Chicka and her sisters.

Aren't they just beautiful? I love my sisters!

I'm the one on the extreme right, in case it's not obvious, since I'm not pregnant nor skinny.

You are still glad you aren't me.

Yesterday was my grandma's birthday celebration. Most of my family was there, including my parents and my beloved little sister.

The vast majority of my day was spent fielding the following question:

"WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR ARM?"

Because, yeah. This:
Attractive, no?

I am one of the ever-so-fortunate people who have the aptly named, "Stress-induced breakouts." Last year, I started getting this lovely eczema-type disturbance all over my legs and feet. I went to a dermatologist who ran numerous tests, found I was allergic to nothing, determined I wasn't really lying about not bathing in poison ivy, and finally asked me if I was stressed out. Which of course, I was.

Before I married my first husband, I broke out like this. All over my chest. ALL over it. I looked like I had the chicken pox in my wedding pictures.

Could that have been a sign? Probably. I was just young and stupid and didn't recognize it.

But anyway. Yeah. That's just not attractive.

Everyone I know is awesome.

Today, while climbing through some unseemly type things at the building in which I sometimes work:

Co-worker: So this right here, is XYZ.
Me: Um, isn't that radioactive?
Co-worker: Yep.
Me: And...explosive?
Co-worker: It is.
Me: Co-worker? Am I going to die today?
Co-worker, cheerfully: Probably not today!


Earlier today, while discussing the insanity that is our workplace, with another co-worker:

Co-worker: GOOD GOD.
Me: I know, right?
Co-worker: No, seriously. I mean, GOOD GOD.
Me: I know.
Co-worker: We need one of those things...what do you call them...you know that is red, orange, yellow, and all that?
Me: The terrorist threat level meter?
Co-worker: Yeah. We need one to gauge how insane we are.
Me: I believe we are at a level Douchehat Manager, hovering near a level Douchehole Manager.
Co-worker: What does that make us? Red?


Speaking with one of my managers earlier:

Manager: So I need you to do this, this, and this.
Me: I've already done this, and this, and I have a plan for this and should have it done by the end of the day.
Manager: Well, aren't you just Martha Stewart?
Me: Martha Stewart? What?
Manager: Isn't she the first woman who...I don't know, flew an airplane or something?
Me, failing to see how flying an airplane or baking cakes has anything to do with the quality of my work: No. She's that chick on daytime television who always says, "It's a good thing".
Manager: Oh. You're probably not like her at all.
Me: I have less felony convictions anyway.


In the drive-thru line, at the Wendy's:

Cashier: That will be $1.08
Me: Here you are.
Cashier: I love your purse.
Me: Thanks.
Cashier: I been seeing it on the QVC. Did you buy that off the QVC?
Me: Nope.
Cashier: I love that QVC don't you? It's almost good as Days of Our Lives.
Me: Really?
Cashier: Less sex on QVC though.
Me: You don't say.


When talking to the girlie-parts doctor who did my minor surgery on Tuesday:

Doctor: Now, let's just have a look down there.
Me, wincing uncomfortably: Um, okay.

Silence.

Doctor: Looks mighty fine.
Me, quietly: Mighty fine indeed!