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,


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!

When I was little, I called it public hair.

What ever happened to pubic hair?

I typed out that question because I thought maybe if I got it out of my head, a clear answer would appear before me.  I guess, like blue eye shadow or frosted tips on men, it’s just not cool anymore to have pubes. 

One time I googled “Why do we have pubes?” and through in-depth research I discovered that pubic hair on women capture the musky vagina smell in which cave men used to sniff out the woman they were going to drag behind a rock after knocking her out cold. 

Like my mom used to always say- “So if Amanda shaved all of her pubes off, I guess you would too?  Hmm?”  Yeah, ma.  Pretty much.  Don’t want to be the only girl ever in the world to have pubic hair.

Also, I get terrible razor burn and I’ve tried everything under the sun to minimize the excruciating pain that I put myself through twice a week to have an in-style vagina.  One time I got it waxed which was actually not too bad.  I wanted to rip my eyes out, but it was smooth and I didn’t even have to think about my pubes for four whole weeks.  But I am too poor to even consider making that a monthly routine.  Hairless vag or electricity?  I can just light some candles and wear extra layers of clothing, right?  Whatever.

I have a birthday party to attend this weekend at a fancy yacht club.  It is a James Bond themed party, so I have to wear a dress and bring a gun.  It probably can’t be a real gun, but thats a challenge I am willing to accept.  Plus, I won’t have any pubic hair so if anyone questions my weapon, I’ll just tell them that it’s cool, I have no pubes. 

I’m not entirely sure where I meant to go with any of that, but I’m on my lunch break at work, and work always gets me thinking about pubic hair.