck you ended up here at this moment? Nothing? It's just the sound of crickets up there?"  He said, "yes."  I looked at him skeptically. This just isn't possible.  I said, "Don't you ever wonder what I'm thinking about if you know that I'm thinking about something?"  He said that he didn't really know how to get me to talk if I didn't want to.  That's it. Game on.  I said, "So you are telling me, you don't think about your life? I think about how I feel at that moment, why am I so fat, why can't I change that? I should have changed that, why couldn't I? Should I have surgery? Should I try a new diet? Should I buy new clothes? If I do buy new clothes, how will I afford them? Where will I go?  What will I buy? Do I want Jeggings? What am I going to wear to work on Monday?  Will I get up on time on Monday? When I get to work, what will happen?  Should I do my expense report? That reminds me, I need to order gift cards.  I wish I had some gift cards. I should go to target and buy a rack to hang up my hair stuff in the bathroom.  Maybe I should cut my hair, I don't know if I will like it.  If I do that, my face will look fat. Why am I so fat?  I hate having my picture taken because I'm so fat.  My cell phone takes pictures.  I kind of like it, but it kind of makes me mad.  I need to go talk to those girls that sold me the phone. Those girls are weird, they are all about animal print.  I don't like animal print.  I would never get animal print bedding.  I need to wash our sheets tomorrow.  Probably should clean the bathroom too.  I have a lot to do tomorrow... So, yeah, don't tell me you don't think about ANYTHING!"  Will just looked at me and said, "Wow."  It was quiet for a few moments and as we drove past some side road he said, "Sometimes I wonder where that road goes..."  I said, "yeah, and that's it?  Then you just go back to crickets, right?"  He agreed.  I told him I just can't comprehend that.  It is such a foreign concept that I'm going to need some time to think about the fact that I just can't understand that.

The trip went on and Will started to get tired, so we pulled over and I got in the drivers seat.  I was tired too, but probably not as much as Will.  He slept for a short time and then woke up.  I needed someone to talk to to keep me awake, so the following conversation followed:

Me: Whatcha Thinking?
Will: Nothing.
Me: Crickets again?
Will: (glares at me just a little) Well, I was thinking I have a little bit of a headache.
Me: Are you thinking about why you might have a headache? What might have caused it? Do you think it's me?
Will: No. I haven't thought about it.
Me: Well, you should.  I mean, do you think you have a headache because you need to eat? Not enough sleep?  A tumor? What?
Will: (now visibly irritated) Yeah, I think I have a tumor!
Me: What do you think caused the tumor?  Do you think it is stress related? Do you think it is the food you eat?
Will: (completely riled up now) Yes! I think it is all the broccoli you feed me! You are trying to kill me!
Me: Why do you think the broccoli could kill you? chemicals in the processing? use of the microwave? Why would I want to kill you?  Have you put any thought into that?
Will: I think you are trying to kill me!  Why are you trying to kill me?
Me:  I think the bigger questions is, why WOULD I want to kill you?  You need to take some time and think about that.
Will: Pull over at this gas station, NOW.  I need to clean the windshield.
Me: Why is it so important to clean it now?
Will: (glares at me) Just pull over.

As Will was cleaning the windshield, I thought, I wonder what he's thinking?  I think I've over stimulated him.  I don't think he is ready for this kind thought process.  He got back in and I said, "Do you want me to just say "nothing" from now on when you ask what I'm thinking?  Should we just go back to that? And, I'll just let you have your crickets?" He just looked at me, contemplating. I mean, it isn't fair.  He gets to shut down and I can't.  I'm a hot mess and he married this hot mess.  He agreed that I am a hot mess and that maybe talking about what I was thinking should just be left alone sometimes.

There is a special place in heaven for Will.  He has so much patience and he puts up with the "madness." I wonder why he does?  I wonder if it bothers him?  I wonder if one day he is just going to explode and tell me every thing he ever thought.  Will it only take a few minutes since he mostly just listens to crickets?  I don't know. But most importantly, what am I going to wear to work tomorrow?  Clearly, I've got some thinking to do.

I will NOT wear Jeggings...

So, I need new jeans. It's Fall now, so finally, all the jeans will be out.  Hooray! I went to Macy's knowing that I will find my friends, Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger and American Rag.  They are the jeans that fit me best with my messed up body. Occasionally, I'll even throw in a pair of Seven jeans if I feel particularly extravagant.  Tonight was the night and I was prepared to buy a couple of pairs.

I made my way to Porky's Place, aka Women's World or whatever you want to call it.  I'm walking around looking for what I hope will be the magical experience of the jeans I want on sale.  I was approached by what I can only assume was a stick bug.  Why was Stick Bug working in Porky's Place?  You don't put a skinny teenage stick bug in Porky's Place.  I was instantly pissed.  And, she is following me around, "Can I help you?" No, you cannot help me.  Let me roam among the fat girl jeans in peace.  I find some jeans that might work, so I'm holding them and she is like, "Can I get you a fitting room?"  Look, she's just doing her job, I know this, but I don't need Stick Bug stalking me in my hour of uncertainty and insecurity.  I tell her I'm fine, but since I'm not seeing the jeans I want, I ask her, "Are you carrying the American Rag jeans this year?"  She says, "oh yes, they are right over here, what size do you need?"  I tell her, "I don't know, it depends, I'll have to look at the styles..."  She brings me over to one rack of the ugliest maternity-meets-jeggings-meets-pajama-pants jeans.  I told her thank you and that I would look around.  I was horrified, sad and outraged.

First of all, when in the hell did stirrup pants come back in fashion?  WHO allowed this?  I want to bitch slap every designer out there.  I don't have stirrup pants legs!  I can't do this.  Secondly, who decided jeans should be made out of fabric that is a cross between spandex and Kleenex?  Seriously.  I have cellulite, people, I need structure, I need boundaries, I need shape.  The absence of structure creates blob legs.  I don't want blob legs.  And, I'm not ready for stretchy waistbands.  I didn't ask for this!  The society of all fat girls did not ask for this. This is not okay.  I depend on that ritual of negotiation in the morning where my jeans tell me to eff off and my finger goes missing some skin as I beg my zipper to come up.  And then, I look in the mirror and I am in the shape of a muffin and I know that I can't have hot chocolate on the way to work.  I count on this process to let me know I'm out of hand.  Son-of-a-bitch.

No Calvin, no Tommy and now, no American Rag.  This is the most disappointing thing that has happened since we found out that Coca-Cola was bad for us.  This is EPIC.  I settled on some Lucky Brand jeans, some INC jeans and some Seven Jeans.  I went into the fitting room and started trying them on.  It was horrifying.  Nothing is fitting right.  The legs are too long, there is too much "whiskering" on the thighs and holy mother of all things spandex, what is going on with the mermaid legs? And why are the pockets half way down my thighs in the back?  I can't go in public like this.  I try on the Seven Jeans hoping for some glimmer of hope. OH MY WORD, what happened to my ass?!? Is that MY ass?  Holy 40 year old ass!! When did it start looking like that?  It's flat and I've developed saggy fat girl butt in the part that should be round.  Where is the junk in my trunk?  Where is my apple bottom?  Why are the pockets so big?  What is happening?  I'm going to throw up, right here on the floor of the dressing room where some little girl has probably pissed herself while her Mom sat there sobbing because she just realized she had 40 year old ass.  I was devastated.  Why didn't someone tell me?  How long has this been going on?  Will didn't say anything...this is serious.  I have no boobs and no ass.  I am a disgrace to all girls with curves.  I don't have curves, just a really bad U-turn.

I walked out of the dressing room, deflated.  Stick Bug says all chipper, "You have any luck?"  Luck finding my flat ass, that's it.  I meandered over to the rack of Levi's.  I found a pair and went back in there.  My expectations were low and I found one pair that made me not throw up.  Magical moment indeed.  Somewhere a unicorn just died.  I took my jeans out to Stick Bug and she rings me up making chit chat.  I said, "I don't really know what is happening with fashion this season, but I'm not a fan.  These jeans are ridiculous."  She totally relates to me, "Oh, I KNOW!  I bought a pair of jeggings and after I wore them, they were like three sizes too big after I washed them, and I was like, no way...and then I got this other pair of pants and I thought they were black but it turns out they were really dark blue, I was so disappointed."  I stood there and blinked at her.  What was my pity party all about?  I mean, poor Stick Bug, her pants were too big and she got the wrong color.  I don't know how she gets out of bed in the morning.  Who knew you could stretch out a size zero?  I felt like I should console her, buy her flowers, hug her, something, I mean, she has been through so much.  I continued to just stare at her forehead as she talked and visualized I was engulfed in a warm blanket rocking back and forth petting my good dog Spanky...while wearing jeggings...

Finally, I left.  I took the escalator down to the main floor where normal-sized clothing was kept with the normal people.  I took my Levi's and I went home.  I would say that it's a tough day to be bootylicious but I wouldn't know, I'm apparently a relative of Sponge Bob Square Pants, I'm his cousin Blob Legs Square Ass.

I'm worn out, run down and sad.  Not sad enough to buy jeggings, but sad.  I mean, I'm not going to buy jeggings.  I won't.

I wonder when the jeggings will be on sale...

Secret Solutions

I've been trying to get creative with the wardrobe this week since I'm kind of pushing my jeans to the brink of their capacity.  I mean, it's so bad, one pair of jeans left me a suicide note in the dryer.  Anyway, I've been trying to find some things in my wardrobe that don't cut my waist in half and stick to my legs like a wet suit.  Today's choice was a dress I purchased months ago.  I ordered it on-line.  It looked really good on the skinny girl in the fat girl catalog, so I bought it.  The problem is, it hits just above the knees, which is fine, except I have knee back fat.  I hate the backs of my knees.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again, why couldn't I have gotten the extra fat in my boob area instead of in bad places like the backs of my knees?  Ok, so I'm digressing again.  So, anyway, I considered my options, cut in half, or showing fat knees?  I decided fat knees weren't so bad.  My internal organs would thank me later.

Now, to complete the ensemble, just to be safe, I wore some tights to distract from my ghost white legs and then, I needed to make sure the upper body had the proper amount of support, so I put on a kind of Pranx that is like a tank top, but cuts under your boobs, so as not to smoosh the little boobs you do have down. It actually lifts them up.  This type of Pranx is called Secret Solutions per the tag on the back.  (If you do not know what Pranx are, please refer to blog called Cassondra vs. Pranx on June 27th)

I got to work and was walking around, things were going ok and then the rolling started.  The tights were rolling down and the Pranx were rolling up.  It looked like I had piping around my waist and below my boobs.  I went into the bathroom and fixed the situation. This time I tried the tights under the Pranx as opposed to the other way around. I walked around some more, doing the occasional tug and pull.  Finally, things got bad. I felt like a sausage that had been put in the microwave too long and sausage bits were oozing out.  Nobody wants a silohette like Frosty the Snowman.  Nobody.  I went into the bathroom, the most ghetto place on earth.  I went into the least disgusting stall and tried to get my dress over my head.  I needed these Secret Solutions off.  Turns out the secret is, if you take it off, that's the solution.  Anyway, I've got my arms up and I'm tugging at the dress.  The Pranx are rolling up and pushing my bra up.  Crap.  I'm stuck.  I realize this could be serious.  How exactly do I summon someone to come help me?  I mean, the gal in the stall next to me was brewing something special because not one sound was coming out of there.  She was camping.  She was of no use to me.  I struggled some more.  I'm standing there, black tights, bare belly, a bra threatening to go North and my arms are stuck above my head and the bulk of my dress is around my shoulders.  Please don't let me get stuck in this godforsaken place half naked.  I'm making all kinds of noise, grunting is happening and I'm starting to panic.  It won't go up, won't go down. Shit.  Finally, a breakthrough.  My badge goes flying off and to the floor behind the toilet. Apparently it had been holding something up as it was clipped to the strappy belt thing around my waist.  Damn it!! At least it didn't go into the camper's stall.  I knew I should have brought scissors.  Always bring scissors where Pranx are involved.

I finally got the dress off and I thought, this is exactly how clothes get left in the bathrooms.  People just give up.  I rolled the Pranx off and put my dress back on.  I picked up my badge and walked out of there with all the elegance of a queen.  I walked over to the counter and set my Pranx down with my infected badge.  I washed my hands and a gal walked in and eyed the counter.  I raised one eyebrow and lifted my chin just a little, daring her to question what was going on.  She decided not to ask and proceeded to magical stall number four, next to the camper.  Still no activity from stall number three.  I hope she is okay in there.  Maybe she is stuck...I shook my head and got that image out, what I don't know doesn't hurt me.  I'm sure the camper was wondering what the hell I was doing.  Anyway, I balled up my Pranx and walked to my desk feeling roll free and confident.  And that's when my tights started rolling down again.  One battle at a time, my friends, one battle at a time.  I was not taking my tights off, I would just have to suck it up and carry on, like all compressed fat girls do.

I would like to send a message to all manufacturers of spandex and fat-fighting apparatuses: If you can create a fat compressing product that doesn't roll, I will sacrifice all of my pony minions.  It's that serious. Go. Invent. Now. Please.

Bitches bringing me down...

Helpful Tip: It's never going to be a good day when you were kept awake half the night listening to noisy cat sex outside, or if you are almost in tears at your desk by 8:01am and you started at 8:00am.

On Friday, I had sent an email requesting a meeting for someone. I had simply asked about the availability of a person.  I opened my email this morning and I had a very bitchy, condescending response.  Like, the kind of response that this person (whom, I am sure, is very busy trying to figure out ways of cancelling Christmas) surely took a lot of time to write.  Instead of just replying with the answer I was seeking, she took the time to tell me how exactly to do my job.  Now, I'm not sure where Hagatha got the impression  I am a village idiot, or that I am new to the company, or possibly to the Americas, but she went on, in detail, on how to schedule a meeting and send an invite.  I thought maybe I was over-reacting, so I sent the email to my friend that works across the way and asked her if I had, in any way, implied I was stupid.  She was appalled at the email.  Ok, so it isn't just me.

To make matters even worse is that Hagatha has another counterpart, Ragatha, that was also emailing me telling me how to do things.  Now, I have never met these people, never exchanged an email with these people, never worked with them, ever.  I guess my problem is that I didn't know that I was dealing with the high priestesses of the administrative guild of the secret society of the bitches association of the world.  I shall henceforth and forever more refer to them as the Bitches of Eastwick.  The person that asked me to assist with this meeting was equally baffled by their behavior.

I ended up sending a few responses that were as sweet as sweet could be, because, after all, I am a professional and a team player.  The Bitches of Eastwick were not going to bring me down.  Finally, after agonizing over this invitation, I sent it out.  Mother-Trucker!!!  I forgot to change it to their time zone.  Well, I guess I showed them I know what I am doing.  Damn it.  And then, here comes the emails, and then the phone call.  I saw my letter opener sitting there and I thought, I could end it all now.  Instead I answered the phone, knowing it was Ragatha and gave my best performance in a supporting actress role.  Ragatha had no personality, void of emotion.  This bitch needs to do a Jib Jab, bad.  She needs to Google a picture of an LOL Cat or something, anything.  Perhaps she needed to get "some."  It's really hard to say.  I'm not saying Jib Jab, LOL Catz and gettin some are the recipe for happiness, but they sure as hell don't hurt.

I sat there after the phone call and stared at a package the mail lady brought up. It was telling me to "Open Immediately!"  Eff you, package, Eff you.  Dish Guy asked, "OOOooo, what's in there?"  I said, "you know on the cartoons how they whip out a big black spot and throw it on the ground and jump through it?  I hope it is one of those."  Sadly, it was just another stand up movie promo poster.  I sat there and waited for the next assault, it was coming, I knew it.  My left butt cheek started to throb.  The Bitches of Eastwick were a pain in my ass.  If someone actually makes your butt hurt, that is saying something.  I think voodoo could be involved.

I wandered down and got some chocolate out of the vending machine because, dammit, I've earned it.  As I stood there starting at the vending machine, picking my poison, I wondered what could have caused Hagatha and Ragatha to attack without just cause.  I ran through a list of things that make me cranky. Pranx got them down? Maybe their guts and thighs are overly compressed?  Underwear so far up their butt they need  the jaws of life to get it out? Bunched panties are unpleasant.  Started a new diet? Someone force feed that bitch a cheeseburger. Maybe her bra is riding up on one side, I hate that and it does make me irritable.  Or, it is the worst case scenario and she is shedding her uterine wall and is out of tampons.  I realized that I didn't care if she had a tampon in sideways, there was no excuse for her behavior.

I got back to my desk and the person that asked me to set the meeting had sent me an instant message asking why the multiple invites.  I advised him that every time the Bitches of Eastwick didn't like something, they asked me to send an update.  I told him, "they are treating me like a bad puppy that peed on the floor.  Soon enough, I'll learn to pee outside."  His response, "wow."

That kind of sums up the day, wow.  I just hope tomorrow is better because today was almost my last day as an employed person.  If I do quit, I can start an organization for working girls like me that get oppressed by random bitches.  I'll do an advertisement on TV, "Bitches got you down?  Call now for your free consultation on how to be smug, arrogant and condescending.  Fight fire with fire!  We also have a crisis line just in case you have your letter opener wedged into your eye sockett..."  It's just an idea, but I think it could be helpful to a lot of people just like me. I'll hold off for now,  let's just see how Tuesday goes...

No Fly Zone...

I haven't been sleeping well this week.  Between the pressure of finishing the second 50 Shades book, not being able to shut my mind down about what to wear to work and how to save whales from plastic bags and then having weird dreams, it's been exhausting.

Last night as I was laying in bed staring at the ceiling waiting for Will to finish reading, I noticed a fly buzzing around.  Now, we live in a cabin that has a loft type bedroom.  The ceiling is vaulted, and so our bed is up against the wall where it meets the ceiling and starts to slope up.  Right above my head is where this fly was buzzing frantically back and forth.  What the hell?  I had told Will to kill this damn fly the night before, but he wouldn't take me seriously because it wasn't a spider situation.  If it had been a spider, he would have immediately gotten up and killed it.  He would have no choice, I would scream and act like a sissy until he disposed of it.  This was his part in our marriage vows and he cannot go back on it.  But he didn't.  He seems unaffected by flies.  Two nights ago, there was a fly laying on it's back on the bed right next to my pillow with his little fly legs sticking up.  He was deader than dead.  I sure am glad my bed was where he decided to call it quits. Bastard.  Anyway, so I'm thinking this fly is seeking vengeance for disturbing his friends resting place.  Never mind it is probably just a distant cousin or friend of a friend, that doesn't matter.  What matters is, I'm in his dead friends grave and he is pissed.  This is my theory, anyhow.

I asked Will to take care of this Arnold Swartzenfly threatening to dive bomb me, but again, he ignored my plea for help.  He didn't feel the situation merited him getting fly guts on his book.  Truth of the matter is, he probably didn't have his A-game going on and was worried he couldn't catch him.  If it doesn't involve a gun, he isn't interested, I guess.  Will assured me the fly would simmer down once we turned the lights off.  Well, to my dismay, it simmered down alright.  I think the little bastard had a heart attack because he dropped from the ceiling onto my face.  I have sleep apnea, so I wear a mask.  I heard the damn thing hit my mask and then it fell somewhere right next to my face.  I'm completely grossed out.  Will is oblivious. He's half asleep.  I'm flailing around in the bed trying to find this little asshole in the pitch dark and Will is starting to snore.  This was an emergency on my part and my husband went to sleep!  I didn't want fly guts on my face.  I didn't want to wake up with a fly stuck to my arm.  I didn't want it crawling it's way into my belly button if it wasn't all the way dead...or crawling in any other crevices.  I needed a fly extraction - STAT! 

After a lot of flailing, sheet flipping and running my hands on the sheets, I assessed that the fly was gone.  All I could think at this point was, "Great, now it is probably on the floor and when I get up to pee at 3AM, it's going to squish in between my toes."  Now I'm scared to get out of bed.  What if I pee the bed because of the impending fly guts?  This is a lot of anxiety, folks.

So, really, when you think about it, it is only natural that I had a dream that some bloody killer guy was chasing Julia Roberts around her house and then finally captured her and buried her in her yard.  I mean, makes sense, right?

I saw a moth up there last night too. I hope it keeps it's distance.