It’s been months.  Or just a month.  Month and a half, tops. Or maybe two months?  A lot of things are happening.  My son is in TBall (and has become a 4 year old baseball prodigy).  We got a cat and named her Nora.  We have only had her for a week, but I am pretty certain she’s pregnant.  Which is awesome.  And by awesome I mean no, it is fucking terrible.  What in the FUCK am I going to do with 2-6 kittens?  

I also had a miscarriage.  I’m totally fine.  I wasn’t trying so it came as a really big scary shock.  And then it ended.  I felt weird at first, but now I am fine.  Things happen for a reason.  Why?  I don’t know.  But I’m never having sex again.  I feel a little bad that I wasn’t sad.  I wasn’t happy or anything, but I definitely wasn’t sad.  Is that OK?  I guess it’s because it wasn’t anything I was aiming for.  I am rambling now.

Can I get some motivation to keep up with this blog?  It feels good to talk.  Even if its to the black abyss of the Internet.


First, let me apologize for whatever typos may occur as I am posting this from my cellular device.  I am no where near a computer, but I really had to get this dream I had out of my head and onto the internet where all weird and disturbing things belong.  Like my dream.  Because it was fucking horrible.

Short and simple:

My hair was falling out in large amounts, and in its place grew huge chunks of crab/lobster meat.  The meat of crustations growing from my scalp.  I would peel it off painlessly, and it would bleed, scab over, then immediately grow more meat.

In my dream I was freaking out because I was supposed to go on vacation.  You know, never mind THERE IS LOBSTER MEAT GROWING FROM MY HEAD.  How could I possibly enjoy the tropics with an ugly crustatious head.

I googled it.  Google told me to pies off, freak.

Lubrication and Junior Mints

In addition to being strange and making up fake office Holiday party stories, I am also normal and enjoy normal American pass-times such as football and eating fried things.  Also, telling people awkward stories that are actually true.

I am an awkward woman socially.  My social skills are actually OK, once we get past the one awkward situation that happens, ALWAYS, when I am with people I just met or people that I don’t know (in the store, for instance.)  These awkward happenings are usually in some way terrifying or detrimental to those around me, and they pretty much destroy any kind of good first impression vibe they’re getting from me.  If we meet and you have unusual humor or you’re just as awkward as I am, we may become friends.  If not, you’re just going to think I am a fucking idiot.  Naturally, most people I know think I am a fucking idiot.

So the other day I’m at Wal-Mart buying personal lubrication.  Buying KY jelly isn’t that big of a deal, right?  I mean, we’re all adults here.  I have an active sex life with my boyfriend, I may need help removing a ring from a swollen finger, whatever.  But because I am paranoid and awkward, I truly believed that anyone who saw me in Wal-Mart purchasing the lube automatically assumed I was fixin’ to go home to take it up the tail pipe.  Which maybe I was, does it really matter?  YES IT DOES BECAUSE I AM A PRUDE.  So to take the edge off of me thinking that everyone thought I was some kind of nympho butthole lover, I decided that I needed to purchase something else in addition to the lube.  In retrospect, I now realize that buying three boxes of candy, two tubes of chapstick and a bottle of lube was probably slightly more awkward than just the lubrication itself, but whats done is done.

So I am in check out.  All of the self check out lanes are conveniently not working, forcing me to basically tell the cashier lady with rotten teeth that I love getting railed in the brown eye.  While moisturizing my lips and eating junior mints.  So it is just about my turn for the keeper of the purchases to judge my shopping decisions when a sweet, very old, couple comes in line behind me placing their bag of red potatoes closely behind my items.  At this point I am sweating bullets.  These poor old people are probably already so disappointed in the way society has changed since they were my age, and now they have to witness a young 23 year old purchase an product that makes demoralizing her asshole easy and smooth.

The cashier lady places a hand on the bag of red potatoes and says, “Are these yours, too?”

I am thinking: Alright, woman.  I know the candy and lube and the two tubes of chapstick is a weird combo, but potatoes, too?  Fucking red potatoes?

As I type this, I realize that I was the only one at this point in the scenario feeling the perpetual burn of awkwardness, but at the time I was under the impression that all parties involved were completely mortified for my sake.  So out of complete and utter awkward foggyness, loud and proud I blurt out “NOPE!  JUST THE CANDY AND LUBE!!!” followed by a 30 second long string of very uncomfortable chuckles.  It was then that my awkward feeling spilled over to the cashier lady and the old couple behind me who just wanted to buy some god damn red potatoes.  The looks on their faces were a mixture of pity and horror.  I felt like vomiting.  I was thisclose to explaining to the patrons of Wal-Mart that the lube was not really for what they think it’s for, and I am just buying it because hey, you never know when you’ll need KY jelly.  And junior mints.  But I didn’t.  I beelined to the door where the polite old man thanks me for shopping at Wal-Mart and all I can think is “OH, THAT’S JUST FABULOUS.  This guy knows I like anal sex too!”

And now, here I am.  Shamefully sitting at my desk eating junior mints.

Open Apology Letter. I am sorry for getting belligerently drunk at the company Holiday Party.

While I understand that this apology letter is considerably late, you must realize that I am just now overcoming the initial shock and utter embarrassment from the sequence of events at the company Holiday party.  Also, the skin on my right hand fingers has finally healed from the 3rd degree cheese fondu burn I suffered that night- so I now can type this letter without wanting to kill myself after every key stroke.  By the way, I don’t really think the cheese should have been boiling out of the fondu fountain, but I had no business hiding Randy’s contact lenses in the cheese sauce to begin with.  I thought maybe we’d have a good laugh about it in the end, but apparently the clear contact lenses are, in fact, not made for cosmetic purposes and he actually needs them to see.

In all fairness, it was Randy’s fault.  He’s the one left them in saline solution on the side of the sink while he urinated.  Why I was in the men’s bathroom is another story.

Please understand that I did not intend on arriving as early as I did, but as a result of sheer boredom from waiting 3 and a half hours for others to arrive, I consumed a lot of Jack Daniels.  And peppermint Schnapps.  Which, by the way, is an awful combination when it finds its way back out.  I am not entirely sure how much alcohol I actually had consumed, but my bar tab was $86.00.  At nearly 5 dollars a pop, you do the math.

Why I thought greeting everyone with a quick bite on the nipple was a good idea has yet to make sense in my sober mind.  I’m sorry to those who I drew blood from as I am sure you’re also sorry for punching me in the head to get me off of you.  It was kind of awkward afterwards, but I am sure it is all just water under the bridge now.  Right?  Besides, some of you really railed me in the face, so you owe me more of an apology than I do you.

I really wish we could all forget my brief hysterical crying tantrum in the middle of the dance floor.  Hormones mixed with alcohol is obviously a terrible combination, and I am sorry for scratching and spitting at those of you who were brave enough to try and comfort me.  Carol, I am sorry for head butting you.

Why I am actually still employed is an absolute mystery to me.  After seeing the photographic evidence of my performance of the act of fellatio on the CFO’s Holiday Bugs Bunny silk tie, I was prepared to shamefully gather my personal belongings from my cubicle on Monday.  It actually disturbs me; my current employment here. I mean, I would have fired me.  Especially after mimicking queef sounds into the band’s microphone during the middle of their rendition of Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow”.  So to say that I am delighted that I still have an incoming paycheck from this company is a lie.  It’s weird y’all didn’t fire me.  Really kind of weird.

I conclude that I am really sorry for basically ruining everyone’s party and general Holiday spirits.  Also, Dan, I am especially sorry for stealing your iPhone, calling your mom, and telling her that you told everyone at the office you wished she would have aborted you because that would have been better than living with her for 18 years.  I am also sorry that she seemed to agree.

Kindest Regards,


There’s nothing here.

Nothing is ever new anymore.  No excitement.  Nothing note worthy.  I could go on writing about the lack of things to write about, or I could end it here.


This weekend, though.  This weekend something will happen, and it will blow my mind and will cause perpetual excitement.  And then I’ll write about it.


Until then.

Wait… I have babies?

The office building I work in houses 3 or 4 different companies.  I see most of the people that work in this building daily.  On elevators, in the parking lot, and when I used to smoke; in the smoking area.  For 1.5 years, I would go out to the smoking area and burn one, seeing and chatting with the same women every single day, bitching about our office job woes.  Every. Single. Day.

About two months ago, one month after quitting the bad habit, one of the ladies I would see and talk to, again, every day, began to compliment my physique.  “Wow! You look SO GREAT!” and “I can’t believe how much weight you’ve lost, you look amazing!”

Thank you lady, but I’ve been 135 pounds, give or take, for the last 3 years.  I never told her that, though.  I took the compliments, because they did make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Then one day, after chatting with her for a minute, I realized why she had been complimenting me so much.

Lady: “I still cannot believe that just two months ago you had twins.”
Me: *Blink blink*
Lady: “Usually it is so hard to lose baby weight that quickly, not to mention after having multiples!”
And for whatever reason, I thanked her and went back to my office.

Fast forward two months to now.  She still asks me about the twins.  And I still respond like I have twins.  But I just don’t understand.  I saw this woman two or three times a day in the smoking area for 1.5 years.  We talked about the weather and office crap while we puffed away on our cigarettes.  At no point, since I began working here, was I pregnant.  Not with twins, not with a single baby, not with nothin’.

But I’ve went too far now.  I can’t go back and say “Listen lady, I don’t have twins. I spent a year and a half smoking cigarettes with you, not pregnant.” She will wonder why I never corrected her.  I don’t even know why I didn’t correct her.  I’m going to have to find a picture of twin babies.  And come up with names.  And build an entire fake life around these twins.  That don’t exist.  That I had in November.

So I’m the girl that works on the 3rd floor who recently quit smoking, and two months ago, had twins.  Congratulations, me!

Is it really Monday? Really?

The party was a hit.  Can’t top a James Bond themed party with a live band and endless champagne.  Plus the drummer is my boyfriend, so I got to spend all night making sexy eyes at him while I danced with old men.  That night had definitely made me realize that I am not a champagne girl.  4 glasses in and I was lit and ready to dance on the tables.  I prefer whiskey, or even beer. 

Id post a picture of my ensemble, but really I looked like a hooker from the 60’s, and I wasn’t a fan of how my makeup turned out.  I spent 90 dollars getting my hair and makeup done professionally, and it was just a huge disappointment.  Also, it took 3 washes to get all the hairspray out of my hair.  Waking up the following morning, I looked like a dead 60’s hooker.

As always, I was the first on the dance floor.  I am always the first, encouraging others to pound their drinks and get on the floor with me.  Finally, 4 songs in to the night, I got a few people to join me.  But by then I was winded and was 90% sure my feet were bleeding from my God awful shoes.  I’m certain it took that long because no one wanted to be the person to go dance with the half lit hooker.

The next morning, my boyfriend and I recapped the night by making fun of how other people were dancing.  He never mentioned how stupid I looked.  Because he loves me.  And because I’d knock his block off.  I’m not one to poke fun at people dancing because at least they’re letting loose and having fun; but if you look like you’re trying not to shit on yourself, I’m gonna mention it.  Behind your back.

ANYWAY, who is ready for Super Bowl 46?!  Giants?  Pats?  Who will it be?

P.S. – Tom Brady sits when he pees.