a lot of cool people i know are participating in NaBloPoMo or NaNoWriMo. i don’t have time to do anything this involved because i’m participating in NaNuNaNu every day at the office. to give you an idea of who actually gets shit done around here, i present you my boss’s itinerary yesterday:

10:54 am: arrives for a “day of work.” mentions the train was running late.

11:02 am: logs into corporate network via hunt and peck typing.

11:05 am: grabs coffee and stale halloween cupcake with frosting botched from either the coworker’s commute or poor sense of frosting aesthetic and proportion.

11:10 am: eats cupcake and licks fingers with smacking noise despite the insufficient frosting.

11:18 am: heads outside to chase coffee and cupcake with a parliament light.

11:33 am: reads some emails. calls the admin into her office. “how do i add this to my calendar”?

11:58 pm: begins reading abcnews.com. watches video on pre-election results.

12:42 pm: takes a break from the news with a parliament light.

1:03 pm: microwaves lean cuisine four cheese pizza. checks out the WSJ in the kitchen while waiting.

1:05:30 pm: closes office door, eats pizza, and takes call from son at college. doesn’t bother to learn how to change her loud, egregious ringtone to vibrate.

1:41 pm: aids digestion by having a parliament light.

2:02 pm: writes some shit (son’s late term paper).

3:02 pm: that was a lot work. now jonesing . . . parliament light.

3:11 pm: craps all over my idea to do an email campaign and workplace posters promoting the smoking cessation program in light of the great american smokeout on november 18.

3:15 pm: musters up a better idea to have me do a campaign around the employee health assessment instead.

3:24 pm: researches trip to boston, decides to stay at boutique hotel in beacon hill.

3:54 pm: celebrates score on the hotel res with a parliament light.

4:10 pm: arrives 10 minutes late to a meeting and makes group repeat content discussed before she arrived.

5:00 pm: rides elevator back from meeting with me. “i’ll be out on thursday and friday; we’re going to boston for the weekend.”

most days she makes me feel like this.

typical corporate gumpy swag put to good use in this post

can’t wait to get this party started today.

shazbot!

i’m writing this post drunk on a friday night. because like you i’m more fun when i’m drunk. unless you’re an angry drunk with the crazy eyes or a sad clown drunk with the blubbering fits. then you’re a buzzkill. and you’re not permitted to party with me.

anyhussy, i’ve decided to take a cue from some of my favorite bloggers, like bugginword, midwestern mama, and the bloggess, who blog about google searches that bring people to their blogs. 

so here are some of the search terms that bring all the creepers to my yard:

“i’ll fuck you with a rake”
i have just one question here: are we talking a hand rake or a tractor rake? this is a critical factor in my decision making.

“my anus after giving birth”
i’ve met your children. they’re complete assholes. and if you give birth via your anal canal do you then get the hemorrhoids on your vagina?  if so, that just may be the element of this that is really wrong. cuz seriously a little stretching of the anus might be a welcome thing especially after a weekend of overindulgence and a lack of fiber in the diet. shutup, i’m gross even to me.

“how to put a tampon in”
did i blog about this? i don’t think so. but this would be a valid tutorial. the first time i was forced to use a tampon was when i was 13 and babysitting in someone else’s home. i got my period and went in search of a pad only to find tampons. i did what any resourceful girl scout would do. i ripped that bad boy open and said now is the time to make the switch (it was well in advance of summer swim season so i thought i was way ahead of the game). 

i returned to the sofa to watch tv with the kids and damn if that motherfucker didn’t KILL the moment i sat down.   i couldn’t get comfortable. i called my mom. 

“mom, is it supposed to feel painful when i sit down? it feels like it’s blowing up inside of me and wants to get out.” my poor mom, stifling her laughter i’m sure, said, “honey, are you sure you inserted it in the right hole”?

fucking A!  (A being the operative word. abbreviation, whatever.)

“tiny bitch anal”
what’s with all the anal? i’m wiggin out thinking there may be an underlying message here. so what if i’m super detail oriented and believe there’s a place for everything and everything in it’s place? especially motherfucking tampons! but i’m not obessed with the anus, i swear. and as far as “tiny bitch anal” goes, how tight do you fucking need it, sir?

“vomiting scat sex and warming”
so you’re some kind of global warming political activist who is into sex involving vomit and shit? al gore, say it isn’t so. although tipper gore could do that to a guy. oh fuck, did i just write that out loud? and why am i so obsessed with tipper gore? it’s not like she’s even news these days.

i must be some sort of sick anal person.

hi ho hi ho
at work i cannot go
fuck fuckity fuck
work bathrooms suck

what douche canoe decided we should share bodily waste in the same room with coworkers?

by we, i mean others. not me. because i don’t do this. because i can’t. because the work bathroom is just the most fucked up place in the world.

i mean you attend meetings with these people for fuck’s sake. you shouldn’t be distracted by thoughts of the monstrous odor that was created by one of them in the bathroom. and you shouldn’t have to share a bathroom with your boss, your boss’s boss or direct reports. how can you respect anyone when you know their bizarre bathroom habits?

take my boss, for example. she flushes the toilet every time she’s about to drop a deuce. so she’ll be in there flushing 3, 4, 5 times in a row. so stupid. she’s a super smart woman but a total fucktard in the bathroom. does she really think it’s any less apparent that she is pooping? 

then there’s my one direct report who doesn’t wash her hands. she’s always speeding her ass off from caffeine and cigarettes. apparently always being in a hurry applies in the bathroom, too. she won’t take the extra 40 seconds to wash her hands. don’t touch my motherfucking mouse, you freak!

another one of my favorites is the sr. director of hr systems. he does the walk of shame to the men’s room with the fucking wall street journal in his hand. he might as well be waving a flag to the entire floor that says, “off to pinch a loaf. don’t get caught in my wake.” this is TMI at its worst. for the love of all that is good and holy, how did he get to be a senior director? he has zero dignity.

of course, that’s a little more dignified than the old spinster who i would have sworn had entered mental pause except that she carries her maxi pad in her hand to the bathroom. conceal your weapon for fuck’s sake. and a maxi pad?  a tampon won’t deflower you.

the vp’s admin likes to spray that peach air freshener after she drops the kids off at the pool. like profusely. and nothing makes me want to hurl more than the peach and poop smell combined. bleccccchhhh. now i can’t smell peaches without conjuring up that smell and gagging. thanks for ruining jersey fresh peaches for me, asshole.

then there’s the customer support supervisor who, get this, grunts. are you a fucking animal? there is no need to verbalize anything while on the toilet. especially not struggle. but i don’t want to hear sighs, humming, or singing either. what the fuck, you’re not alone in here.

and i really feel for you men. how can you stand next to your colleague with your dick in your hand? seriously, how is this accepted as normal? do you gossip about the head honcho being a ‘grower not a shower’? (i would cuz i’m mature like that.) i mean what if we chicks all sat around with our legs spread showing each other some gaping vag and peeing into a hole. then giving ourselves a little flick to free the last drop. exactly.

but there is something worse than all of this and it’s the ridiculous number of office farters. work stress must make people gassy. why oh why oh why do I have to be in the same room as somebody releasing toxic gas from their bunghole? it’s so dehumanizing. and it fucking stinks. and bathrooms have an echo so it sounds like an anal volcano. just what i fucking need when I get up from my desk for a quick break is amplified butt tuba and animal grunt sounds.

although that is the perfect soundtrack for work. cuz work is fucking awesome.

as a blogger sometimes people send me things they think would make good post material and sometimes i have to agree with them. the victoria’s secrets love your body campaign was one.  and this is another:

what. a. riot. now anyone who knows me, knows i’m okay with showing some cleavage. especially if it’s bodacious. i mean, why hide an asset? i’m a “rock what your mamma gave you” kind of girl. so i would never spend 10 knockers for the cami secret. but i do get a kick out of it because it was obviously invented by a woman. men must want to kick the woman who invented it in the cooch.

and that just feels like sweet revenge for all of the motherfucking sinister things men have invented. like:

the mammogram:we can put men on the moon but we can’t figure out a better way to image the boobage other than having a tech with cold hands take our precious mammaries and shove them into a gigantic metal vice grip?

brazilian bikini wax: what if we take your balls and gob hot wax on small areas at a time and then tear off the hair with a piece of heavy duty shipping tape. the kind of tape that takes the cardboard with it when you remove it from the package. oh yeah and we do this to your asshole, too. burn much?

toronto trim:this is the reduction of the labia and slight unhooding of the clitoris. men invented this because they couldn’t figure out what to do down there and needed everything to be more visible. so mutilate a woman. how about googling that shit. here’s your search term: “little man in the boat“

birth control pill: how about you take something that will make you have wild-ass mood swings, put on 10-15 pounds, and decrease your sex drive? and don’t forget to take it or you may have intermittent red bull spotting. i can’t imagine why the male pill hasn’t gone to market yet.

flarp noise putty:unlike most girls who pretend to think farts are funny and who watch sports on tv or at bars just to impress the Y chromosome, i think farts are fartarded. why are toxic gasses released from your asshole that smell like sulphur funny? someone please clue me in.

why are you laughing?

anal bleaching: only someone who thinks farts are funny would think the woman’s poop hole could be lighter, brighter, or pinker. just last night i was down on all fours with my ass facing a big mirror and holding a handheld mirror so i could examine the coloring of mine. cuz that’s how i roll. i don’t care if my bunghole is three shades of chartreuse i’m not taking motherfucking crest white strips to my anus. see brazilian waxing above  for further explanation.

women’s restrooms: in stadiums, concert halls, and theaters the ratio of women to stalls is typically 50,672 to 4. and i like to drink in these venues. so i get to miss the the excitement when my favorite act comes on stage and instead spend 96 minutes in line where i overhear things like “i can’t text him. he motherfucking chewed my phone, now i need a new one.” awesome.

hymen reconstruction surgery: virgins don’t exist. except in mythology. fuck you.

what else should be on this list?

a couple weeks ago mr punker and i saw chelsea handler at the tower theater in philly. we laughed our asses off (this is not a pun, but you’ll see why i mention it momentarily). damn, she is one funny girl.

then last night out of the blue this convo occurs:

mr punker: i think chelsea handler is into scat.

me: what like the music?

mr punker: no, like she’s into sex involving shit.

me: whaaat!!? where did that come from?

mr punker: cuz she’s obsessed with the hot carl. she’s brought it up a few times and mentioned it during the show.

me: what’s that one again?

mr punker: it’s where the guy puts seran wrap on the chick’s face and takes a big hot dump on it.

me:  eeewwwwww.  chelsea handler is definitely not into THAT.

mr punker: yeah i think she is. i’ve heard her talk about the cleveland steamer, too.

me: just because she talks about it, doesn’t mean she’s into it. she just thinks it’s funny.  (i know this because chelsea and i are kindred spirits. i get her mentality.)

mr punker: no she’s definitely into it; she knows all the lingo.

me: just because she knows the lingo doesn’t mean she’s into it.  you can find that stuff all over the internet. i see it in blog posts all the time.

mr punker: so people are talking about the dirty sanchez in the blogs you read?

me: well, it’s not quite related, but my friend wicked shawn took a poll recently on whether a rimshot was related to sports or sex, and the results were people overwhelmingly thought of it as a sexual term.

mr punker: what’s a rimshot?

me: um it’s when a guy cums around the ring of the butthole.

mr punker: bwahahaha! that’s a good one. the bumpkin is the funniest though.

me: what the fuck is a fuckin bumpkin? do i even want to know?

mr punker: when a chick blows you while you’re taking a dump.

me:  jesus christ that’s disgusting.

mr punker: chelsea handler probably likes the chili dog, too.

me: who’s obessesed?

well punkers if you have any good scat stuff to share with mr punker, he’d probably get a big kick out of it…

yeah i know, the word “don’t” is a big negative. but in this case it’s necessary. in order for me, and it’s all about me, to have a positive experience at a group fitness class (spin, yoga, strength, boxing, cardio, pilates, tennis drills) these 10 rules must be followed:

1. don’t hoot and holla like you’re having an O. no yelling out Wooooh. Yeaaaahh. Owwwww. there is nothing orgasmic about this. this is agony. the high associated with working out doesn’t come until later. when it’s over. then we can relax and let go.

2. don’t come into class smelling ripe. what the fuck are you going to smell like over the next hour if you smell like a sweaty locker room mat at the onset? it’s much easier to tolerate your hoagie smell once i’ve been pushing it and my own soft gardenia-like aroma begins to turn a little onion-y. a little onion-y. as in barely noticeable. only discernible by me.

3. don’t deviate from what the instructor is doing. i’m not that coordinated. i can barely keep up with the moves as it is and your improvisation is throwing my ass off.  if you can’t conform, don’t do a group class. quit trying to stand out. attention whore.

4. don’t bring all kinds of gear. isn’t it commitment enough that i get my ass here and spend $180.9 bajilliion per year on membership and classes? then you come waltzing in with your high tech heart monitor, gloves, spin shoes and seat cover, wrist wrap, and designer gym bag. that’s too much commitment. i would clearly jinx myself with an injury the second i spent a penny more on this shit.

5. don’t look too pretty. your hot little coordinated outfits and tennis dresses make me sick. i want to scream like sam kinison when i see you. i look like a swamp rat and you look like a gym rat. i don’t need this kind of intimidation when i don’t even want to be here in the first place. and don’t be wearing pretty pastel-y colors either. i have to wear dark colors so the sweat rings around my boobs don’t show. don’t your boobs sweat? bitch.

6. don’t be fist pumping. i don’t care how energized you are. this ain’t no party. this ain’t no disco. this ain’t no club at the jersey shore.  ’nuff said.

7. don’t respond to the teacher audibly as if you’re trying to impress me. when the instructor says, “it gets easier the more you do it,” don’t respond, “yeah if you never increase your weights,” then look at me to make sure i notice how much weight you’re lifting. i’m fucking focused here. focused on getting it over with! and when the teacher asks if we’re all feeling great, don’t say, “like a rock star,” then look at me to see if i think you’re funny.  i can barely breathe so i sure as shit don’t have enough oxygen to laugh. even if you are funny. but you’re not.

8. don’t save spaces or bikes for your posse. i like to be in the back of class. i like to minimize the number of  people who can observe my lack of ability. if your clique wants to be in the back, then they need to get their asses there before me.  or, to the front with the attention whores!

9. don’t be a badass. here i was thinking i was all cool by going to the gym then you come swaggering in with your gangsta bandanna, gnarly tank top and ink looking all tight and rad. thanks motherfucker. my inner badass dial just dropped to dowdy. and dowdy makes me want to run and hide out of sight until i can step back out right.

10. don’t zumba. ok this rule is just for me. even i have to have rules. and if i don’t zumba then you can all remain upright and moving.  my lack of coordination won’t cause me to spin in the wrong direction and flail about until i collide with you and take your ass down. see, i’m a considerate gym-goer, too.

what are your cardinal rules of group fitness class?

Babies, midgets, prepubescent girls, and pugs are supposed to be roly poly. Triangle, inverted triangle, hour-glass, oval, and rectangle body types are all fine. But if your body type resembles a marshmallow, you’re too fucking fat. If you’re not a weeble but you wobble, then you’re too fucking fat. And if this wobbling turns you into a slow walker, then I have issues with you.

I’m not thin by any measure. I’m of German-Irish descent. We breed ‘em hearty and big-boned. We’re a beer and potato people. I also happen to be a cheese junkie.  So I’m not here to advocate skinny ass figures.  I’m also not saying super fast walkers are cool. They look like spasbots. But what I absolutely can’t get behind is a slow-walking fat ass. Literally, I hate getting behind them.

I’m a woman with a mission and people who can’t move at an average or accelerated pace slow my shit down. This is a big concern when I’m leaving work or shopping for a new party dress. When a slow walker, or much worse a pack of slow walkers, totally obstructs my way this causes a rage spike which in turn compels me to pop a piece of nicorette.  Maybe slow walkers should chew nicorette, too, to get their fucking heart rates up once in a while.  There are four flavors to choose from:  White Ice Mint, Cinnamon Surge, Fruit Chill, and Fresh Mint. Eight if you consider the teeth whitening varieties.

Anyway, I think these slow-walking fat asses should be required to place a warning placard on their rear ends so people can try to avoid getting too close and blocked from further forward movement.

If you think I’m insensitive, you’re dead wrong. I’m really looking out for these fatsos. If these people don’t lay off the grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches, they’re going to suffer the inevitable revolt against slow walkers where slow walkers who get caught (and they’ll all get caught, thank you captain obvious) will be confined to their homes and when they die of obesity, the only way to cremate them will be to burn down the house while they’re still in it.  Like poor Gilbert Grape’s Mom.

I have a little problem. I have a bunch of them but let’s focus on my addiction to nicorette gum. I quit smoking 8 years ago. It was super fucking hard and my rage was such that someone should have injected me with 4MG of Ativan and taken me away in the crazy cart.  I didn’t want to quit but evidently it gave me asthma. Smoking was my best friend and shield (literally, it kept people from getting to close to me).  And nothing calms my angry punk ass down like continuously renewing the nicotine addiction cycle.

To this day, I still miss my Marlboro Lights (ML) and vow that I will smoke again! Vowing that I will smoke again is one of the ways I stay off ML. I pray everyday that I’m given two weeks notice before I die so I can smoke my ass off.

Another way I stay off ML is by fully embracing my nicorette habit with a nicorette addiction. I have no intention of ever quitting this shit.  Here’s why:

I don’t eat like a POW just released and returned home to Mom.

I’m able to deep throat my boss’s control freak and passive-aggressive daggers (sometimes this requires the addition of grey goose and xanax).

I have less road, elevator, and sidewalk rage than I normally experience when something hinders my mission at hand.

I don’t kill the urban element in my work neighborhood who slow me down with their slow walking. [best i can tell, slow walking occurs because you're too fucking fat and travel in fatty packs or because your deliberate steps are necessary to keep your pants up.]

I have something to pair with other vices like coffee, drinking, and occasional recreational drug use. [vices are most effective when combined.]

I won’t boil a bunny on your stove if I feel scorned by you.

I won’t scratch my eyes out from boredom when I’m forced to attend a girl-only party. [see girls bore me.]

I have something bad to balance every good thing that ever happens to me.  nicorette after sex, nicorette when I get a new job, nicorette when my daughter has a shut-out, nicorette when I get a comment on my blog, etc.

Nicorette is nirvana.

I fear growing old. Truth be told, I’d rather die now for the obvious reasons: to avoid nursing home abuse and incontinence. Die young stay pretty, right? Another reason I don’t want to grow old is that I never want to start that annoying thing my Mother does called: reading the daily obituaries and talking about people from a long time ago that I should remember.

She began this in her 50s. Isn’t it bad enough that as you get older, you’re surrounded by more and more death? Why seek it out? The more people you know who are dead, the greater the odds are that your number is next. And I thought wisdom came with age. Sicker still, why shove the obits down the throat of your vibrant young daughter trying to enjoy the prime of her life?

Do you remember Karen Stento?

Nope.

You played softball with her. They lived on Tamara Lane. Her brother was Joe. Doesn’t ring a bell?

No, not really.

Well, her Mother died. [said with a tone that somehow implied my forgetfulness had something to do with Mrs. Stento's unfortunate demise.]

Oh, that’s a shame. How did she die?

You really don’t remember her?  Karen Stento? Her Mother died Friday. Complications related to lung cancer.

No, Ma, I don’t remember her.  I’ve been gone for 20 years.  I’ve lived in many other places and met a gajillion people since then. My memory has a limited capacity. [this is true: i need to purge old information to make room for new stuff.]

Well, Miss Big City Girl, I moved to Florida but I still read the obituaries from Binghamton on PressConnects. Your hometown is important. That’s where I raised you. 

I just don’t remember her.

Hmmph. John and I read them everyday. Pressconnects on the internet. Don’t you ever read them?

I don’t have time Ma.

I’ll send you the clippings.

One Week Later

Did you get the stuff I sent you from the Press and Sun-Bulletin?

Yep.

What did you think?

Sad.

Did you see Karen’s daughter is into soccer just like Kendra? [now we're solidly re-connected?]

Yep.

You couldn’t be any less interested, could you? Whenever I tell Lori about these things, she is always intrigued and we end up talking on the phone for hours about who knew who and what a small world it is.

AAaahhh — talking on the phone for hours. That’s a “I Don’t Want to End Up like My Mother” story for another day.