Questions I get to answer.

Dear Chick,

You and your husband must be really bad drivers, because you get in a lot of accidents.

Okay, technically this isn’t a question. It’s more of a blunt statement.

I am not a bad driver. My husband? Questionable. But I am not a bad driver.

One of the things I’ve really tried to do, I mean, really, make a sincere effort to do, is drive slowly and carefully and not speed and not get upset and not have road rage and want to shoot people in the face. Because if you lived here? You would want to shoot people in the face all the time. All. The. Time.

So, I drive the speed limit. I stay in the further right lane, if at all possible. I don’t get mad or angry when people cut me off. I try to slow down or get into the other lane if someone needs to merge in. I don’t cut people off.

And someone slams in the driver’s side of my car. So basically, there is no winning.

And, okay, really? I drive about 90 miles a day, on average. If you drive that much and the majority of it is on a major interstate? I would imagine your likelihood of being in accidents would be higher. It’s not rocket science.

Thanks for the judgment though. That’s awesome.

Dear Chick,

I/We love your website. Would you endorse (insert random product here) on your blog?

Seriously. It’s freaking me out. I’ve been getting these a lot lately. I know some of them are just random, we’re emailing every single person we’ve seen with a blog to see if we can get them to give our product a plug, kind of emails. But some of them actually read my blog and our offering me goods and services to “endorse” them. Now that’s crazy!

I’ve ignored most of them, mostly because no one has asked me to endorse a Prada bag or a new house in a better neighborhood or anything. But I am going to do a guest blogging spot soon because the company just wanted stories, not endorsements. So that will be fun. And I’m thinking about if I want to do some other reviews. For a lot of different reasons, most of which I am torn on.

For bloggers who have been around for a while…is this common? Would you do this? Do you do this? Tell me about it.

Chick,

That post you did about XYZ wasn’t funny. I thought this was a Humor Blog.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I am linked on Humor Blogs (go to my sidebar and click the link…go on…I’ll wait). But I’m not always funny. Some days, my life both sucks and blows and I just can’t be funny. Some days I feel like covering a really serious topic, like my misshapen eyebrows or Britney Spears and her really ugly wigs. And those things are just not funny.

I can’t be funny all the time. There is no “Satisfaction Guaranteed” sign on this blog and you can’t sue me for $54 million dollars.

Some people think I’m never funny, and that’s cool too. You know what I do if I go to a blog and I don’t think it’s funny and I really want/need/hope that it will be? I just don’t go back.

It works really well.

Dear Chick,

I think you are hot. Do you want to get together?

Oh sure! Let’s run off together and make like, four hundred babies. Let me just go pack a bag filled with my granny panties and military-style cross your heart bras. Because Chick is bringing sexy back!

Can you believe that crap? Seriously? Are there really men who just go about the internet looking for women who might be willing to sleep with them?

Never mind. Dumb question.

Also? He thinks I’m hot? What, in that picture where I have my arms around my HUSBAND? Do you think he’s hot also?

Dear Chick,

As your friend I think I should tell you that you really shouldn’t talk about going to therapy on your blog.

Really?

#1: We aren’t friends. I have no idea who you are. Seriously. None. I’m sorry if I’ve mislead you into believing somehow we’ve had coffee together. My bad.

#2: Why? Seriously, why? I’m supposed to be ashamed that I’ve taken steps to make myself healthy and, to a lesser extent, sane? THAT’S embarrassing somehow? After all the crap I talk about the size of my ass, my children saying curse words, and my obsessive love for all things Mr. T, Weird Al, and Fred Thompson and THAT is what is embarrassing? Huh.

You know what’s really embarrassing? That about 98% of the population actually NEEDS therapy and about 10% actually go out and get it. You know what else is embarrassing? Lots of little children and lots of wives and husbands and daughters and friends SUFFER because people are embarrassed to admit they have problems. The thought of my little children hurting because I know I have a problem and I’m to ashamed to do something about it? Makes me want to hurl.

Guess what, friend? Everyone has problems. Everyone. I’m sorry you aren’t cool with that.

Just go ahead and call CPS.

On the way home:

Boy Child: So! Mom! How was work today?

Me: Fine.

Boy Child: Anything...interesting or funny happen today?

Me: Not really, no.

Boy Child: Nothing? Nothing at all?

Me: Boy Child, are you trying to ask if I said the F-word to any managers today?

Boy Child: Um, yes.

Me: NO.

Boy Child: How about the S word?

Me: No.

Boy Child: The b word?

Me: No.

Boy Child: The a h word?

Me: What?

Boy Child: You know. A hole?

Me: NO!

Boy Child: How about the-

Me: Stop making me laugh!

Being me totally rocks.

You know it’s a bad day when:
1)There are twelve emails in your inbox all inviting you to enlarge your penis.

2)You scream at a manager (not your manager, thank God) something (exactly) like, “I just want to do my *#$#@% work!”

3)The curse word you yelled was the f-word. Um. Oops.

4)Despite saying the f-word, you don’t get fired. Because you work in such an insane organization that it’s sadly common to shriek the f-word at your co-workers.

5)You burn your entire bag of microwave popcorn that you intended to eat for lunch, because apparently the microwave in the conference room is radioactive or some crap.

6)Everyone walks up and down the hall saying, “Who burned popcorn?” “Did somebody burn popcorn?” “I smell burned popcorn!”

7)You stick your head out of the office door and yell, like a fishwife, “I was the one who burned the popcorn! It was my freaking lunch and I really wanted it!”

8)The insurance company informs you that the person who hit you on Thursday didn’t turn in the claim.

9)You’ve found out, for 100% certain, that someone you really thought was a close friend told you the biggest lie you can imagine, and now you don’t know how to proceed.

10)The biggest news on CNN and the Fox News network and CNBC is that Paris Hilton got out of jail.

11)You find out your blog is rated R because you say ass a lot. Asstastic.

12)You find out that someone else has a blog called, “I kick ass for the Lord!” and then you’re upset because you didn’t think of such a cool blog name.

13)You really need to go to the grocery store after work and you really don’t want to go to the grocery store after work because you are tired, mentally drained, and hate most people, especially people who jam you up in the “Personal Care” aisle, by standing DIRECTLY in front of the tampons to carry on a conversation with their pastor about how the sweet corn isn't coming very good this year.

14)You check the mirror and you’re still fat as hell, despite the fact that you had no lunch because you burned all your popcorn.

15)Someone else thought up the word Chillax, a combination of “Chill” and “Relax” and so you can’t even take credit for that one.

16)You throw your office door open and firmly whack someone you actually like who happened to be standing in front of it.

17)It wasn’t someone you don’t like.

18)You have to write a training module about something you have absolutely no knowledge of, no experience with, and aren’t even sure you are spelling correctly.

19)It actually has to be good.

20)It’s not so much good as it is extremely bad.

21)You are in the middle of a meeting and your cell phone rings.

22)The song playing is, “White and Nerdy” by Weird Al.

23)Everyone looks at you funny.

24)hen you say, “I’m going to see Weird Al in concert in August!” as you turn your phone off.

25)Sadly, this doesn’t win you any friends.




Also? I'm so sorry. I'm way behind on reading and responding to everything. I've been given some cool awards and meme's and whatnot and I'm so far behind on everything I've not appropriately claimed them. I'm working on getting caught up.

And thanks. Really,

Better, even, than Prozac.

I was thinking about that email I got the other day from the guy I dated that one time and I realized that a great deal of the sadness in my life stems from the fact that since I’m married now, I don’t have nearly as many people to make fun of.

Because dating? Was an exercise in hilarity.

I guess I’m not really great at dating. I’ve always pretty much been in relationships. I had boyfriends. Long-term boyfriends. I didn’t go out and, you know, play the field. The thought of me “playing the field” actually makes me laugh until my face hurts.

Also? The boyfriends I had weren’t exactly Rico Suave. You know? I dated this one guy who wore a pink Makita hat. Makita, to the best of my recollection, is a company that makes tools, which makes it even more sad and appropriate.

After I got divorced, I wasn’t really looking to get remarried right away. I figured that eventually someone would love me and want to marry me, but I didn’t count on it happening right away and frankly? I didn’t really want it to happen right away. I wanted a chance to kind of figure out who I am, or some crap. I wanted to be okay by myself, before I had someone else to be okay with me.

What did happen, as soon as I started dating, was that I met a random collection of the most desperate men on the planet. And some of them wanted to, you know, marry me. Which was so weird. Because I hated them.

This one time? I went out with this guy who was in the Army. He really wanted to be a Marine, but the Marines rejected him. I could not stand him, seriously. I have no idea why my self-esteem was so low that I would even consider dating such a douchenozzle. So, my brother-in-law was there when he called and I said, “Oh my GOD, I do not want to talk to him!” and my brother-in-law answered the phone and said, “She’s asleep. Do you want me to roll over and wake her up?” and the dude was all like, “Okay.”

Can you believe that? Are there really people that desperate on this planet?

Because, seriously. Have you seen me? I will not be winning any awards for my beauty. My butt might win an award, but it would be one of those, “You have the biggest butt ever” awards, and that’s just not the kind of thing you advertise.

Also? These men were not wanting to date me because of my sharp wit. They didn’t UNDERSTAND my sharp wit. I would say the most hilarious thing, EVER, and they would just look at me with that look in their eyes. That, oh-my-freaking-Lord-I-have-no-idea-what-she-is-talking-about-
should-I-laugh-now kind of look.

And then I would go home and tell my sister about them and we would laugh and laugh and everything would be good.

Now I’m an old married lady and men still do things which I consider really strange. Like, two summers ago? This guy I work with asked me out on a date. And I was all like, “Dude. I’m married.” And he said, “Oh.”

The pictures of my husband and children on my desk didn’t clue you in? How about the engagement ring and wedding band? No? Okay, my bad. I’m going to have my marriage certificate laminated and put it on a chain to wear around my neck.

Just this morning, this guy I work with said, “Has anyone told you this morning how lovely you look today?”

Dude says this to every single female in the building. Every. Single. Day. And he’s married!

I said, “No. No one but you likes to lie to me.”

Which was probably not nice.

But did shut him up. So I still won.

Other good ideas.

Recently I was doing dishes and my doorbell rang. Usually I just ignore the doorbell (yeah. I ignore it. I have my reasons, and not just because people giving out religious material make me feel uncomfortable and full of sin), but my son happened to be standing there, so I asked him to see who it was.

It was a little boy from up the street. Who asked if Boy Child's dad could come outside for a minute.

Did you get that? He specifically asked for his DAD.

So Boy Child went and got Jason, who went outside to see what they wanted.

He came back a moment later and said, "They wanted Boy Child and Girl Child to watch their snake eat a mouse."

I was like, "Oh, okay. Fantastic. Next? Let's get go down to the trailer park with a megaphone and start shouting how Wal-Mart sucks."

Jason, as is typical, ignored my blathering and said, "Girl Child! Let's go!"

I stared at him in disbelief. "You're not letting them GO are you?"

He nodded. "I'm going with them."

So they left. While I washed the dishes.

They came back about 20 minutes later, full of stories of disgustingness.

After the children were safely deposited in their rooms, doing God knows what, whatever nine year old children do, I said to Jason, "Did you notice they specifically asked for you? Not me?"

He shrugged.

I said, "That's because if it were ME, I wouldn't let my children go to the home of people who stand in the street and scream at me that I'm a fat ass."

He blinked. "That wasn't them, was it?"

You have to be freaking kidding me.

"Yes! Don't you recall? The sperm donor likes to get drunk and shriek at me about my physical attributes?"

He thought for just a moment.

"Oh yeah. I do recall we had words once. He threatened to kick my ass."

I stared at him, stunned.

"But he was really nice this time," he protested.

I shook my head.

"I don't even think he was drunk!" he said, as though that made it all better.

"He was probably trying to see if you were holding," I said. "You know. In case he needs to make a buy."

"You are so hard on people," he said.

But I'm not. I just try to avoid people who cause me to need extensive therapy.

But for his sake, and the kids, I hope the snake was very interesting.

Honest.

Chick's in-box never sleeps.

Happy, happy, joy, joy!

Okay, seriously, today I was going to write about some of the really funny emails I've gotten recently, but for some random reason I decided to open my two-hundred year old AOL account (which I never use or look at) and I had an email from someone I went out with about, seriously, swear to God, eight years ago. Which made me laugh out loud, hysterically, and which I will now post for your enjoyment (making only minor modifications of my name and his and other small details...all the spelling errors and ridiculous punctuation are his).

Dear That Chick,

Hi. Remember me? We went to That Really Cheap Crappy Restaurant one time in Hell, NC.

I have been do some serious thinking about my life and I have made lost of mistakes! I am divorced now and I was wondering if you are still avaliable? I realize what a ass I was and now I don't really mind if you have kids. I'm sorry. You have really pretty eyes. You always made me laugh with your website. I fell like you were the one who got away.

Email me back. If you are interested!

Cya,
That stupid tool who had a serious girlfriend and took me out anyway

Reasons this letter is hilarious:

1. Seriously. We went on ONE DATE. We certainly didn't discuss the fact that I had kids.
   
2. Did I mention he had a SERIOUS GIRLFRIEND and asked me out anyway? So serious that they got married within six months after he took me out, and it was a really big fancy wedding at the Country Club, so it's not like they pulled it off in six weeks.
   
3. Does anyone else get the feeling that he's lonely/horny and went through his old emails and emailed every single girl he ever went out with this exact same message?
4. I do have pretty eyes. Not that he would know, because he was looking at my clevage the whole time.
5. I AM the one who got away. Sadly, I ran away screaming. But I still got away!

So I wrote him back.

Do you want to know what I wrote?



Dear Tool who isn't even worth my time,

I'm totally blogging about you.

-That Chick

Seriously. I'm a magnet.

I was driving along yesterday, in the right hand lane, minding my own business and someone slammed into my drivers side.

Apparently, the person she was behind stopped short and she couldn't stop in time. And she didn't see me.

(It would be very unSouthern of me to say that she was tailgating me for a long time before she whipped around and tried to pass me and she was also tailgating the woman who stopped short, which is why she didn't have time to stop, wouldn't it?)

Now please explain to me how you don't see my fat ass and 3000 pound car? Seriously.

I'm fine. The car is semi-fine (some door damage, but thank God, not major...her car got it way worse than mine did...the whole front bumper fell off). I'm just irritated.

So I go home and pick up my digital camera so I can take some photos of the damage, in case the insurance adjuster needs it (and also, for my blog, of course) and my digital camera screen shows a black streaky spiderweb.

I email HP and after several emails back and forth, they determine it's a critical hardware problem.

And it will cost more to fix it than to just buy a new one.

Awesome.

I pity the fools that don't live with me!

Me: "I really want a Mr. T poster."
Jason: "For what?
Me: "For my office at work."
Jason, considering: "What should it say?"

Do you not love that he doesn't say, "Why for the love of God do you, a grown adult woman who works in a government building, want a Mr. T poster?" He's awesome.

Me: "I don't know. Maybe like, "I pity the fool that comes in without knocking!"

Jason ponders this for a moment.

Then, Jason, frowning: "It's not really a good Mr. T poster unless it says 'jibba jabba'."


True dat.

I've been found out.

So last night, my husband found out I have a blog.

Okay, technically? I told him about it before, but seriously, he pays no attention to the things I say. I don’t get very upset by this because I never shut up, and I imagine it can be very difficult trying to keep up with me. But he didn’t really know I have a blog before last night, even though I had told him.

I had left two windows open on the computer and he sat down and said, “What is this? Jason, for the love of God? Blog published successfully?”

I just looked at him. For the first ten seconds I thought, “Why is he acting like he doesn’t know…” and then for the next ten seconds I thought, “Holy crap, he doesn’t know.”

He said, “Is this your blog? Is this what it’s called?”

I said, “Um. Yes.”

He looked rather bemused. He didn’t ask why I called it that, though. I guess it’s obvious.

He said, “So you write about me in your blog?”

Duh. “Yes. I’ll show it you sometime.”

He laughed. “Sometime? So you can edit it first?”

“No,” I said. “I say nice things about you.”

He looked at me kind of funny and then said, “Why are you so hesitant? What’s upsetting you about this?”

And you know what? I don’t know.

I don’t know why the thought of him reading my blog made me feel cold and queasy inside.

But it did.

“It’s just my writing,” I said. “And…I don’t know. It’s just my writing.”

He didn’t seem impressed.

“It’s just so…private,” I said, finally. (And, private? What? It’s on the freaking internet for the world to see.)

He said, “So, what, you need to get to know me better or something?”

And then he laughed.

And then I laughed.

And we could not stop laughing.

But okay, seriously? Today, I feel weird again.

Because, honestly? He doesn’t seem to think I’m all that funny.

Okay last night? When I explained what a Dirty Sanchez is and the path that led me to discovering what it is (which was actually due to Celebrity Fit Club and is a very long story), he was laughing really, really hard. But usually, my hilariousness is totally lost on him. The things I say on my blog? I say in real life. This is exactly how I am in real life, except I look much skinnier on the internet and in real life I’m often distracted and ditzy and say more curse words.

So why does that make me feel weird?

I guess I've really been struggling with this lately. I asked a good blogger friend the other day, if she would tell me honestly, for reals and for true, if she would pay green money to read something I had written.

She said she pay money to read my blog. *

And that? Made me happy.
Also? Freaked me out.

Because, yeah, COOL. But at the same time, holy cow.

Maybe I could really do this. You know. For real.

And I'm really afraid of when new people read my blog...even my husband. No one has ever been really mean to me and most people are super-supportive, but I get an occasional nasty comment via email.

I know my husband wouldn't be mean. I know he wouldn't.

So I don't know. I can't quite put my finger on the problem.









*I'd never make anyone pay money to read my blog. Just so you know.

Since I've seen the shadows on your face...

Dear Dude in a big green ugly government truck:

Um, hon, there’s a reason they call it a sidewalk. Mainly because you WALK ON IT, not drive your big green ugly government truck on it. I know you weren’t expecting me to be doing anything groundbreaking like, you know, walking on the actual sidewalk, but sadly I had to park slightly past the Canadian border and hoof it into work today because some moron decided that a meeting a 7:30am would be a really terrific idea, thus, I couldn’t exactly just cross the hillside into my building. Silly me, I believed using the sidewalk would help me to avoid being run over. Apparently, despite my ass the size of a small continent and my two hundred pounds of hair, you didn’t see me there.

Additionally? When you see a stop sign, that doesn’t mean gun your engine and try to pull out in front of the 200 year old janitor riding a go-cart down the street. I just think that would cause you some karma that you don’t want to have to deal with.

Thanks!
That Chick you almost ran over this morning.

Dear Co-workers:

I would like to apologize for how I potentially smell today. I had to park just inside of Canada and walk over and I am fat and it is 200 degrees outside.

I’m sorry.

Apologetically,
That Chick who is going to look into Clinical Strength Deodorant

Dear Guy in the white Suburban who tried to run me over this morning:

I know I really usurped your manhood by actually merging into traffic in front of you. I know you expected me to come to a complete stop at the yield sign and not you know, yield into traffic. You made that clear when you sped up from 15 MPH to 35 MPH when you saw me coming because GOD FORBID a woman in an small SUV might get in front of YOU.

But actually, you know, bite me.

Thanks!
That Chick who still made it through the guard station before you. You loser.

Dear everyone in line to pass through the guard station:

Dudes. Seriously. There are two lanes. One has twenty-six cars in it, the other has one. Why do you line up behind the twenty-six cars? I know everyone else is doing it, but that just seems like a reason to try drugs or get a MySpace page. Go in the other line!

Or actually, never mind. Don’t. I’ll go in the other line. I’ll even wave to you!

Thanks!
That Chick who passed twenty-six cars as she went through the guard station this morning and didn’t even have to speed to do it.

Dear Co-worker:

Okay, when I emailed you and said that I missed you because no one here wanted to hear me talking about lactating strippers and you emailed me back and said, “There’s not much laughter in that building. Only guns and sadness”, I laughed so hard I nearly peed my freaking pants.

I really miss you!

Sincerely,
That Chick who is totally the Pam to your Jim, except everyone we work with is like Michael or Dwight and while I think you are great, I totally wouldn’t want to date you.

Dear people who live on my street:

At 10pm when my little dog wants to go outside and take a crap? She really doesn’t want to have four hundred people screaming and shrieking and acting like fishwives. Okay? My DOG behaves more appropriately than you people. When she’s looking for a spot to do her business and you start barking like you’re a dog? She looks at you like, “What the hell?” She didn’t bark back at you. She didn’t try to run you down. She looked at you in DISGUST. My DOG looked at you in DISGUST.

I understand that no one in your life has ever acted right; therefore you don’t know how stupid you appear when you act like a tool. I mean, you never had a good example, right? Here are a few ideas to help you:

1. Screaming anything involving curse words loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear is not appropriate.
2. Ditto screaming anything that involves any sex organs.
3. There is absolutely no reason to shriek, “Yeeeeeeeeeha!” at 10pm. None. Not one. You are not Bo or Luke Duke and Boss Hogg is not hot on your trail.
4. Barking at a dog just makes you look like an idiot. Even the dog can recognize that.
5. We do not need to hear your stereo. Or your television. Ever.
6. Your children should not be playing in the street when it’s dark. Yes, it’s a residential street, but still, it’s a STREET. Which, in case you are like the guy who almost ran over me on the sidewalk this morning and you are confused, is for DRIVING ON. You have a front yard. You know, that place where you parked those twelve cars that don’t run? You have a backyard. You have a home. Your child should be playing in one of those areas. Not the street.
7. Drinking 12 beers does not make you sexy. Or smart. Or anything except drunk.
8. Telling your wife or girl you are sleeping with or whatever, to “SUCK IT”, while technically not mentioning any sex organs, is still pretty foul. Please stop doing that.
9. Threatening to kill your brother or cousin or whomever is sleeping on your couch is also a no-no and probably even illegal in this state.
10. Toilets go INSIDE the home. Yes, I see that you have decoratively planted flowers in the one sitting on your front porch. However, that still does not make it appropriate décor. Please reconsider this choice.
11. Playing basketball at 11pm after you’ve had the 12 beers is not a solid plan for getting your daily cardio. Sadly, you have difficulty walking in an upright position even while sober. Lurching about, threatening to kill people, and vomiting isn’t going to make you feel the burn.

Basically, the people who live three houses down from you are not interested in what you are doing, saying, or changing into. Not now, or ever. Please stop shrieking, stop running amok throughout the neighborhood, and for the love of all that is Holy, put up some curtains.

Thanks!
The neighbor who hates you

Dear Engaged Couple,

I really like both of you, but I sincerely wish you would rethink the theme song of your wedding. “I don’t have the heart”, while lovely, somehow seems inappropriate for a wedding. Have you ever actually LISTENED to the lyrics? They, in part, state:

“But I don't have the heart to love you

Not the way you want me to”

If that is the way you really feel, perhaps you should rethink this union.

Also? Use “Love will keep us together” by Captain and Tennille. I hear all the cool kids use that as their wedding song.

Love,
That Chick

DNA shmena.

So you weren't here for this:

Or this:
That's okay. I had man eye-brows and a massively bad dye job anyway.

You showed up in time for this:

And you stuck around...

So thanks. You know. For that.

I used to think it mattered so much that you weren't around at the beginning. I'm realizing it doesn't matter at all. Not really.

After all...they do have your eyes.

Happy Father's Day.

Frankie Valli can suck it.

So the other day I went to Walgreens to get some Fiber One bars. I really like the chocolate ones and they are only 2 points on Weight Watchers and they don't stock them at my Kroger. And the Walgreens which is close to my house? They always act like they have them, but they don't. They only have the peanut butter ones. Which are good, but not AS good. So I had to go the Walgreens in the city I work in and not the one I live in.

So I can't find them, and I say to the bored, surly looking teenager who is "working" there, "Excuse me? Can you help me find-"

and before I even finish my sentence, he says, "You want Alli, right? We're all sold out. Sorry."

Have you heard of this product? Apparently it's very similar to Orlistat. The website that I found regarding it says that the potential side effects are:

• gas with oily spotting
• loose stools
• more frequent stools that may be hard to control

Doesn't that sound exceedingly attractive? I mean, I know that I would just give anything to have anal leakage. I have so much going for me as it is and I feel that would just add the extra layer of excitement that I need to be #1.

So I got pissed, which I seem to be doing a lot of lately and said, "Thanks so much for not helping me at all! I'll find what I need myself."

And I stalked off. Like he cared or something.

I mentioned in my other blog recently, I’m pissed about my weight loss struggle, and hell, my life in general these days.

Because, I? Am fat. And I? Am trying to lose weight. And I? Am going mental.

My body hates me. It freaking hates me. If I’m not having a period, I’m gearing up to have one. I’m bloated. I take a water pill and don’t pee for fourteen hours. I’m constipated. I eat my normal ridiculous amount of daily fiber and swallow four fiber capsules a day. Does anything happen, other than me getting really ticked off and irritated and cranky and wanting to scream? No.

But I persevere! I continue on my stupid quest for weight loss and good health. I say “no” to chocolate covered marshmallows. I say “no” to cakes and cookies and all manner of deliciousness. I say “yes indeed” to a crap ton of broccoli and things with skim milk and various soy products and so much water I could personally stop the drought with my stream of injustice.

I stay true to Weight Watchers. I follow my eight healthy guidelines. I use only my allotted Points value each day. I don’t exercise enough, but I do some. I don’t even count the amount of walking I have to do daily at work just to get to my office, but I think it should count for SOMETHING.

I have two solid weeks of being absolutely perfect with my eating. I don’t eat any crap. I drink all my water, and then some. I weigh and measure and record each and every bite that goes in my mouth.

And I get on the scale, expecting good things.

And do you know what the scale said?

I had lost .2 pounds.

Not 2 pounds.

.2

I looked at the scale in horror and disbelief, called it a lying bastard, and then cried.

I was thinking in my head, “If I had known that bastard was going to show me THAT I would have just eaten the cake.”

Because, seriously. How fair is that?

I used to go to this one gym that I really loved and there was a lady there who started going at the same time as me. She and I were close in age, close in weight, close in height. We became treadmill buddies. By the time I had lost 10 pounds, she had lost 20. By the time I had lost 20 pounds, she had lost 50. Fifty pounds.

She ate Taco Bell, EVERY FREAKING DAY. She laughed about it. She would bring it into the gym and eat it before she got on the treadmill.

Taco Bell people! TACO FREAKING BELL.

Maybe all the beans in that Mexican food had a laxative effect. I don’t know. What I do know is it made me really freaking irritated that I worked so hard and didn’t lose fifty pounds.

I know, I know. Everyone is different. Some people are slow losers. I have a hormone imbalance. Maybe I’ll have a great week next week. Twenty-two pounds overall isn’t so bad,

Blahdy freaking blah.

I just want to be healthy. I just want to not be obese. I don’t want to be on the cover of Shape magazine with flat abs. I just want to be…normal. I want to feel okay in shorts. I want to not feel like everyone is looking at me because I have fantastic hair, not because they think my husband has no business being with someone as overweight and unattractive as I am. I want to be able to run. I want to get old. I want to meet my grandkids someday. I want to dance at my son’s wedding and cheer the loudest of anyone at my daughter’s Presidential Swearing-In Ceremony.

I know I can’t live and die by the scale. I know that. I just wish it would cut me a freaking break every now and then.

And I don't need some 18 year old asshat trying to peddle diet drugs at me.

No Gap dresses, no cigars.

Its summertime and that can only mean one thing for those of us in the government subcontracting world.

The interns have arrived.

Our particular building doesn’t have an intern. It would be, I dunno, illegal or some crap. Well, probably not illegal, but also likely not a good idea based on how much these interns seem to like to talk. Plus we have lots of alarms going off all the time and that might scare them. Or interfere with their cell phone coverage. One or the other.

Parking is at a premium here, and no one has made the interns aware of this. Recently I had a meeting at another one of the buildings and there was absolutely no way I could walk over (I’m fat, it’s 200 degrees outside, it was several miles, and I didn’t want to smell like my ex-husband’s feet by the time I got there. No more explanation should be required.). I drove, expecting to park in the absolutely enormous, three level parking lot, and take a short walk across a lovely courtyard.

There were no parking spaces left. Zero. None.

I drove slowly through the parking complex and noticed that there were at least ten or eleven cars with large University of Where-ever! kind of stickers on them and bumper stickers that said things like “Sex Wax” (I don’t want to know what that’s about) and Mardi Gras beads and Graduation tassels hanging from the rearview mirrors. I wouldn’t have noticed these cars had they not been taking up two parking spaces each. Then I felt really old. I felt even older when I had to park illegally in some place just past BFE and walk about 2 miles. And I probably smelled bad during my meeting because I did notice that no one sat by me.

But I was nice and pleasant about it. Because I believe that children are our future. Or some crap.

I did get irritated when a gaggle of girls who were all approximately eighteen years old and were apparently speaking to someone in outer Mongolia on their cell phones (based solely on how loudly they were speaking) almost plowed into me while I was walking ON THE SIDEWALK across the courtyard. I was originally irritated because they were walking on the grass when there is a lovely sidewalk to walk on. But when they all simultaneously made a left-turn and darn near ran me over, I got pissed.

I got further pissed because they were all wearing shortie shorts and tank tops and those really high wedge heels and approximately eighty-six necklaces. Because that doesn’t seem like proper attire. I mean, I know that I wear a t-shirt to work nearly every day of my life (not one with WORDS on it or anything, just a plain colored t-shirt. With a v-neck. Or a scoop neck. Or a U-neck, except good LORD I cannot figure out how anyone can wear a bra with that shirt and my bra just sticks out all the freaking time), and usually I wear jeans or khakis or, lately Capri pants and always my crocs. But no one can ever, ever see my butt cheeks. Now once, lately, my pants did slip down a bit because they’ve gotten a little big on me and my co-worker who told me she was going to show me her whale tail said, “I can see the DUCKS on your underwear!” and I was all like, “Yeah. You like it.” And then we laughed really hard. But I don’t think that’s the same thing at all.

But anyway. I figured I was jealous of all the Hottie McHotsters and left it at that. Yes, they look mighty fine in those shorts that their buttcheeks are hanging out of. I, likely, would not. Nor will I be trying that look in the conceivable future, but that’s not the point.

I didn’t get really mad until the other day when I was trying to leave. You don’t mess with my leaving.

I was driving into the roundabout. Now, I don’t have any clue why they put a roundabout into the middle of a parking lot that is driven daily by a bunch of hillbillies like me, but I won’t get into all of that or the confusion factor of it. Basically the roundabout goes, well, AROUND, obviously and there are commuter paths which lead you up to the big parking lot. So you slow way down when going in, and if people are crossing the paths, then you stop and wait on them.

Fine.

I’m driving into it, and I see a girl approaching. So I slow way, way down (I’m only going fifteen as it is) so I can stop. She walks into the middle of the footpath.

And she stops.

She starts digging in her purse. Cars start lining up behind me.

I wait.

She continues digging in her purse. Someone behind me honks, as fifteen cars back up, completely blocking the roundabout. She looks up at me and holds one finger up, like, “Wait a minute.” I’m not even the one who honked.

She roots around in her purse for probably less than a minute, but it seemed like an hour. I’m thinking, “I understand she has to look for her keys, but good LORD, could she not get out of the path of oncoming traffic to do so?”

Finally, she yanks out her prize. Which is not her keys, because that would have made sense.

It was her cell phone.

She answers and as she finally walks and I step on the gas to move past her I hear her say through my open window, “God people here are SO RUDE!”

Hey Kettle? This is Pot. You’re black.

They try to make me go to Rehab, and I say NO, NO, NO!

Crap-o-Rama. Isn't that the best blog name EVER?

I saw myself getting hits from this blog, so I went over and checked it out and found out I'd been tagged for a meme. Fun! This meme was five reasons why I blog.

There are way more reasons than that, but here are the top five:

1) I love to write.

I think this is the primary one, and one of the reasons I have over two hundred posts in less than seven months. I just love to write.

Also? I have trouble shutting up. But I think they kind of go together.

2) I have an obsessive need to make people laugh.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes not so much.

3) I miss school. A lot.

I knew my graduation was looming when I started this blog last November. Since I'm a huge freak and like to always feel compelled to have an activity, this blog seemed like a good outlet. So far, it has been.

4) I enjoy saying snarky things that I wouldn't like say in real life.

Open letters? Bitching about the stupid people that inhabit the earth? Wishing my neighbors would use freaking birth control? You'll find it all here.

I'm entirely to Southern to say this stuff to people's faces. Plus most of them wouldn't understand anyway.

5) All the cool kids are doing it!

Seriously...check out my blogroll! I love these people.



I'm a non-tagger, as you guys know. But if anyone wants to do this meme, help your sweet little selves.

Inappropriate parenting 101.

People tend to stare at me a lot when I'm in public.

In addition to being depressed, I'm also somewhat paranoid and I figured people were staring because of one of the following reasons:

1) They were thinking, "Dang! Her ass is huge!"
2) They were thinking, "Dang! I really want her purse!"
or
3) They were slack-jawed yokels who stare at everyone. And covet people's purses and say dang a lot.

But today? I was at the market with my daughter and she said, just loud enough for everyone in the entire store to hear, "So I told him, he better watch it or I'll kick him in the penis!"

So I was all like, "True dat!" and I noticed that, um, all the other mom's and dad's were staring at me with their mouths agape. And then I figured out that maybe, just maybe, sometimes people stare at me because my kids say words like penis and vagina and, my personal favorite, douchehole.

Huh.

One kid, hanging on to his mom's arm and totally picking his nose and EATING IT I might add, said, "MOM! SHE SAID PENIS!"

And they all looked at me and sadly shook their heads.

Like penis is a bad word or something!

Before my children were even born I made up my mind that I would not use baby-talk when speaking to them. I spoke to them just like I would speak to any other adult and in turn, when they learned to speak they spoke to me using "grown-up" words. Sure, they sometimes say things like "bromote" instead of "remote" and "bagina" instead of vagina, but they use words correctly in general. When I was teaching them about parts of the body I called them what they were. I didn't see any need to call it a cootcher or whatever, even though I do use that word. A lot.

Our mom, when I was growing up, called male and female parts "wicks". I have no idea why she did this, and as my sister recently said, it traumatized us to the point that we were unable to use candles for most of our lives. She still hasn't forgiven her.

So. I held my head up proudly in front of those parents today and said back to my kid, "You're SO right honey. I would have totally kicked him in the penis too."

Then I took her hand and she took mine. And in the produce aisle, she gave it a little squeeze.

Even if she says penis a lot, she's still a pretty cool kid.

Orlando and Kotex and People, Oh My!

It's been a long time since I've had to use a bathroom designed for more than one person at a time, save those rare times that I'll force myself to use a public restroom (I drink 200 ounces of water a day people! It's hard to hold that much!). My bathrooms at home are obviously designed for one, although every time I step into one, both my children and my husband have something they REALLY NEED TO TELL ME RIGHT THAT SECOND. At my office, we had a bathroom for one. At my "home" office (I'm a subcontractor), there are actually two stalls, but all the women lock the outer door so we can have the whole bathroom to ourselves. You can totally see someone when they are in the potty, even when the door is shut! We had to be discriminatory for privacy reasons.

Anyway, I've moved into a new office in a craptastic building, where the bulk of my work is. This is more like a...um...power plant environment (it's not technically a power plant, but I don't know how else to describe it). So the women's room is not a lovely little one-staller with a potty, a sink, and a vase of fake flowers sitting around. Basically, we're talking about a women's locker room, complete with a shower.

At first it kind of freaked me out. I don't like when others can hear me pee. However, lately I've come to see some of the benefits of this arrangement.

Exhibit A:
Yes. That is Orlando Bloom. Sadly, no, he is not personally in the locker room. However, there is a large poster of him hanging on the side of the main stall.

This? Cracks my stuff up.

Because I was never one to hang posters of famous people in my bedroom as a child, and I'm quite certain my husband would frown on it now as I'm a grown-up and he helps pay the mortgage and whatnot. Once? I had a poster of Johnny Depp in my bedroom. The one that every other girl in America had on her wall in 1989. You know, the one that showed off his tattoo that says, "Betty Sue" or "Betty Jo" or whatever? Yeah. And I would put a Post-It note over his eyes when I changed clothes.

No. I'm not kidding.

Anyway. The ladies I work with apparently enjoy letting Orlando Bloom watch them pee. And it just makes me feel somehow closer to them. Like, "Wow. Now I really have something I can use against you."

Or something.

Exhibit B:

We got magazines! Not just People, but Shape and Fitness and even Real Simple!

These women are not afraid to admit that, by cracky, sometimes it takes some time to get things moving. Why not enjoy some quality reading material while you, um, wait?

Exhibit C:
You guys. I'm not kidding. There are tampons and pads in the women's bathroom. In every single bathroom I've been in on the whole site. A nice little stack of them, in each and every stall.

I'm not going to really sit and think much about why this is. I'm just going to think, "How. Freaking. Cool."

Because yeah. That's pretty cool. I appreciate working for people who appreciate my potential sanitary needs.

The ones in the bathrooms aren't really these brands. They are more of the extremely rough looking, potentially asbestos containing scratchy brands. But hey, they'll do in a pinch. I'm pleased to know they are there just in case my body is all like, "Hey Biznatch, I haven't had a period in like, twelve minutes. I'll just be starting up again now that you have on your nice white pants."

Now. Seriously. Don't you wish you could come and work with me?

Nerd Camp: The final frontier

I work in a city that is populated by a large group of very smart people.

Not everyone here is smart, mind you. The woman who was in the fast lane in front of me this morning tweezing her eyebrows while driving, for example? I think she fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.

But most people here? Scientists, engineers, doctors of various subjects. Smart folks.

Last summer I worked in this city also. Working for a company that subcontracts means you just kind of go where the wind blows. Last summer it blew me here and although I've been in and out, this is pretty much where my work is going to be.

When researching summer camps, it just made sense to bring my little children to the city that I work in, rather than the city that I live in. I reasoned that if something happened to them I would much rather be five minutes from where they were instead of forty-five minutes. Plus, the camp was very reasonably priced and they get to swim every single freaking day. And they got a free t-shirt! I'm all about the free products!

Anyway, I take them to the first day of camp last year and waiting in the sign-in line with me were children of various sizes and ages.

Wearing glasses.
Wearing Star-Wars t-shirts.
Wearing knee socks with the colored stripes on top.
Carrying sack lunches.
Holding inhalers.
Talking about conjugating verbs.

Behold. We had arrived in nerd Heaven.

My son is more than a little bit of a geek and we're all kind of cool with that. As an example, my son has his adult teeth already and his face is still very small. Of course, this makes his teeth, in particular his front teeth, appear large. I spoke to the dentist who assured me that we have to give him time for his face to grow before we do anything like have braces put on. Cool. But a bully at school informed him that he had "beaver teeth". To which my son replied, "Oh my GOD you are so stupid! Beavers have ORANGE TEETH. Duh."

Did you know beavers have orange teeth? I didn't either. But they do.

He reads the atlas for fun. He loves math and science. He's just a wee-tad awkward. He's the sweetest kid ever, really.

But he? Is a nerd.

I love nerds. I, personally, am a bit of a nerd and enjoy things like reading books about our federal lands and learning which bugs live in my yard (not that I'm going to touch them, but learning about them is cool). I'm legally blind without corrective lenses. I do elaborate studies of social policies for fun. I follow politics and environmental news. I think the best vacations (save Disney World, naturally) are the ones where you learn. A lot.

Within days my son had a huge group of friends who were just like him, including one sweet little boy named Christian who my son proclaimed that Jesus must really love a lot. I would come to pick him up and they would be sitting in the corner working math problems for fun or doing elaborate puzzles that they had personally made up or playing whatever the equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons is to today's kids. They talked about building car engines and dissecting frogs.

They were the sweetest kids ever. No one got in trouble. All the kids were polite and courteous and appropriate. It was just FUN.

My daughter, who is decidedly NOT a nerd, also had the most fun ever at this camp. Because she was the coolest kid there. By far.

I'm guilty of sometimes worrying about my children's social status. I admit it. No one wants their child to be an outcast. But during the summer time? My kids are totally in their element. And it's awesome.

The geeks shall inherit the earth.

Really.

It's a sign!

I've had to drive a different route to work for the past two weeks because my little children are at Karate camp this week instead of nerd camp where they will be for the rest of the summer.

Today, on my drive, I noticed a fortune teller's "office" on the side of the road.

She is, per her sign, the "best fortune-teller in Tennessee!"

Her sign also indicated: YARD SALE TODAY.


Rock.

I don't know what you say you do.

This morning, when I came outside to get in my car and go to work there was a white van parked directly behind my driveway, blocking me in. It was right behind my vehicle...there was just no way around it.

I was walking around the van, thinking I'd go by my neighbors house to see if she knew who owned the van, and I noticed movement in the van.

There was a man, sleeping in the van. AT THE WHEEL. In front of my HOME.

I knocked on the window and the man seemed irritated that I had woken him up.

"Buddy?" I said. "Do you need some help in there?"

"No," he said, irritated. "I'm sleeping."

Oh. My bad.


DUDE.

"Sir," I said, politely as possible. "This is private property. This is my house. You can't sleep here."

Okay, technically it's not private property. His van was TECHNICALLY on the street and not my driveway. However, I was banking on the fact that he didn't appear intelligent enough to brush his own teeth, much less be aware of various county ordinances.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'm going."

He revved the engine of his 200 year old van. With a lurch and a cloud of smoke, it took off up the street.

Running over the bicycle that a kid left in the middle of the road last night.

Crushing the bike.

So.

It started out bad, but ended up okay. I guess.

In a cosmic sort of way.

You know you wish you were me.

Before 10am I managed to:

1) Set off my car alarm.
2) Twice.
3) Use the f-word.
4) Twice.
5) In front of my son. Oops.
6) Have a long conversation regarding butt-plugs.
7) Which was, of course, overheard by my project manager.
8) Get a big piece of carrot stuck in-between my front teeth (I had carrots for breakfast. Shut up.)
9) Remark loudly, "I'm a slave to the Wang!"
10) Which was, of course, overhead by my project manager. Who turned red.
11) Remark loudly to a co-worker with a sunburn, "I guess that really chaps your ass!"
12) Which was not overheard by the project manager, but was overheard by the 200 year old man we have as our accountant.
13) Who now thinks I'm hot and sexy.
14) Accidentally call my own house.
15) Left a message for a work colleague on my own house's answering machine.
16) Get yellow highlighter all over my ear, my arm, and my left boob.


So. How's your day going?