Shitter is Full...AGAIN

So, I've had some random rage lately.  It's not like I haven't always had rage, but ever since last weekend when Shark Bait forced me to watch the football game, and then I subsequently screamed at the TV like a mad woman, my rage seems to be on some sort of "slow leak" status that apparently flares up here and there.  You know what makes it flare up?  Everything?  Well, yes, but you know what my hot buttons are?  I'll tell you.

• The fucking mail at work and people's inability to address a mother trucking envelope.  It's a basic M-F'ing skill, people.  
• When people tell me about the bathroom conditions.
• Bad drivers.
• FCD's (Fat Controlling Devices)

Okay, let's just cut to the heart of the matter.  Screw the mail, it's a dead horse I've been  beating for MONTHS.  The mail is like a pulverized gorpey pile of organs that have been through a Magic Bullet.  That's how much I've beat it to death.  I can't talk about it anymore. If I do, I'll need a mudslide. And, if I get a mudslide, this blog is going to take a very scary turn that my readers are not ready for.

Bad drivers?  It's been done.  We all hate them.  I've almost been crashed into twice this week.  You could say I've lucked out.  Look at me counting my mother trucking blessings.

FCD's, I've had more drama with fat control this week than Obama has had with heath care reform.  I've had to seek refuge in the bathroom at least twice this week alone to remove a "foundation garment." I've walked back to my desk with the spandex blend in my hand acting like it's no big deal.  My body is being a real bitch and is not taking this attempt at control the fat laying down, no, it's fighting back. It's like this years strain of the flu, it morphs and changes and gets meaner.  Pretty soon, by current calculations, I will be full blown Stay Puffed Marshmallow man in no time. 

Anyway, that brings me to the bathroom issue. 

It's not bad enough that we have recently (within the last couple of months) found used undies and socks on the staircase, but the bathroom continues to be a constant drain on any belief that may still exist in my body that there is a shred of human decency left in this world.  Now, I will say, no one has finger painted shit on the walls or taken a dump on the floor or played "magic lasso" with their tampon strings in a while.  Those shenanigans have subsided.  I am relieved of that.  Stall number one, for the most part, seems to be an adequately safe place to whiz or poo.  Even the fire hose vagina girl seems to have stopped spraying the seats.  Stall number three, however, seems to have a frequent flyer that passes turds the size of a weiner dog and then uses enough toilet paper to make a queen-sized bed sheet. Look, I have a fat ass, but at the end of the day, when we compare body parts, I don't care of you are a size 4 or a size 24, your butthole is not the black hole of dark matter that requires that much toilet paper.  It just doesn't.  I don't care if somehow the poop shot out at a velocity that you were unprepared for and you became startled and slid off the seat.  Still does not require that much TP to clean up the mess.  You can't convince me of it.  I mean, I don't need pictures or any sort of proof, but seriously, let's be realistic.  If you are using that much, that means you are not done pooping and you need to wait until it's over.  This isn't a grunt, wipe, repeat situation.  If you are doing that, get help.  I mean, not with your pooping, but psychologically.  Help is available.

Yesterday, I had one of the supervisors send me an instant message, "So-and-so says it stinks in the women's bathroom."  I respond, "Does she know people poop in there?  What exactly should I do about it?"  I just sat there in disbelief.  Was it my job to run in with some Glade air freshener? Shortly thereafter, the stink reporter came to my desk and informed me it wasn't poop.  It was like rotting fish.  Okay, okay, this just entered a territory I was not prepared for.  Look, I am not sending out an email to the floor asking women to please freshen up their girl parts because we have a fish stench in the "ladies" room.  Sweet Jesus.  She said it was so bad she was gagging and it was really, really bad.  To appease her, I called and had the Selfie Janitor to go in and check the trash etc.  If taking the trash out didn't do it, then we were going to need a vagina evacuation drill of some sort.  I don't know what else to do.  As luck would have it, the smell seemed to dissipate.

Today, I'm already on the edge, okay?  New Boss even said, "you okay today?"  I guess after drinking mudslides every night this past week to help me sleep and then challenging my therapist, The Rug Doctor, to a pony draw-off last night, I was feeling kind of weird about life.  I even had someone looking for tools this week, and so, I was digging through my drawers and found a brand new hack saw.  I had it sitting out on my desk still today as I hadn't put it away yet.  New Boss asked what it was for.  I told her I liked to put it up to my neck and see what it feels like to be that close to actually cutting. It comforts me.  Freaks Stiletto Barbie out, but you know, not everyone shares in my moments of clarity.

Anyway, I went over to get the mail today, and there, inside the inbox are two huge packages that some schmuck left for me.  It's safe to say, I probably over-reacted.  Lost. My. Mind. I do letters, not packages.  I do my own packages, but the masses, they do their own.  I'm nobody's bitch (that's a lie, I'm everyone's bitch).  I found the sender's name and stomped over to his desk.  I was in the middle of chewing him out (also known as educating him on the correct process) when Loud Mouth comes over and interrupts, touches my shoulder and loudly tells me there is a problem in the bathroom.  I whipped around on her, surely with flames in my eyes and said, "What makes you think I care about the bathroom?  Why do people tell me this shit?  I don't care! Deal with it!"  She just laughed and said, "Because you seem to be the only one that gets shit done around here!" and then she walks away. She. Touched. Me.  I was fuming inside, and frankly, on the outside.  I turned my attention back to the package violator and said, "Look, because I adore you, I won't decapitate you and use your head as a bedpost, but please take those packages where they belong, please?"

I walked back over to my desk.  I was sitting there thinking about how pissed I was.  I sent the Building Dude an email asking him what the official process was with the bathrooms other than, "tell Cassondra."  I was disappointed to get back a response saying tickets needed to be entered for all issues.  Well, I'm the ticket bitch, so I guess nothing I can do. 

About then, someone brought me these cut-out Seahawks hats.  I gladly took them and started cutting on them.  Cutting makes me happy.  Just then, Queen of Purple People arrived to let me know there was a problem with stall three.  I like QPP, but this, this was too much.  She went on to tell me she was concerned someone might try and flush the already bursting toilet and cause a catastrophe.  I said, "You know what I do when I see that? Do you?  I say, 'Gross!' shut the door and use a different stall and MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE!!!  Why can't other people do that?? Why?"  QPP just smiled, "I don't know, but it's bad."  Sigh.
You know, I don't know why she was worried about someone flushing it.  I mean, I can barely get them to clean up after themselves, are you telling me suddenly someone is going to have initiative?  No.  Not a believable story.

Look, apparently, I'm screwed with this responsibility, but I beg you, unless there is a steaming pile of poo on the floor with a river running through it surrounded by what can only look like globs of snow on a mountain top, do not tell me, just figure that eventually the bathroom toilet crew will come and it will be okay.  To date, the building has not been flooded from the third floor restroom.  No one has been physically assaulted by shit zombies, so just go use a different floor, okay?  OR, stop plugging the fucking toilet!  How about that?  Change your diet, drink enough water.  Hydration is key to a healthy bowel movement.  And, I had the ice machine/water maker fixed, so really, no excuses.  Stop making the shitter full.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a mudslide waiting.

Because Sassy Pants Said So...

Sassy Pants said I had to blog tonight.  She isn't really the boss of me, but maybe this will shut 'er up.

Today was my first workday of 2015.  I hardly slept at all last night between the high winds and thoughts of what my new boss would be like.  After months and months of searching, they had apparently found "the one" that would fill the position Four Feet of Fury had left. My mind reeled with thoughts of what she would be like and if I would have to find a new job or what.  I have a lot of time invested into the Palace and the people in it, I so didn't want the worst to happen. 

After tossing and turning, I finally got up and got ready for work ahead of schedule. I took some new vitamins I had just purchased the day before that would hopefully give me some energy.  The box said they were for "Energy Boost and Metabolism."  That is exactly what I needed since I never want to get out of bed anymore and I live the life of a blob.  I grabbed my protein shake and pony lunch bag and I was ready.  Well, almost.  I had to get my coat.  I went to grab my coat off the hanger so I could leave and all the sudden, pain shot through my middle finger.  I jerked back and there was blood everywhere.  Shark Bait has his favorite ball cap hanging next to my coat and that ball cap just happens to be sporting a huge fish hook.  Holy mother of all stuffed ponies in the universe, it freaking hurt and now I had lanced open my flip-em-off finger. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.  Shark Bait came running over to check the damage.  As luck would have it, we didn't need to call 9-1-1, we would be able to manage this with a bandage.  This was not how I wanted to start the day.

I managed to drive in to work without any further incident.  Unless you count my CD in the stereo that apparently had a scratch in it.  I'm trying to listen to Usher and friends yell, "yeah, yeah!....I wanna lady in street but a freak in the bed....yeah, yeah...." and it kept skipping. I was in the mood for gangsta.  I guess the vitamins were kicking in.  There may even have been head-bobbing/neck-jerking involved.  Or, as Dad would have called it Shuckin' and Jivin'. Anyway, I made it to work ahead of New Boss.

As I sat there waiting for New Boss to arrive, Stiletto Barbie came to see if she could get a glimpse at the new kid in town. What she found, was me, ready to have an out of body experience within my body.  I don't know what all is in the vitamins I took, but I pretty much felt like a full on concert was going on inside my skin, complete with a mosh pit, booze, possibly drugs and dancing, lots of dancing.  However, what you saw on the outside was cool, calm and collected...minus the weird smile and bulgy eyes... and me saying that I couldn't promise there wouldn't be twerking and doing a brief demonstration.  This might not have been the best day to debut those new vitamins.  On the up side, New Boss was going to think I was energetic and friendly.  I'm told these are desirable traits, so I would ride out that story for as long as I could.

And then, something kind of miraculous happened.  I saw a lady bug on my desk.  Where the hell did that come from?  Aren't lady bugs supposed to be good luck?  I think this is a good sign!  I don't really believe in "signs" but maybe this could be one.  I mean, it's a new year and I'm jacked up on vitamins, I could see a unicorn pretty soon.

Finally, New Boss arrived.  She seems nice and like a genuine person, which I respect.  We actually had the following conversation:

re: discussing getting her picture taken for her badge
Me: "I'm not really big on smiling in pictures, I'm not a teeth smiler and people don't get that.  It's irritating."
New Boss: "yeah, I don't like to smile in pictures either.  And when people walk by and say "smile" I'm always thinking, 'why? I didn't see you until this moment, why would I be smiling before I saw you?' So, yeah, not big on pictures."
Me: "I always tell people, 'I am smiling...on the inside.'" 

I felt like, at that moment, everything was gonna be okay.  Common ground.  It's good.

I returned to my desk and continued to try and make sense of all the crap, aka work, sitting there.  I was moving folders around and cleaning up when I realized I had set a bunch of stuff on my lady bug.  Shit.  It had been with me all day so far.  I lifted the folder and there it was, wings all smooshed out to the sides.  I just freaking killed my good luck sign.  OH NO!  Now what?  I can't ever have anything good happen!  I killed my luck!

The rest of the day was kind of crazy-busy with getting New Boss set up and catching up after being gone a few days.  Monster Energy drink people decided to stop by, the ice machine went down and the one millionth person asked me when the Starz calendars would be in.  Seriously, people, buy your own damn calendar.  And, if you don't have ice, it is not an apocalyptic situation.  You can survive.

And then, Sassy Pants comes up and says, "You need to blog about today and your new boss."  I said, "I don't know that blogging about the new boss is really in my best interest, do you?" She said, "you could do a happy, feel-good blog."  I just blinked at her.  "My blog is Angry Pony, nobody wants to read that sunshiny bullshit."  I then considered writing a full blog on nothing but my anger about every person that asked me about getting a new freaking calendar and every person that bitched about the ice machine.  Neither item do I own the responsibility of.  Nah, I'm letting it go.

I finally made it to my truck and got ready to head home.  What is that smell?  Kind of an odd smell.  Not bad, but not good.  No, wait, it wasn't good.  Well crikey, was that smell me?  In an effort to save myself from possibly getting breast cancer, I had switched to a "natural" deodorant recently.  I think that smell was my natural body oil mixing with a natural solution to sweat.  Gross.  I need my Clinical Strength Secret back!  I can't be stinky!  I pulled the armpit of my sweater up and smelled it. It wasn't horrifying, but I was one goat farmer away from being the girl no one would ever hug again.  Hey...I might be on to something.  Maybe that is my problem, I smell too good and people are drawn to me.  If I stink it up, I could avoid those unwanted human interactions.  No, I can't do it.  I like to smell like a frilly girl...when I'm not smelling like a stinky pony.

That reminds me, I need to make up a questionaire for New Boss.  I need to know, is she huggy? What is her stance on sarcasm in the workplace? and some other important details.  Perhaps tomorrow or next week.  I need more time to fully assess her tolerance to my personality.  So far, so good, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.


There, Sassy Pants, there is your damn blog.

Review of Alleged Year of Angry Pony

Well, 2014 is in the can.  It's over. It was supposed to be the Year of Angry Pony.  Well, I don't know if it was "my year," but it was a year worth reflecting on none the less. Any year lived and survived is worth reflection, I suppose.

Last year around this time I found myself in an almost "optimistic" place and set all kinds of challenges for myself.  I was going to get my shit together and LIVE my life.  I got off to a great start with my goal book, and trying new healthy meals and going to the gym.  I encountered many hurdles at the gym with my body fighting me every step of the way.  I worked-out with Ass Kicker and he helped guide me and push me and after just a short time, I came to realize that I liked the challenge.  I actually enjoyed pushing myself and seeing my body change before my eyes, seeing "baby abs" and muscle definition starting to form on the back of my thighs. I felt invincible and like I could do this.  I was excited that I found my inner athlete. I didn't know she existed.

Spring was here and I was starting to feel good.

 

 

I even cut my hair short.  I was feeling brave.  Like, maybe soon I would be able to rock a shorter skirt.  I noticed, and could feel, my collar bones for the first time. Maybe I'm not smiling in these pictures I am posting, but on the inside, I was feeling confident.  I'm not big on smiling in pictures, never really have been, so for every person that says, "you should really smile," I say to you, pick your battles, because I have been battling this body for a lifetime.  When I'm ready, I will.  A genuine, light up the room, smile.  Someday.  Wait for it.  Until then, let me be who I need to be to survive each day and know that I am okay with what I'm putting out there.



In May, I took my good horse, Lola, out to our first trail challenge event.  We weren't ready to compete on any level as we had not worked together that much, but it was a  great start to having hope for getting back in the swing of things with my horses.  It was a good day spent with my sister and friends.  I felt like the part of me that had been missing for so long, the part that lived for her horses, I felt like that part was truly coming back.  I had missed that part so much.

Lola and I waiting for our wild trip around the trail course.

And then, one day at the gym not long after my pony event debut, my work-out was too much.  We pushed too hard.  I could hardly walk and my hips screamed in pain, my shoulder screamed in pain, my sciatic screamed in pain.  I stopped going to the gym and over the next two months I saw doctor after doctor, but no one had answers.  I was angry, depressed, defeated.  My body had, once again, let me down.   I went to the Fat Doctors and they tried to put me on some medications to help me continue on my journey.  Those turned out to be unsuccessful.  I went to The Rug Doctor and we discussed that being on anti-depressants didn't have to be a bad thing and that maybe it would be helpful.  And so the journey of finding a balanced place for my emotions and giving my body a chance to recover began. 

The next few months I made a few attempts at returning to the gym, each time results frustrating me until I just stopped going all together.  I let the darkness in and watched all the progress I had made just disappear.  This only made things worse.  Looking at myself every day in the mirror and being disappointed in myself and knowing that my jeans were just a bit tighter than they were before.  I would pass someone at work and they would say, "You look so great, you can  tell you are really losing weight!"  I would die inside each time.  Hating myself, because I knew the truth.

The summer was full of struggle and angst for me, personally.  No vacations or adventures, really.  It just seemed to slip by.  I tried to keep the momentum up with my horse, but our pretty dry summer made the ground very hard and it was difficult to get the work-outs in here at home that I needed to with Lola to keep us moving forward.  I had a week of vacation in July and spent each day riding Lola, but at the end of the week, my hips ached.  So, now, for the most part, the riding stopped again.

In the fall, in an effort to hold on to the mental and physical progress I had made earlier in the year, I went and made a purchase that would make my heart happy, if only briefly.  I bought my first pair of boots.  Not cowboy boots, but the kind of fashionable boots that all the "cool" girls wear in the fall.  It was the first time I was able to find a pair that would fit my calves.  While they were wide-calf boots, they were still the mark of an accomplishment that I had dreamed of for a long time.  I wore them nervously the first time in public, but then after that, I found the "tramp walk" that I can't seem to keep myself from doing when I wear them, and it was empowering.  I would try to re-harness some hope and get back in the game.

In support group talk, this is called an "NSV"  (Non ScaleVictory)

 

 

 

Shortly after the great boot-love event, Shark Bait and I suffered a pretty significant financial blow and my good dog Spanky started losing his vision.  And then, Shark Bait's dog had a back injury. And then, after attending a trail clinic with Lola, she came down with a pony cold, which required a vet visit, meds and discovering Scruffy was also sick. I felt over-whelmed and hopeless that anything would get better and I was devastated that my baby boy was losing his eye-sight.  I think at this point, I gave up pretty hard.

Enter the holiday season.  So much pressure, so much stress.  Shark Bait and I decided that we needed to stop the madness and focus on us as a couple and take care of our needs instead of worrying about what everyone else wanted or expected.  I made a deal with myself that I would try and be kind to myself and that Shark Bait and I would take the time to enjoy the holidays with fun stuff instead of just frantically surviving it like we have in the past. I decided to stop the anti-depressants as they were enabling me to become an uninspired blob and I had zero enthusiasm about anything.  I promised myself that I would walk two 5-K's by the end of the year, that we would have a fun holiday get-a-way, and that I would take pressure off of myself about losing weight and  the Little Black Dress promise I had made at the beginning of 2014. 

I kept those promises to myself and to Shark Bait. I walked both 5K's without any pain to my body, which was exciting and Shark Bait and I took a get-a-way weekend to Leavenworth for the Christmas lighting ceremony.

Turkey Trot 5K, Jingle Bell 5K and us in Leavenworth

Now, about the Little Black Dress promise.  I know last year I said that no matter where I was in my journey, in December 2014 I would wear an LBD proudly and we would go out on the town and I would own it.  Well, here I am in my journey and I didn't want to own it.  I wanted my LBD moment to be special.  I didn't need to be at goal to have it be special, but I needed to feel like I had done the best I could do and that I couldn't have done more and that I would hold my head up proudly.  I can't do that right now.  I could have done more.  I could have not given up on myself, even when it hurt.  And so, since I am the boss of me, I decided I will have that moment, but now is not when it will be.  I will re-focus, I will get back on track.  I will.  Not because of an LBD deadline, but because it is what I need to do for my life that certainly does have a deadline at some point, which is unknown to me.

So, going in to 2015, my dog is officially blind, which we have come to terms with.  Shark Bait's dog has recovered.  The ponies are on the mend.  Our financial fiasco has been neutralized and we have a plan in action.  Shark Bait has a new job that will be better for our lives. 

That leaves me.  I know I need to get my shit together, again.  And I will, again.  Life will continue (God willing) and more shit will happen.  My goal is to handle it better.  To be that much stronger.  I've lived another year, I've learned more about myself and I hope that before I die, I get this shit figured out.  If I do die before I get to the LBD, my request from you is, stuff me in an LBD, close the lid and say, "Yay, she did it!"  Humor me, okay?

2015, Let's do this.  I'm ready.

You're Not a Bitch, You're "Bitchy"

Due to the holiday, I had "Therapy Thursday" today.  Before going in, Stiletto Barbie and myself discussed the usual going's on in our lives and ended up doing what any normal person does when they are trying to diagnose something, we went on Google.  We didn't really find what we were looking for, but we did discover that I, and possibly Stiletto Barbie, suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  Now, I don't have all the symptoms, but I have some of them, maybe a couple, which pretty much is the same thing as actually having it.  Armed with this new knowledge, I went to therapy in hopes I was on the verge of a breakthrough.  I would share this discovery with The Rug Doctor.  I mean, I'm pretty sure she already knows, but I think it's good if I come out and tell her that I know that she knows.

We started therapy as we normally do, with the niceties, "how's it going...?"  I told her, "Well, I have been a real bitch lately and have no empathy for anyone or anything.  I have done an exhaustive (at least 5 minutes worth) internet search via Google and believe I know why.  I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  And, Stiletto Barbie may have it, too, we don't know for sure.  At first we were upset about it, but then, we were okay with it, which kind of goes along with the symptoms...but you probably already figured it out, but didn't tell us, which we are kind of pissed about, but also don't care.  Again, symptomatic."  As with all my theories, The Rug Doctor entertained my little excursion into self-diagnosis.  She said that most people have a few symptoms of any number of disorders or diseases and that I, nor Stiletto Barbie, had BPD.  She cited examples of BPD and went on to say that if I was examining whether I had it or not then I definitely didn't have it.  Fine.  There goes today's breakthrough moment.

We went on to discuss my bitchiness and loss of empathy, which, again, if I was concerned about my level of empathy, I probably had more empathetic behavior going on than I was giving myself credit for.  And, empathy and bitchiness do have a certain co-existence that goes hand in hand.  What we had to do was to get the bitch in the drivers seat to maybe relinquish control of the throttle to slow down the metaphoric vehicular assault I was committing with my mouth.  And, furthermore, I shouldn't refer to myself as a bitch.  Bitchy behavior, perhaps, but labeling myself as a bitch is going too far.  I just sat there and blinked at her.  I think there is a certain number of people that may strip her of her  license if they find out she said that.  I then showed her the picture of Maleficent that my face was pasted into that my co-worker, Zumba Barbie, did.

It is possible, I've been walking on the dark side. And, that people have noticed. Shark Bait is likely to agree. I've chewed on him more than a coyote chews on a deer carcass and with all the same ferocity.  (Is ferocity a word?  I'd better go look that up...please hold...yay! it is!) Not that he hasn't deserved a bit of it, but perhaps not ALL of it. I told the Rug Doctor about Shark Bait's "Bathroom Blindness," for example.  She asked what that was.  I said, "That is the inability to detect any dirt, mildew or undesirable toilet bowl stains with the naked eye.  You are completely blind to anything that needs to be cleaned in the bathroom.  You can't see where you flicked your tooth brush at the mirror, the orangey stain in the shower from hard water or anything that needs tending in the toilet...like smudges or rings. Don't make me get graphic. That is Bathroom Blindness and we don't need Google to help us diagnose who, and who does not, have it.  I know.  Just ask."  Turns out she has someone in her house that suffers as well, she just didn't realize there was a medical term for it.  Now she knows.  At any rate, after lengthy discussion about why I may be letting the bitch drive at high speeds, we decided (and by "we" I mean The Rug Doctor) that perhaps I needed to get the bitch to take mini breaks.  Maybe bring the empathy back up a notch and take the bitchiness down a notch.  I said, "So, like if I say, 'I"m sorry you're a dumbass.' That is a compromise?"  She said, "yes!"  She said that people like the snarky bitchiness, maybe just not the one that makes them feel like they were hit by a Mack truck.  You know, I did just get recognized last week for my snarkiness in a department-wide email.  It was from our VP and he said, and I quote:
"The only award missing is for Cassondra. "The Most" Clever, Snarky, Well Organized, Avoid Taking Credit, Fun Loving, Behind the Scenes get it done....the list could go on and on!"  
I've never been recognized for snarkiness before, not on a professional level. I mean, this is BIG.  So, I guess people do like it at some level. This is something to consider.  She said that because I was feeling bad about being so bitchy, that was a form of empathy, so hope was not lost.  She felt like I could take some baby steps in this pursuit of regulating the beast(s) which I know as the Angry Pony(ies) that lie within. I'll get with the group inside my head and see if we can work something out.  I'll see if I can get this done before Shark Bait gets home tonight and we have the day off together tomorrow.

Anyway, I don't know if we made any real progress today, but we did decide I should write a book called, "How to NOT Be A Dumbass."  After doing an exhaustive Google search (probably for about two minutes), I only found one little one-pager on the subject, but no books.  It seems I may have the material for my first publication. Maybe in 2015 I'll become an author or something.  I'm sure as hell not getting skinny, so I may as well try something else.  At the current rate I get projects done, look for it to come out in early 2025.

On that note, try not to be a dumbass to someone you love and on the flipside, try also not to be a bitch to anyone you love.  Let's say good-bye to 2014 peacefully.  I'm probably going to write another blog tonight and eat some cookies.  That should keep me out of trouble.

Who steals from Santa?

Today was a Monday that lived up to it's name.  Just coming off of a fun getaway weekend and now reality was waiting to kick my ass.  Mother. Trucker.

The day wasted no time sucking.  I walked through the door at work and the "security" guard assaults me with questions about how I want to set up for our open house we are having this week.  First of all, it's none of his freaking business.  Second of all, he's an asshat.  He thinks he's all large and in charge and really, he is a menace.  I told him I would handle it myself, later.  Get off me, you know?  I get down to my desk and there, sitting right up front and center is a stack of packets and info that will be used for the open house this week.  I made copies of all of these things last week. It took a lot of work, updating the packets and mostly fighting with the copier.  I mean, we got intimate.  There was yelling, there were tantrums, extra pages added to packets, folded pages in the packets, missing pages.  I mean, shit got real.  But, I got it done.  This morning I walk in and there are post-its on the packets where it needs to be re-done.  Meaning, I have to throw all those copies away and start over.  I hadn't even taken my coat off or put my stuff down before marching in to the interim boss's office.  I lost my mind.  The good thing about interim boss, is that she seems unafraid of my rants.  She just smiles back and blinks.  How can I be mad at that?  It would be like shooting a baby deer with a B.B. gun...like a Red Ryder gun.  The kind you'll shoot your eye out with.  There's no sport in that.  Feeling like I needed to get a handle on things, I retreated to my desk.

I took my coat off and booted up my PC.  Going through all my emails did not cheer me up.  And then the instant messages started.  "Do you have magnets?"  "Do you have some batteries?" "Where are the envelopes?  Does the return address go here in the corner?"  "Hey CassAndra, can you have someone write this order?"  "Hey, can we go over some stuff for the open house tomorrow?"  "Our fax machine is out of toner..."  "Hey, can we order a cake?  How much would that be?"  Sweet Jesus.  I just wanted to get the damn packets done so I could get ready for our "Santa Party" at 1pm.  Had to get ready for that.  Totally forgot I had to put the damn Santa outfit on again today.  I will remain calm.  I will get this shit done and take care of all these needy people at the same time.

Fast forward to 1pm.  There I am, laying in wait in the auditorium dressed as Santa.  I sat there next to the tree and lights that I had put up listening to Christmas music.  I was starting to pit out just a little and that freaking beard was itching my face.  How did this happen to me?  I don't know...no, I do know, interim boss.  This is her doing.  Oh well, I was going to spread Christmas cheer if it killed me...and possibly others.
Finally, the supervisors came in and saw the magic of the room and the very essence of the Christmas spirit (the angry part that you usually see at the mall, or some poor bastard ringing a bell for hours outside a store). Anyway, the name of the game was that everyone got to pick a gift, open it and then everyone says "oooo....aaahhhhh" and then the next person chooses a gift.  The next person can take the first person's gift or get a new one from the tree.  As luck would have it, I was included in the game.  I was #3, which was cool because I knew what I wanted.  I helped do the shopping (not realizing at the time I got to participate) and while all the gifts were good, there was one I wanted.  Luckily, there it was, waiting for me at my turn.  It was perfect, it was three different games.  The games were, Smart Asses, Dirty Minds and Head Games.  Squee!  Merry Christmas to me.  My joy would be short-lived.  The next person up, D.I.K. (Daily Incident King), came and took my gift.  Are you freaking kidding me?  I was DRESSED AS SANTA!!! WHO STEALS FROM SANTA???!!!  That dirtbag!  It's like he just killed Christmas.  I realize he was just playing by the rules of the game, but I was Santa...and I'm the admin...I'm dressed as fucking Santa for YOU PEOPLE and he steals my gift!  A gift that I clearly wanted.  I bet he would sell his kid's soul for a Kit Kat bar.  I bet he doesn't leave Santa cookies on Christmas Eve.  I bet he already told his kids that Santa isn't real.  I bet he takes pocket change out of the Salvation Army kettle.  I bet he wears Santa's elves as slippers.  I bet he eats venison for Christmas dinner...and puts a shiny nose on it.  I bet if Frosty the Snowman were in his yard, he'd get his blow torch out and watch him melt for fun...and make s'mores.  I bet he gets giddy during the part of the Grinch that Stole Christmas where the Grinch steals everything.  But you know what, DIK, you know what?  Those little Who's are going to sing and they are going to melt your little heart, but it's going to be too late because Santa will have written you off FOREVER.  You will be on the Naughty list for the REST OF YOUR LIFE.  You can't outrun this travesty, this injustice to the human spirit, this ripple in time.  You have angered not only Santa, but the Admin, which, frankly, is a far greater crime than any holiday stolen from the clutches of a hard working girl who just wanted a game called Smart Asses. 

It is noteworthy to say that no one else stole anyone else's gift.  That just goes to show you the cunning, killer instinct of this supervisor.  He seems like the good guy, but he just single-handedly stole Christmas from an admin.  An admin dressed as Santa.  Just think about that.  Let that set in.  Feel it. It feels horrible, doesn't it?

Anyway, after the injustice of it all, I took off the Santa suit and my black tights were covered in red velvet fuzz.  I looked like a cheap, washed-up showgirl.  Today was not my day.  At least a lint roller could take away the mark of good 'ol St. Nick.  The pain of having Christmas stolen, it could take years.  Thank God I have therapy this Thursday.  I hope the Rug Doctor can help me through these tough times.

Do you mind if I sh*t myself?

The other night, I was sitting there on the couch next to my beloved Shark Bait.  I needed to go to the bathroom, so I went through the labor intensive process of putting the foot rest down, getting the dog out from under the blanket that was on my lap, relocating the dog, etc.  By the time I was done, I was exhausted. I sat there, on the edge of the couch for just a moment and looked at Shark Bait.  There he was, totally engrossed in some sort of alien version of Candy Crush.  He was totally oblivious to my situation. I thought to myself, I bet I could sit here and shit my pants and Shark Bait would be completely unphased.  I sat there for another moment, just staring at him, my mind thinking about our relationship.  I finally stated my thought out loud.  He ignored me.  I said, "you're not listening to me."  He then gave me his full attention and said, "what?"  I repeated my theory about shitting myself.  He just looked back down at his Kindle and went back to eliminating aliens.  I pressed him further for a response.  He grunted, "doubtful." 

One of two things had just occurred.  I have either worn him out with off-the-wall scenarios, or we had reached "that place" where nothing I could do would phase him.  Like, romance and surprise, GONE. I sat there just staring at him, thinking about where we were as a couple.  There really wasn't much territory that we have not covered.  I mean, I have never spawned a child from my loins, but I have undergone a couple of surgeries that have produced some major side-effects.  I have had the stomach flu ( pre-marriage, so he not only survived that, but stuck around for the encore of marriage).  Also notable, I am a woman and thusly do cycle every 28 days, so, you know, things come up.  I don't hedge around it, I come right out and tell him that I am shedding my uterine wall, I have cramps like a mo-fo and that I just lost a clot the size of a small puppy.  Doesn't even phase him, he just says, "sorry, Baby."  And, I'm not even going to pretend I've never walked out of the bathroom after a battle of sphincter vs. nature's will and said, "Shark Bait, I think I just pooped something the size of a baby's arm, you could actually drive a semi-truck up my butt right now...without lube."  Okay, so that is gross, but that is the kind of relationship we have.  How did that happen?  I have no idea.

I mean, it's great we have this comfort level, right?  Or is it?  I mean, we do close the bathroom door, but really, we are a one bathroom residence and always have been at each location we have lived at, so if I need in there while he is going to the bathroom, I'm goin in.  And, vice versa.  I'm not saying I want to be in there, but if we are in a hurry, getting ready for work, or whatever, then, things happen.  I'm not going to freak out about it.  I mean, if things get graphic, I leave.  There are certain things I just don't want to witness. If what he ate yesterday is biting his ass today, I don't need to be there.  And, if I'm in there, reading the Do's and Don'ts section in Glamour magazine, I'd like some privacy.  How else am I going to know that leaving the bathroom door open with your man ruins intimacy?  I actually might have read that in Cosmo, but I can't be sure.  I think the bathroom situation is one of those issues that people are pretty much okay with or on the other end of the spectrum where they are like, no way, girls don't fart and never poo, or they just whisper in their panties.  I'm here to tell you, we've passed that road.  Human bodily functions just aren't a big deal.  I mean, if Shark Bait pulls a crop dust situation in the store, I'll leave him in a heartbeat.  I'll  get two rows over and I suddenly I will not know him.  And, if he tries to dutch oven me under the covers, I'll punch him in the nards.  I have limits and boundaries, after all.  I'm just saying, basically, everybody poops.  I think there is even a kids book about it.

Another threshold we have crossed: grooming. It's almost a monkey situation if I have a bump on my back and I need to know what is going on back there.  Shark bait gets the magnifying glass, tweezers, whatever.  If the words are uttered, "is that bite or pimple?"  The other person whips out their Ph D and jumps into action.  This is not for the squeamish. I'm not saying we are hideous zit-infested people, I'm just saying, occasionally, something pops up, so to speak.  And, when Shark Bait needs his eye brows tweezed, I'm there.  Not just because I enjoy inflicting pain on him, but also because I am not married to Ernie from Sesame Street and I'm not looking at that uni-brow.  For me, if I need my toe nails painted, Shark Bait is up for the task. 

Closely related to grooming is wardrobe assistance.  If I am stuck in my FCD (Fat Controlling Device), bra or nylons, this is when Shark Bait comes to the rescue.  He doesn't really get stuck in his clothing, but I can tell you, if he needed me, I'd be there.  I do fold his laundry sometimes, so that's kind of like wardrobe assistance.

We also can't forget another potentially awkward topic: sex.  Now, I'm not going to elaborate on this for obvious reasons, but let's just say, we do have a move called the "Geriatric Dismount."  Hey, if you get a charlie horse, you've got a situation.  You need an exit strategy. Also, I'm not shy.  I have questions.  I'll ask them. I'll ask Shark Bait stuff until he is ready to crawl under the bed and curl up in fetal position.  But he doesn't, he just goes with it because he knows that I'm like a little kid asking "why? how come? why not?"  I pretty much won't stop unless you give me a cookie and send me off to watch cartoons.  Shark Bait has never tried that, but he should.  We both will walk around the house naked or close to naked.  Neither one of us is a retired supermodel, or pretends to be, but there comes a moment where you just have to say, "who cares?"  I'm known to occasionally say, "Shark Bait, look at my fat belly...just look at it..."  It happens.  He always tells me he loves me and that I'm beautiful.  And, I always tell him I'm lucky I married a man with failing vision.

Aside from the obvious gross or embarrassing stuff, we can tell each other anything.  Unless Shark Bait just bought another gun, in which case, he keeps that a secret and then tries to convince me to believe he already had it or got a steal of a deal on it and he told me about it already and I just don't remember.  We  both know this tactic won't work, but it doesn't stop him from trying.  It's like a little game we play.  It's called, "I"m going to pretend my wife is stupid and she is going to hand me my ass on a platter."  It's a fun game, no dice or cards required.

All these things were crossing my mind as I just stared at Shark Bait sitting there on the couch.  I thought about how he has been rolling over and snoring and coughing in my face the last week while he has been sick and the nights he sits there completely in another world in his Kindle or in Facebook.  Are we just BFF's?  Have we sacrificed  a more mysterious, exciting life for one of two boring people shuffling around the house scratching and farting?  Are we fraternity brothers or husband and wife?  Some might say we have crossed too many lines and that the romance is gone.  But what is romance, anyway?  I mean, sure it could be flowers and candlelight or romantic strolls.  Or, it could be Shark Bait helping me feed the ponies on a cold night and we stand there together and watch the ponies chew their hay and sneak a kiss and hug in the barn.  It could be a night on the town and a fancy dinner, or it could be sitting side by side on the couch watching The Voice holding hands. 

Sometimes I think I want something different than what I have, but the reality is, 10 years of nurturing this relationship has created something comfortable and secure.  I know that whether I just need a kiss and a hug, or a full on discussion about how my intestines sound like a freight train, I can get either in the same place.  That's pretty cool, right?  So, I think the answer to the original question is, yes, I could sit next to him and shit my pants, and while he would be grossed out about it, he would still love me and we would laugh about it later.  I do think, however, I would be cleaning up my mess solo.  I mean, not that I have any desire to create such a mess, but since I posed this question to the universe, I think it deserved an answer.

And now, like many times before, anyone who has read this knows more than they bargained for. But like my relationship with Shark Bait, I think we all know each other well enough to expect a little trauma during the average blog reading.  Just to be clear, however, I don't feel close enough to any of you to want to see you naked walking around in my house.  I'll call the cops, I mean it.

I'm NOT Crazy

Things at the Glass Palace have been a little crazy the last few weeks.  We have acquired some new customers in an Eastern state where people are seriously rude.  Our call volume has been crazy, the customers are crazy, the systems are not working like they should and it has been general exhaustion all around. 

Today, I believe the overall diameter of the vortex of suckiness opened up and we are being pulled in slowly.  It's like we found a worm hole...no, a slug hole.  This sucker is fat, lazy and leaves a slimy trail that you can't get off of your hands.  This vortex is not leading us to a dimension that anyone wants to board the mother ship for.  I'm telling you, this is serious.  Serious as a heart attack.  But, how do we know this alleged vortex, this "slug hole" exists?  I'll tell you how I know, and do not call me crazy, because I AM NOT crazy.  Not this time.  I have witnesses.

I was at my desk, minding my own business, working, when I caught a movement on my right hand side.  It startled me for a moment because the movement made me think something was behind me.  I looked to my right and there, on my desk, was my little mirror and it was catching the image of the balloon arch that they did for my birthday last week.  One of the balloons is starting to die, so it was moving back and forth over my left shoulder and my mirror in front of me alerted me to that.  Scared the crap out of me at first, until I realized what it was.  I stabbed the balloon to death and removed it from the arch. I then grabbed the mirror to move it at a different angle so I wouldn't be distracted.  This is where the real trouble started.  I noticed my head looked enormous in the mirror.  What the hell?  This mirror doesn't usually look like that, I usually look like I am further away from it. So weird.  I put it down, moved it, looked at my reflection again.  Maybe all that Halloween candy was catching up with me?  Damn, I'm huge.  I tried to put it out of my head. 

Pretty soon, Stilletto Barbie came down to see me.  I shared with her about the mirror.  I knew she would understand.  Instead, she looked at me like a dog looks at something it doesn't understand.  She is my homie, she has to have my back.  Just then, one of the supervisors walked by and said she had noticed the same thing about her mirror.  HA!  Someone else has noticed!  Stilletto still looking skeptical, went to her desk and then reported back that her mirror was the same way, ENORMOUS!  Here's the thing, people, we know what we looked like in that mirror yesterday.  It isn't the same as what it looks like today.  I talked to others like Camilicious and Sassy Pants.  They, too, noticed the change. It was spooky.  What was going on?  Suddenly I realized this could be a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.  I was in one of those horror movies.  I was just waiting for the phone to ring and hear a creepy little girl say in a whisper, "seven days...."  like in The Ring.  What if I went in to the bathroom and there was a crazy clown in one of the stalls?  More importantly, what if none of us were going to make it out of the Glass Palace today?  What if the ground opened up and sucked us all through the slug hole?  Or, were we already in the slug hole?  Living a double life?  Like, the real Angry Pony was alive and well with a normal mirror in another dimension, but here I am with the warped mirror and everyone could see it happening.  I felt serious anxiety.  What in the fuck is going on?  Why are the mirrors like this?  It wasn't right.  I am not crazy. 

As I sat there wondering what the hell is going on, Stilletto Barbie said the only thing we could do was prepare for the worst. She suggested that maybe, if there were evil surrounding us, I should go in the bathroom and say "Candy Man" three times.  I haven't seen the movie that involves this scenario, but apparently, it doesn't end well.  I suddenly knew what Bruce Willis felt like in Armageddon when he had to take one for the team.  I grabbed my phone and went to the first floor bathroom.  It is the most likely place an angry spirit would be.  I mean, the Glass Palace is right next the cemetery, we could have evil in our building.  Feeling brave, I turned my phone on to video my experiment.  I mean, if I'm going down in a gory, bloody mess, maybe someone would find my phone to see what really happened.  People need answers. I mustered my courage and said "Candy Man" three times.  Nothing happened.  I pushed open the door to stall number one. If any stall would have evil in it, it's stall number one.  Nothing....for now.  Maybe this would be like the movie Final Destination and evil would find me later.  I returned to the alleged safety of my desk where the fun house mirror was laying in wait.

Video of my trip to possibly meet my demise: https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10202847504411207&l=13813230872012245


I couldn't accept this reality that everyone's mirrors were different and no one had an explanation.  I'm not crazy. I'm not.  However, I was being met with resistance.  Dish Guy was telling me I was just making this up trying to scare the masses.  We went round and round about what was occurring.  Just then, Ambular walked up and picked up my mirror, she said, AND I QUOTE, "Wow, you are right, this is a lot bigger, that is weird."  SEE!!!  Yet one more person to stand by me in my moment of vulnerability.  Remember that movie Day After Tomorrow?  No one wanted to believe that guy that the climate was changing and that we were headed for an ice age and then LOOK WHAT HAPPENED?!  Someone has to be that person, that person that saves the USS Enterprise from being sucked into the black hole, or in our case, the slug hole.  Luke Skywalker defeated the Death Star, no one is laughing at him, are they?  I really am upset about this.  Stilletto Barbie suggested we need to be ready to evacuate.  I went over to our person in charge of emergency preparedness to find out what we would do in the case of an actual emergency.  I explained what was going on.  Turns out, he does not have a plan for our ultimate demise, being pulled into a slug hole or if the ground opens up to swallow us.  I shamed him for his lack of foresight and returned to my desk. 

This can't be happening.  There is no logical reason for it, other than, it sucks so bad at the Glass Palace that our souls are being transformed into blobs.  Everyone is stress eating, after all.  At this point, I had so many people confused, we did what any evolved, intelligent person would do.  We Googled it.  It seems there is no phrase you can put in the Google search that will really lead you to an answer.  And, frankly, I don't have time to learn physics.  As far as I know, tomorrow could be too late. People suggested the pull of the moon, gravitational pull, planets in retrograde, rotation of the planets and the popular, "we're fucked."  All possibilities.  Someone suggested I needed to find someone that is a Wiccan.  At this point, I'll take whatever help I can get.  Something is going on and I need to understand it.  I'm a level-headed girl when it comes to this kind of stuff, but I know what I saw, I know what my friends saw and I have no explanation.  I'm being punked, I have to be.  Like I don't have enough problems and now I have to wonder if I am in a cross-dimensional time warp.  This is a lot of pressure.

I sat there at my desk, confused and a little traumatized.  I caught a glimpse of my mirror again, this time, this is the image I saw.

Seriously people, how much more can my heart take today?  That White Queen behind me, why was she looking at me like that?  Is she menacing or supportive? She's creepy, okay, CREEPY.  I'm freaking doomed, we are ALL freaking doomed.  If anyone can explain to me why all the old Verizon mirrors are suddenly looking like fun house mirrors, PLEASE let me know.  I may not always like my life, but I don't want to live in another dimension, or be pulled through a slug hole.  And, if I am gonna get pulled through, I want to be skinny and have a fucking unicorn!!!!

I'm exhausted.  I leave you with a simple "good-night."  Still no answers.  I hope I wake in the morning...in my house.  I'm not going to work.  It's too risky.