Do NOT Sit on Bob

Ever have one of those days where you get up in the morning, look in the mirror and say, "who is that ugly mug staring back at me? What has happened to me?"  And I'm not saying that because I am looking for someone to say, "oh that's not true, don't be hard on yourself."  Shut your pie hole...unless it's an Apple Pie hole. I'm just saying it was a day where I thought, damn, I'm getting old and ugly.  I'm allowed to think that.  So back the eff off. Anyway, that was the kind of morning I was having.

I arrived at work and sat at my desk.  I looked around.  It's like I work in a freaking daycare. Everyone is decorating their team areas for "Summer Fun."  How exciting.  You know what would be fun?  Weather that looked and felt like summer.  Now, that'd be fun. Someone had gone so far as to hang a kite above my head and put a smiley balloon on my desk.  Fuck off.  I don't need that kind of whimsical crap around my area.  I've got ponies on my desk, what is more fun than that? I told the team leader of the area closest to me that his area looked like a day old frat party and that I was waiting for some big, hairy, fat guy to come walking around the corner in his tightie-whities drinking a beer and belching.  Dumb, it looks dumb. I hate looking at it.  And then, he has this cactus put up that he stole from another team area.  The damn cactus won't stand upright. He has a limp cactus.  That isn't inspiring at all.  That isn't fun.

Speaking of fun, I got to start my day talking to the building manager about how people in the building were moving furniture, moving microwaves and turning the water and coffee machines off.  What is wrong with people?  I don't even have effing time to pee during my work day but these effing punk-ass gangsters have the time to screw with the break area like they own it.  Here's a thought, come to work, do your fucking job, then go home and move your couch around if you can't stand yourself. Why do people do this stuff?  It's already been proven they can't pee into a hole without over-spray.  It's already been proven they can't keep their own feces off the wall (maybe the feces is actually gang signs...now it is starting to make sense).  It's already been proven they can't pick up paper towels off the floor if they drop one.  Who do I work with?  Who are these people?

The day continues on brutally slow and I am on my way to the bathroom when I get side-tracked by someone who asked where a training class was located.  She said, "Where is the training? Is it on the 5th floor on the other side of the building?"  I looked at her perplexed as we just moved our entire building from the south side over to the north side.  The south side was completely vacant and blocked off.  Exactly what training could possibly go on over there?  I responded that no, we didn't have training over there, it is on the 5th floor, however.  She said, "Where is the 5th floor?"  I stood there, dazed and confused, awe struck, really.  I said, "Well, get in the elevator, push the button that says five and then ride it until it lets you out on five, then get out.  Or, trot your ass up these stairs till you get to the top."  She says, "but we don't have a 5th floor."  I was now completely confused as this person used to work on the 5th floor on the other side of the building.  The two sides mirrored each other, so it would stand to reason we had 5 floors on each side. I again assured her we had five floors and she seemed reluctant, but also accepting on a basic level. I walked back towards my desk and then realized I had forgotten to pee, so went back to the scene of the crime where I had been asked the most ridiculous question of the day.

As if the day could not get any more ridiculous, our new life-size statue mascot arrived today.  You see, my company has decided what we really need is an animal spokesperson.  I guess Bradley Cooper, Morgan Freeman and Justin Beiber must have been busy, because my company decided on an animal instead.  I won't say what animal, specifically, let's just hypothesize it is a cow named Bob.  Bob arrived today and we had to have a big ol unveiling ceremony.  Now, Bob is pretty close to life-size and his hooves are bolted down to a wooden pallet.  I told my boss she should get on him so we could get a picture.  She said no.  No one was going to ride Bob.  It's a safety hazard and Bob could break.  I know the people I work with and how they think.  I went back to my desk and sent out an email instructing them, "Do NOT sit on Bob. Do NOT ride Bob."  Then, I went and got a dry erase board and put it up by Bob telling people, "Do Not Sit on or Ride Bob."  That should do it.

Now, you know where this is going, we all know where this is going.  Not 30 minutes later a supervisor comes over and informs me that she caught Daisy Dumbass trying to mount Bob.  Turns out Daisy was all upset because she couldn't get up on Bob and her pants were getting dirty.  Bob is currently white and we have a contest to decorate/paint him, but right now he is primitive, at best. The supervisor informed her she could not do that.  I sat there, as she told me, just shaking my head.  There is always one.  They can't read and they have no common sense.  I was not amazed, but still irritated.  What is wrong with people? Was she dry humping him? Was she trying to make the rodeo proud?  Who was going to take her picture once she got up there?  I was baffled.  It isn't like we left a mounting block or steps to encourage people to get on him. There was a sign that said DON'T.  People are dumb.

Not 30 minutes beyond that, one of the other supervisors walks up and informs me that there is now a problem with the sign I had made.  Seems someone had erased the "Do Not" part on my sign, so now it read, "Sit on or Ride Bob."  Mother Trucker.  Like I have nothing better to do than to take care of this kind of shit.  I mean, obviously I can't just leave it like that, people already want to try their luck for eight seconds on good 'ol anatomically correct Bob. I am pissed.  People complain we treat them like kids, well, why do you think that is?  I not only fixed the sign, but added a second sign.  If this continues, I am putting fucking police tape all over that damn cow and adding an electric fence. 

I had to get out of there.  This was all too much for me. Generally, I like my co-workers, but I was about to go buck-ass crazy on the next person I saw trying to mount that fucking cow.  It was best I leave. This cow could be the death of me.  This is only the first day of the rest of my life with that damn cow.  And, I'm not over-reacting.  There is actually footage of people running and jumping over a big table we had set up in that same area after hours.  If they will jump a table, what the hell are they going to do to that poor cow?

I told my boss I was leaving for the night and that we would try this whole adventure in the Glass Palace thing again tomorrow.  I told her I wouldn't be perky as her, but I'd be here.  She said, "Oh, I'm gonna work on you, pretty soon you will be just as perky as me!"  I told her I didn't think so.  This sounds like a personal challenge to me. She doesn't have enough smiley faced balloons to make that happen.  She doesn't stand a chance, but it is still too soon to crush her hope.  She walked away from me, heading back to her office, almost bouncing.  I give her snaps for having hope.  It's kind of cute.  Not cute like a pony cute, but cute like she has hope cute.  I gotta believe the cow mounters will break her spirit just a little.  It sure is twisting my tail.

Now, if you excuse me, I've gotta get some rest, cuz I sense there will be a showdown at the OK Corral at high noon and I want to be ready.

Good night.

Apple Pie and Fireball Whiskey

Will and I are spending a long weekend at his parent's house this weekend.  It is his Dad's 75th birthday and so there are family and friends coming in and they are having a big party. On the first night there, us girls were hanging out, innocently enough, talking about girl stuff.  My Mother-in-Law (henceforth to be called MIL) hands me this little flask and says, "here, try this, it's Apple Pie." I said no since I don't drink and I don't really like alcohol.  The flask was passed to someone else and they commented on how good it was.  Okay, I'll try it.  One sip and I was like, "damn, that is good!" I took another sip.  I was warm. It felt good. I took another sip.  I'm getting a hint of a buzz. I know you don't believe me when I say this, but literally, that is all it takes.  Apparently, Apple Pie is a mixture of apple juice, apple cider, cinnamon, sugar and Everclear. Everclear is 190 proof. It is potent shit.  And I liked it.  A lot.  To the point where I drank the remaining amount and then snorted the fumes.  Turns out, I'm a closet lush.  After everyone saw how fond I was of this drink and how little it took to make me giggly, a phone call was made and more Apple Pie would be delivered in the morning.

Day two of our adventure. The Apple Pie arrived and we found ourselves around the fire pit again in the evening. There was about 10 of us in the circle and I was about to get my drink on.  I had my dixie cup full of Apple Pie and life was good.  Then, the second cup of Apple Pie.  From here, things got sketchy, but here is what I recall.

First, my right eyebrow was inexplicably hot.  Then, I was strangely aware of my eyelids. I think things were progressing as the giggling started.  My partner in crime, Polly Passion Party, was drinking along with me and her beloved dog was sitting on her lap.  I don't know how it happened, but somehow he started to fall between the two chairs. One paw on her chair, one paw on my chair, he was straining, struggling to remain on the chair.  We both had drinks in our hands, we didn't have a spare hand to save the dog.  Down he went. This could have been the most hysterical thing that happened all day.  I lost it and burst out in hysterical laughter.  Then Will comes walking outside.  He had shorts on earlier, but was just now returning to the fire circle with sweats on and his shirt was tucked in.  He looked like an elderly short bus rider. I looked at him and told him he looked ridiculous and laughed so hard I was crying.  When I had composed myself, his shirt was untucked and he was sitting next to me shaking his head.  I told him I hated his sweats pants guts and laughed and laughed and laughed.

At this point, I could not feel my face. I noticed my phone buzzing and realized my boss had called the previous day and left a message.  Crap, she needed something and because we are in an area that had no cell service (I had wi-fi connection only from the house), I didn't get her message.  My buzzed self wondered, should I call her?  This probably isn't the best time to call her.  I wonder if it is too late where she is...I'll just send her a text...or email.  Yeah, that's what I'll do.  Good, all done.  Now, about that Apple Pie. I was challenged to throw back a shot of it and to quit screwing around with this sipping routine. No, I can't.  I can't.  Okay, I'll do it.  BAM. Down da hatch!

It was at this point that we realized we had drank all the Apple Pie.  I thought the party was over. I was wrong. We had Fireball Whiskey and that meant it was back on like Donkey Kong. I didn't want any. No way.  I was not going to drink that crap. Was. Not. Going. To.  But, what I didn't know is that the rules of fire circle clearly state that if a bottle is passed to you, you are REQUIRED to take a shot.  I didn't know that.  I couldn't break the code and the peer pressure was intense. I didn't want to get kicked out of the fire circle. These were my people. Okay, I'll do it.  Mother Trucker!!! Fire! Fire! Fire in the hole!  Hot, hot, hot!!! I need a chaser! Ack! Goldfish crackers.  I needed Goldfish crackers.  We had some, so I started downing them to soak up the fire in my throat and belly. I thought I had fulfilled my obligation, but I'll be damned, that effing bottle kept coming around the circle.  And, I couldn't break the fire circle code.  I'm an honorable person.

From this point on, things are even sketchier.  Here is what I remember.  I told my MIL and everyone else about the first time Will brought me here to meet his parents and that we had sex in the bedroom that has the wrought iron headboard and how I had to hang on to them tightly so it would not bang against the wall and make noise.  Will's sister cringed, but I went on to tell her we had also had sex in the other beds in the house.  And, that we had had sex upstairs, quietly, the other night when she stayed at our house. This information was apparently too much information for Will's immediate family. I then advised everyone that  I was a sharer and if they had any questions, at all, about Will or I, it was now open Q & A time.  Ask me anything and I will tell you.  The fire circle drew quiet.  While everyone was laughing raucously a few moments ago, they were now quiet.  And, here comes the Fireball again.  Damn it!!! It's like the devil in a bottle.  From what I understand, this was the part where I provided running commentary on what was happening in my body between the Goldfish, Apple Pie and Fireball.  I think it went something like this, "My tummy is all freaked out, the Apple Pie is all like, hey Fireball, what are you doing down here and the Fireball is all like, nothing, just burning the shit out of her guts, what are you doing? and the Apple Pie was like, nothing, just hanging out rotting out her guts and the Goldfish are like, hey, we are just here to eat the cinnamon...." Apparently it went on for a while.  After that, I was laughing about the ridiculousness of Will's sweats again.  They are effing hilarious.

Now, the thing about partying with Polly Passion Party is that she has all kinds of great advice for people about sex. Like, when you do shots of Fireball, you just throw it back to the back of your throat and swallow...you know, like a girl would when, well, you know.  Yikes.  Well, I informed everyone I was not a swallower, so I couldn't do that. I guess my openness inspired Polly Passion Party as she started asking who needed a vibrator or a cock ring (she sells them, in case you hadn't picked up on that). A couple of the women there said, no way, they didn't need one. I felt like I needed to do a public service, so I said, "Any woman here that says she doesn't need a vibrator, or has never used one, probably needs one more than anyone else here."  Well, glad I got that off my chest.  Polly Passion Party suggested my MIL needed a vibrator.  Then, she asked everyone in the circle of fire if they were premature-ejaculators because she had something that would help them. Oddly, no one fessed up to it.  Go figure.  I suggested that we go down to the local bar and ask all the men in there if they were premature-ejaculators, because I was certain she could sell her products.  I asked the people of the fire circle if they were in favor of such a venture and it was official, they were.  Sadly, we were all too shit-faced to drive.

I also apparently chronicled my night on Facebook, in addition to commenting on other peoples posts to the point where one of my friends' friend said, "Cassondra, I don't understand what you have written."  I guess drunk typing is not as clear to other people as it is to the drunk person.  Whatev's.

Pretty soon I started to feel pretty yucky.  I was really hoping I wasn't going to puke.  The fire circle people apparently wanted to move the party down by the river where they had a pile of wood ready to light off. I didn't want to go as I knew I was coming down off my high.  Polly Passion Party decided to go and was assisted onto the tailgate of a truck.  As they headed down to the river, she yelled to my MIL, "You need to get laid!"  And that, my friends, is how the fire circle came to an end for the evening.

I was assisted to the house and shuffled upstairs.  My head hurt and I didn't feel good.  I laid down on the bed (with the wrought iron headboard) and closed my eyes...and that is when the room started to spin.  Oh crap.  Will said this was a bad sign and that I needed aspirin and water.  I took two Tylenol and drank water until I thought I might puke and then went to bed.  I believe the last words I uttered to Will were, "you wanna get lucky?"  Turns out, not only am I an alcoholic now, I'm also a drunken slut.  All those wasted years in high school being a prude, I could have been so popular.

I woke up this morning with one hell of a headache, but I never did puke.  Drinking is not on the agenda tonight.  I think I've shared enough. Polly Passion Party begged me not to blog about this episode, but I feel that this experience was important to add to the blog collection. There might be a code in the fire circle about drinking whenever the bottle comes to you, but no one said anything about "what happens in the fire circle stays in the fire circle."  No one disclosed any such rule to me. Big mistake, fire circle people, don't get the blogger drunk

It's OK I Hate The Gym

Well, it's therapy Thursday again.  Today I went in there knowing that the rug would be fixed.  Seems after my last "revelation" about her rug bothering me, she fixed it. Finally, I can really focus on me.

We went through our normal routine of how I was doing, blah, blah, blah.  She sat across from me in her big, comfy chair and listened, as she always does.  Something about her outfit today was tugging at my brain, what was it?  Weird.  Anyway, we focused on how I was feeling about my weight loss, as we always do. It is pretty much the center of my universe, so, no shock there.  I told her I hadn't been to the gym since my 5K walk that I did a couple of weeks ago and temporarily crippled myself.  I told her how much I hated the gym.  I mean, I know it is the healthy thing to do.  I know I feel better after.  I know it is necessary to move things along.  I know it, but that sure as hell doesn't have to mean that I like it.  In fact, I hate it.  I hate the mother trucking gym.  I hate the machines that hurt me.  I hate the spandex. I hate the way I feel while I exercise.  I hate the obligation I feel to go.  I hate the way I feel like I am disappointing Ass Kicker when I don't go.  I just hate it.  My therapist, whom I think has officially earned a blog name of  The Rug Doctor, said she is giving me permission to hate the gym for all it is worth.  Just embrace how I feel and don't go. For the next two weeks, just let myself hate it and don't let it make me feel guilty or control me in any way. It's okay to hate the gym.  Her reasoning is that feelings will change over time and making myself miserable about it is not going to change my feeling of hate right now, so why torture myself?  I mean, it's what I normally do.  It's kind of a weird twist, but okay, I hate the gym and I don't care who knows!

The conversation turned to my responsibility level with food and how I have been frustrated with my husband for bringing crap into the house. Look, just because Goldfish are buy 4 for $10, any flavor, doesn't mean you do it.  Especially the new French Toast Goldfish.  They are sinfully delicious and serious snack crack.  That bastard.  Or ice cream, that's not helpful either.  And, don't get me started on the Milano Boston Cream Pie cookies.  How am I supposed to behave in these circumstances?  We created a pie chart of responsibility and it looks like Will is at least 35% responsible for my stagnant weight loss.  I'm going to make this pie chart and put it all over the kitchen. 

And then, suddenly, I realized what was weird about Rug Doctor's outfit, it was her shoes!  I have those same exact shoes!  But where are they?  It occurs to me that I don't know where they are.  My mind was really focused on the whereabouts of my shoes.  Were they in my closet, buried?  Are they in the barn?  I kind of want to wear them...I didn't throw them away, did I? Shit, now, I'm pissed. Damn it! I can't focus at all, it's no wonder I keep turning to Goldfish for comfort.  A unicorn might as well have walked into the room.  I was done and we were only half-way in.

We started talking about things that would help my emotional well-being.  I asked her if it was okay if I hated this one specific person, who shall remain nameless. She said it was okay. She told me to go ahead and be pissed.  I said, "how come being pissed doesn't burn calories? Do you know how skinny I would be if I got a calorie burn from being pissed? I'd be freaking anorexic."  She laughed and agreed that yes, it does suck that it doesn't work that way. She did suggest that beating the crap out of someone might make me feel better and that if I wasn't going to the gym, that would burn calories.  I think she is on to something.  Of course, we then reviewed my likely arrest, imprisonment and overall bad emotional well-being if I chose to get my burn on that way.  There is no easy way to lose weight, people.  And don't tell me Zumba is the answer, because it isn't.  Go ahead, say it, I'll kick your ass!!!

I told Rug Doctor that I wanted a breakthrough moment like people have on The Biggest Loser, or even on The Voice.  Why can't I get to that?  She suggested that Jillian and Bob push those people for a long time before they finally break.  I told her if that is what needed to happen, she needed to step up her game.  What if we do shock therapy. Like every time I come in, she shocks me a little harder.  Or, she brings in all the stuff I hate into her office and she gets me completely freaked out and at the end of my rope in one session.  Win-win, I say.  I'm talking clowns, spiders, snakes, spandex, tofu, I mean SCARY shit!  She didn't feel that would work, and frankly, she couldn't do it because she hates spiders.  I told her, "Great, of all the therapists, I get the selfish one.  Just. My. Luck."  Today was clearly not my day to have a breakthrough.  Hell, I don't even know where my shoes are that she is wearing.  Maybe those are my shoes?  Maybe she stole them?  Wait, paranoia isn't one of the reasons I'm here.  Okay, they are probably hers.  Just saying, it's suspicious.

So, that is kind of how it all went down.  So, let's recap my last few sessions, I've progressed from "Today probably won't totally suck" to "Today is good enough" and now, "It's okay to hate the gym."  This is fantastic, my progress is amazing (yes, that is sarcasm, in case you are new).  At one point in my session, I blurted out, "Do you think I am making ANY progress???!!!"  Kind of like Charlie Brown in that Christmas special where he yells, "Doesn't anyone know the meaning of Christmas?" and then Linus comes out with his blankey and says, "Behold...etc, etc." and tells us what Christmas means to him.  Anyway, I digress.  I told Rug Doctor, as I left, "by the way, thanks for fixing the rug, but I have those shoes you're wearing, I don't know where they are, and now it's bugging me, thanks for that."  She said, "I think there will always be something, with you."  I told her she could count on that and to "take that to the bank." 

If the rug is still straight and she isn't wearing those same shoes, maybe next time I can make more progress.  Now, where are those shoes....? I'm sure not pulling any boxes down from the top shelf in the barn like last week.  I can't take anymore blows to the head.  I'm a mess without the injuries as it is.