Blog drought...over

Well, I have not blogged in quite a while.  Anyone that is Facebook friends with me knows that is probably largely due to my good dog Spanky being in a tough situation.  He has an injured back and the early prognosis is that he needed a surgery I could not afford or to be euthanized.  I have been crying and crying and trying to figure out what I can do to save my little dog or if I should make that hard decision.  Anyway, it has been all-consuming.  Add a little family drama, add a lot of stress at work and I've been a hot mess.  Nobody wants to read my "hot mess" blogs unless that mess is me, in Pranx, stuck in stall number one surrounded by feces smeared on the wall by the prior person and my bracelet is stuck to the back side of my Pranx.  That's the kind of mess my readers like.  Or, they like me really pissed off.  Today was such a day.

Today, I woke up to a Monday tired and cranky.  I had to get to work early as we were having another hiring open house.  These things don't run themselves.  I gotta make the magic happen.  And, by magic, I mean, make everything run smoothly without bitch-slapping or killing anyone.  The first strike to my day was wardrobe.  What I had thought I would wear just didn't look right. The area surrounding my closet is now mid-calf deep in rejects.  I finally decided on all black. It fit my mood.  I was dressed like an assassin, minus the ski mask. To add insult to injury, my hair wasn't working either.  Turns out there is only so many times you can flat-iron fine hair before it just splits and gives up.  Oh, and it is way over-due to be cut because I canceled my appointment in an effort to put more money towards the Spanky fund.

I arrived at work and realized I didn't have all the info I needed for the open house. Mother Trucker.  Strike two for the folks that are supposed to have that information to me on time.  It's too early to be scurrying around like a rat on a sinking ship, but alas, I am.  I'm also completely pissed off because these assassin pants don't have belt loops, so I have to wear my badge around my neck.  I'm walking around and that damn badge is flopping back and forth on my belly like a metronome. I don't think that happens to skinny girls, so now that is making me really mad.  I finally get ready and go up to the greeter table.  On my way, I notice squatters have taken over one of the rooms I have reserved for interviews.  Asshats.  I have a sign on the effing door!  Here I'm testing people to see if they are smart to work here and the ones that already work here CAN'T freaking read a sign!  I hate people!  I go to the greeter table and there are people there...and a bunch of kids?  What?  Who brings their kids to this type of function?  Luckily, the Dad took the kids outside when I set up shop.  Good, I didn't need to deal with that today.  Who knows, maybe they were going to apply for the job, too?  The huge rush of four people cleared out and then, there I was.  Just me and the table...and a bunch of chairs.  I had to do this for three hours this morning and another three this afternoon.  Not thrilled. It's great to know that a future at the Glass Palace draws them in like flies.  Like those big blow flies in the winter that barely move and you can walk up behind and thwick in the ass and kill them.

I don't have enough cell service to even check FB or email.  Instead I send an angry text to Valerina. I used the F word about four times in that message.  That made me feel slightly better, but not really that much. Then, just when I thought I might fall asleep, the janitor shows up with the vacuum cleaner.  Great, like I wanted to listen to that.  Mind you, this is the same janitor that I never see actually cleaning anything.  He pushes the cart around and parks it outside the bathrooms, but I have never seen actual cleaning take place.  Just the other day I walked past one of our training rooms and he was standing there taking a picture of himself with his cell phone.  I mean, I guess it is important to make sure the three pounds of gel you put in your hair is still there and if you are in a room without a mirror, you may as well just do a selfie.  Anyway, today, while I would just like some peace, he is vacuuming...right in front of me.  I guess I'll have to take back my nick name of "lazy janitor."

Finally, my first session of three hours of torture is over.  I head back to my desk and Four Feet of Fury is there asking me how it went.  I told her I didn't think she wanted to hear anything I had to say.  She said she did.  I said, no she didn't.  She asked me to come in her office.  We shut the door. She told me to get it off my chest, let it out, tell her what's on my mind.  It isn't like she had to beg.  I can't really divulge what all was said behind those doors in the blog due to the sensitive nature of me calling people names, calling my company out on processes I find to be moronic and overall general feelings of despair I had.  I will tell you some of the words I used: fuck, stupid, bullshit, backwards, well, you get the drift. I vented and FFF allowed me to do so.  I bucked up and went back out to my desk.  I looked in the mirror to fix my lip gloss and notice I have some sort of red rash all the way around my mouth.  It looked like I had put clown paint around my mouth and wiped it off.  What the hell is that?  That's fantastic!  Now I look like I'm a washed up clown assassin...with bad hair...clown hair.  This just isn't my day.  I head to the restroom.  I go into stall number two, because stall number one is never a sanitary place to be and there is this, like, six-inch hair on the seat.  Why do I always have to fight some sort of bodily fluid or body hair?  Why can't I just pee in peace in a hygenic location?  What really made me mad is that it was a really long healthy strand of hair.  I have haggard, fried clown hair that I should be dropping like a long haired cat in a room full of velcro, but no, I'm not.  If I can control my hair folicals how come no one else can?  So discouraging.  Where is that mother trucking janitor now?  Probably doing a selfie in the lunchroom. 

I settled in for the afternoon session at the open house.  A few more folks showed up and then it was quiet again.  Sorority Intern came and hung out with me for a while.  I hate her guts (not really).  She is all young, thin, pretty, perky, smart, a snazzy dresser and I find out today she is the president of her sorority in college.  She might be perfect.   I wanted to lick her and see if she tasted like sugar, but that probably would get me fired for sure.  I looked at her and said, "Promise me you will never loose that sweet little spirit.  Go out and change the world, save yourself.  Don't be complacent and bitter. Continue to have hope in the human race.  Use your degree, don't ever settle.  Okay?"  She nodded and said, "okay."  There.  I did my good deed for the day.  I was spent.

At the end of a very long day, I took my assassin-clown-face-fried-hair home.  I was exhausted.  I get to do it all again tomorrow, which doesn't cheer me up.  The best part of the day, however, is when I walk in the door and there is my guy, there is my dog and  I remember, this is all that counts.  Doesn't mean tomorrow isn't going to piss me off, but for a brief moment, there was a sigh of relief. 

I better get to bed, I'm going to have get up early to wade through a lot of laundry to find a new assassin outfit and spend the appropriate amount of time frying my hair.  It isn't easy making that look work.  Not everyone can.  Don't be haters.

Payphones vs. Bathroom stalls...

I sent this email out to my work group on Tuesday.  My boss asked me to address this issue in my "Cassondra way."  I wrote this and sent it out. In an effort to maintain employment, I kept it PG-13, but I really would have liked to get into more detail.  It was well-received and I have had several people thank me for addressing this problem.  Additionally, word of my email has gone viral, apparently, and I have random people in the building, not in my department, that are now requesting to be added to my distro list when I send these types of emails out.  I told my boss today that I am going to start asking for royalties on this stuff.  Without further adieu, here is my email.

Payphones vs. Bathroom Stalls

It has been brought to my attention that there may be confusion about the difference between a phone booth and a bathroom stall.  I find visuals are helpful.

 

 

Picture the following scenario.  You have just gone into the bathroom.  You pick a stall, go in and do the seat cover rodeo.  Finally, you settle in.  Then you hear, “hello?”  You think it is odd someone is talking to you, but you respond, “…hello….”  Then you hear, “What time are you done?”  You suddenly find yourself with performance anxiety.  Why does the girl wearing sandals (that is in desperate need of a pedi) in the stall next to you care how long you are in there?  You respond, “I’m doing the best I can here…”  Then you hear, “Excuse me, could you be quiet, I’m trying to have a conversation here.”  Apparently, the girl in the stall next to you was not talking to you.  She was talking to her kid on her phone.  Awkward.

 

I don’t know how you all feel about “stall talk,” but I have had numerous people come up to me and ask me to address this.  Now, I’m not the cell phone police, but I will say, I have learned a lot in the bathroom that I really wish I hadn’t.  I don’t really like it. I really just want to do my thing, in peace, and then return to the natural habitat of my cubicle.  And also, you’ve had your hands on everything in the bathroom, used your phone and then proceeded out.  You are basically taking the bathroom with you when you leave.  Hey, I’m not gonna lie, I’ve Facebooked in there or texted someone, but at least I was quiet, and I washed my hands…and sanitized my phone. AND, No one had to know that I “liked” someone’s unicorn picture. 

 

I think maybe we need some music in there, like at Red Robin or something, but until we do, this is just a “Dear Cassondra” etiquette bulletin, maybe save those conversations for outside of the bathroom. 

 

Disclaimer: This email was not intended to offend anyone, hurt anyone’s feelings or be a smack-down. If you were offended, maybe we can text each other about it next time we are in the bathroom.  Send me your number.

Cotton candy at work, not recommended...

This week was bound to be hell.  There was no way to stop it.  We have executives visiting. The ones I am "responsible for" are my bosses boss and then that bosses boss. They are like, way important. I have been working on their agendas for a couple of weeks and rolling with the punches of last minute changes, etc.  It goes with the territory, it's the job.  Doesn't mean I have to always like it, but I get that is my job.

I started out the week telling my boss I would be a stepford admin and be all smiles and be gracious.  It's what they pay me to do.  Monday was crazy stressful preparing for the visit. Yesterday was long and exhausting with their arrival, but all in all, it went well.  Today, tested my patience, my stepford smile and my ability to not take hostages.

Today was the day we were going to show the VIP's how much fun we have in the center and how engaged we are.  To express this, we are doing a carnival theme.  We are talking cotton candy machine, clowns, caricatures and even a visit from our mascot (which I previously advised you was a cow named Bob).  Now, when I saw the cotton candy machine being assembled, I said, "You know, that is going to set off the fire alarm, I don't feel good about this."  I showed them where the fire sensor was.  It just so happens they were set up right under it.  I told them they should move it out, or get a fan or do something and that it needed to be supervised at all times and be run for short periods of time.  This isn't my first rodeo, we had a popcorn machine set off the alarm before.  What are the chances a cotton candy machine would?  My boss was equally skeptical.  We agreed to let things proceed as long  as they had a fan.  I had bigger things to worry about.

I spent most of my morning running all over the center wrangling VIP's, taking them from meeting to meeting, monitoring their agenda's running up and down the stairs three million times.  I was getting crabby. Not so much stepford admin right now, more like Cybil with multiple personalities.  As I was on one of my missions, they said, "come over and get your picture done by the caricature guy."  Fine.  I sit down and he is like, "smile big."  I don't have a big smile, I told him so. He kept giving me crap about it.  How bout I draw a picture of his lifeless body on the floor?  He complains the whole time he is drawing me that he can hardly draw me because of my lack of smile and my sour attitude.  Fuck off, caricature guy. I don't need this crap.  I'm gonna shove a cotton candy stick up your ass.  He shows me the finished product.  Suffice to say, it was not swoon-worthy.  Big ol fat cheeks.  I hate his guts.  I walked over to my desk and passed my boss and yelled, "I really enjoyed being hassled by the caricature guy, that was super fun!  I don't have time for this!" She blinked and kept walking.

I had a vein pulsating in the right side of my neck and a weird stabbing pain in my shoulder. I could just picture it, it was going to blow out and spurt blood all over.  I only have Snoopy bandages at work. In all likelihood, I would die if it does explode. As I am sitting there eating lunch and wondering if I will, in fact, explode, here comes Bob the mascot and a clown.  I asked them to get away.  Let's be honest, I didn't ask, I told. They were undeterred. Bob puts his hand around my shoulder, almost groping my boob.  I told the clown, "do not take my picture when I have food in my mouth."  I glared at them.  "oh,come now, smile."  I repeated, "I told you not to take my picture."  Click! Mother Trucker.  Why doesn't anyone listen to me?  Then the clown says, "oh, that's not a very good picture."  No shit, Sherlock, I told you NOT to. 
Apparently, clowns are deaf.  I didn't get the memo on that.

Pretty soon the Dish Guy and his boss, Cheetos & Taki's come over.  We exchanged witty banter and I was telling Cheetos & Takis how Dish Guy was showing me how to be "street."  I showed him some gestures that showed my pimp-daddyness.  Apparently, one of my gestures was off a bit.  I was supposed to be "pourin it out to my homies" but instead it looked like I was suggesting someone needed to whack off.  Woops.  I'm just a simple girl from the farm.  I'd better stick to the one gesture I'm sure of, and that is the international sign for "you are #1."  I can't cut a break today.

Next thing I know, the VIP's are missing in action and I have to find them.  I'm tearing around trying to locate them, up and down the mother trucking stairs.  Did I mention there are five floors?  I know some people don't realize we have a fifth floor, but we do. I'm pissed.  I didn't make that mother trucking agenda to have them go free style on me and go rogue in the building.  I made that agenda and they are going to follow it. As I walk past the cotton candy machine, I considered just putting my head in there and turning it on.  See how the coroner likes that.  Fuck you, I died in a ball of cotton candy.  I'm walking around and all I hear is, "Cassondra I need this..." "Cassondra do you know about that..."  "Cassondra can you do this..."  If I hear my name one more time, I'm going to snap. My neck is pulsating and I am pretty sure everyone can see and hear it.

In between chaos is all the other shit that happens during the day. Like, I schedule a meeting for a group of people and some of the people are mean to the other people.  It's like West Side Fucking Story.  Grow the fuck up.  Stop being an asshat to your co-workers.  Petty bullshit.  Then I find out someone had a three-way with someone else.  I didn't need to know that. Why do I have to know that?  Why is it always the ones you least expect that kind of behavior from?  I'm not judging, just...how does that get out?  How does the hotline network find out?  Will and I can barely handle each other and don't even like it when the dogs watch, a three-way?  No.  With a co-worker? HELL NO.  I've seen their bathroom habits, no way.

It is now afternoon and I go looking for the Big Cheese again.  I'm irritated.  I take one of our visiting executive guys from Dish TV, Cheetos & Taki's, to go see the Big Cheese.  While I am walking through our aisle ways I am dodging these stupid bird houses we have hanging from the ceiling.  They are all part of our whimsical summer theme decorations.  I reach up and peg that thing hard.  Well, Cheetos & Taki's is right behind me.  Woops.  I didn't really think that through.  I turned around, "you okay?"  He responds, "uh, yeah, just missed me."  Bad judgement on my part.  So noted. We continue our walk upstairs where I have Big Cheese located in an office.  She comes walking out towards us.  I said, "I'm bringing you Cheetos & Taki's."  She says, "The agenda says we are to meet in Four Feet of Fury's office."  I said, "yes, well, that was because I didn't know if I could get you this office for sure up here, so since you have that, you can use that."  She says, "No, it says Four Feet of Fury's office, that is where we will meet."  So, we all walk back downstairs.  Seriously?  Seriously.  I get her back down there and she says, "Where is Four Feet of Fury?"  I advised her that FFF was in a meeting with her boss, Banana Fanna.  Big Cheese asked me to go see if FFF wanted to be in the meeting she was having.  I walk back upstairs where FFF is with Banana Fanna.  Mother Trucker.  Turns out FFF doesn't want to be in the meeting with Big Cheese.  I go back downstairs and tell Big Cheese she doesn't want to come. She says, "Okay, that's fine."  Really?  It was a big deal a few minutes ago.  Sigh.

I sat there at my desk and decided to bite on some Goldfish crackers.  I needed to bite someone's head off. My neck was still pulsating.  Before I knew it, 30 minutes had passed and it was time to move the VIP's again.  I get them all settled on different floors, using the stairs 300 more times. I walk in to our area and the cotton candy machine is going again.  I stop and look.  Blue smoke is billowing up.  This isn't good. No one wants to hear that this is bad.  I just stand there for a moment and then thought, "it's out of my hands."  I didn't even get back to my desk and the fire alarm went off.  I knew it. I fuckin' knew it.  No one listens to the admin.  My boss, FFF comes flying out of her office.  Terror was in her eyes.  She knew the jig was up.  Executives are looking over the railing.  The clown and the mascot are quickly dismantling the cotton candy machine like no one will ever guess it was there.  People are mobbing everywhere heading for the exits.  We head outside, there is nothing more to do except wait for the lashing. As we stand there waiting for the fire department, I see my bosses face.  It's white, she wants to throw up and cry at the same time, I can tell.  This is not how you impress your boss.  I should have told her what my name means in greek mythology, but now was not the time.

But just so you know...
(In Greek mythology, Cassandra (Greek Κασσάνδρα, also Κασάνδρα)^[1] was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy. Her beauty caused Apollo to grant her the gift of prophecy. In an alternative version, she spent a night at Apollo's temple, at which time the temple snakes licked her ears clean so that she was able to hear the future (this is a recurring theme in Greek mythology, though sometimes it brings an ability to understand the language of animals rather than an ability to know the future).^[2] When Cassandra refused Apollo's attempted seduction, he placed a curse on her so that her predictions and those of all her descendants would not be believed. She is a figure both of the epic tradition and of tragedy.)

Finally, the building was cleared and we went back in.  She walked up to me and put her hand out and said, "Well, it was nice working with you."  I said, "I know, I'm gonna miss you."  She laughed and said, "hey, you could have at least tried to cheer me up."  I told her she would be fine.  She went into her office and I instant messaged her, "Do you think I should update Big Cheeses agenda and add the fire drill?"  I heard her laughing in there and she said yes.  It would only be my 100th change to the fucking agenda.  I asked the Executive Admin upstairs if it was bad form to announce a Fire Sale on Cotton Candy...Everything Must Go!  She thought it was a great idea.  Come on, that's funny.

You know what isn't funny?  The damn elevators stopped working and everyone figured I needed to handle it.  Do I look like a fucking elevator technician?  I call the front desk and he advises me that yes, it's true the elevators don't work and that they don't know when they will work again...and that we don't think there are any bodies in them.  That is fanfuckingtastic.  Look, I've walked up and down those damn stairs all day, all the other lazy mother truckers can too, get over it.  

I finally had seen my fill of adventures in babysitting VIP's, so I asked FFF if I could go home.  She said I could and I packed up my crap and got the hell out of there, taking those stairs one last time for the night.
Holy crap, what a day.  I have one more day of this VIP stuff.  I hope my artery can take it. 

Oh, and one final note, the same people that brainstormed the cotton candy machine also have a popcorn popper reserved for us for tomorrow.  I told them no fucking way.  They are going to give the sno-cone machine a try.  Should be harmless...right?  What's the number for 9-1-1 again? 

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.

Stall Number One

I don't always talk about the disgusting bathroom, but when I do, it's stall number one.  I have mentioned a time or two on my FB page about the conditions in which I am forced to contend with in the bathroom at work.  I've said many times that I do not know what happens in there.   I can't explain it, can't understand it. 

Today, I am sitting there at my desk working and Stiletto Barbie comes walking towards my desk pointing at me.  She looks horrified and she is almost stammering and stuttering.  I don't know what she is about to say, but this is big, I can feel it.  I give her my full attention and she says, "I know what you said on your FB page...I read it, but I could have never imagined what you were talking about until now."  She was visibly shaken.  She had a real sense of terror in her eyes.  She continued, almost as if she may need sedation after what she was about to say, "I saw stall number one.  I don't...what the...I can't..."  I understood now. She was experiencing the trauma that I, too, have shared.  I told her, "I know...I know...I don't think it is meant for us to understand."
There was a moment of silence while we both contemplated what must go on in there.  The Dish Guy was nearby and looked a little uncomfortable with the whole ordeal.  I explained to him that the problem was that someone goes in there and pees all over the seat and just leaves it.  I think they have vaginal tourettes syndrome.  Maybe she is in there and then all the sudden her vagina goes ape shit crazy and crop dusts the whole stall.  Seizure? Or, is it that her hoo-hoo hole is big enough to park a tractor in and she just has no control?  I don't know. We hypothesized that maybe this person, even as a hoverer, should put a seat cover down, at bare minimum, and then clean up when done.  But no, she doesn't want to touch that toxic urine.  Dish Guy suggested maybe she should lift the seat.  I think that is an excellent idea.  I mean, if you are going to hover anyway, put the seat up. 

It is a gross subject, no denying that, but we have to come up with a solution.  We cannot have stall number one  being a hazardous waste site.  Perhaps a funnel.  A really big funnel. Maybe we should put one in there. I can invent it.  We could call it the Harry Potter.  You just fit it over the toilet seat and then hover over it with your girl bits and pee with abandon...and then your pee goes right into the pot.  Or, maybe the Harry Potter is too vulgar.  We could call it Wild Waves by the makers of Honey Bucket.  Splash and slide down into the toity.  I'm just saying, they make attachments for everything, why not for people that cannot control their explosive vaginas?  I think this is bigger than just stall number one.  We can't be the only office with this problem.  And, if the Harry Potter or the Wild Waves take off, then we can work on the secondary issue and create the Poop Shoot 2000.  It will work in a similar fashion, but will help get poop into the toilet and off the walls.  If used correctly, there shouldn't be any reason at all to abandon your underwear in the bathroom because you had to take them off to wipe your poop off the wall....or floor.

Stiletto Barbie, I think we need to start working on a patent right away.  And, if the person with bad pee etiquette or the tricky va-jayjay is reading this, could you just lift the seat until we get our new product on the market?  There has got to be a way for you to stop spraying the bathroom like a pack of dogs at the fire hydrant in the park.  I beg you. Liberate stall number one.  Or, if you need to tighten things up, consider kegel exercises, you know, if you think you can handle it without shooting anything out.  As gross as all this sounds, it's equally gross to have to encounter it daily.

At the bare minimum, there needs to be a tip jar in there for the janitor.  Lord knows, he's earned it.