so you might be wondering where i’ve been. not really? well, guess what …
work has its dick up my ass and i’m pinned to this pukey cheap-ass corporate carpet. in addition to my day job here, i’m also on this enterprise new media team responsible for infusing a social media plan into every line of business for this global beast.
infusing? isn’t that what you do with vodka?
i’m convinced one of the main reasons i really don’t belong in corporate america is that i don’t speaka the language. half the fucking time i don’t know what’s being said. and this special vernacular really flexes its muscle when you’re involved in a cross-functional, enterprise-wide endeavor. here are some of the words i stumble on:
workstream – whatever happened to group, work group, team? now it’s a workstream. what does that even mean? are there fish in it?
out-of-pocket – you’re not available, what??
prescribe – you’re not a doctor and so you’re not prescribing things. and if you are, then hook me up with some percocet.
hypotheses – this is a science term. i tune out because this does not apply to me.
synthesize – can’t we just put shit together?
traction – this is what my beamer has none of in the snow.
milestone – this applies to birthdays and anniversaries, significant things. how is every task a milestone? *shakes head*
sustainable – of course corp america had to jump on this ecological bandwagon. well i laugh to myself everytime i hear it in a meeting because i think of an erection.
cadence – this has to do with the rhythm of voice or music. why are you using it to mean frequency?
thought leadership – this is what steve jobs did, it implies innovation, i don’t see much of that here or in other big corporations. i just see a bunch of over-compensated exceutives. (alright i won’t go there today.)
this is by no means a comprehensive list, but it would be much easier for me to succeed if people would stop trying to impress everyone in the room and just speak some good old fashioned english. like those people in the movie fargo.
soa the reason i’ve been absent from the blogosphere is because i was moving into an apartment. and the reason i was moving into an apartment was because i was separating from my husband after 20+ years of marriage, raising a family and building a home together. i’m not going into all of the heavy stuff on my blog out of love and respect for mr. punker.
but i sure as shit am going to talk about all of the superficial consequences this has wrought. (why oh why do i use nouns like “shit” and verbs like “wrought” in the same goddamn sentence? because i can, punkers, because i can. )
anyhussy, here are some of my first impressions of being on my own in an apartment:
i miss having a hose on my kitchen sink. how are you supposed to fill the water reservoir of your keurig coffeemaker without a hose?
how do you get rid of the food debris in your sink without a garbage disposal? especially when you don’t have a motherfucking hose!
nordstrom’s is really expensive.
how do you know if it’s a cockroach or a beetle? (please tell me cockroaches don’t exist in the burbs.)
raising the lid on a dumpster really skeeves me out.
what did people do before coat closets and innovative storage solutions? (i had to buy a fucking garment rack and send the rest of my babies to goodwill.)
take my advice: one needs at least a two bedroom apartment to have enough space for shoes.
just because the previous owner and his/her cat are gone, the fucking linen closet still smells like cat piss litter box ammonia pungent blechhh something fierce.
gonzo volcanic rock bags really work as an odor eliminator. (paid advertisement welcome.)
i think the girl downstairs leaves a pair of size 13 men’s work boots outside of her door as a deterrent because i’ve never seen a male coming or going from her place. brilliant actually.
the property manager refers to me as sweetie. ”i’ll put in a work ticket for you, sweetie.” and the maintenance man calls me senora. “toilet paper holder es ok now, senora.”
ulta, bed bath and beyond, and victoria’s secrets coupons have not followed me to my new address. grrrrr.
isn't it the glitteriest, happiest rubber ducky key chain you've ever seen? i think i will name her "bijou." whaddaya think?
and the real kicker …
i have to lay down my franzia box in the fridge. when i want to tap it, i have to pull it out and put it on the counter. wtf whirlpool engineers! there’s a minimum shelf height for a refrigerator and it should include ample head room for an upright franzia box!
i’m back from my too brief winter island getaway. we went to jamaica, mon. and anyone who has seen my pictures can tell i had my period.
it’s not enough that i just look at water and become bloated. i was bloated when i arrived.
don’t ya hate having your period when you’re on vacation? you men know what i mean, right? first, there’s the bloating issue which doesn’t complement eating massive amounts of vacation food (meaning just say yes to everything) and drinking like arthur (meaning it’s noon, time for my first of 82 rum punches).
second, there’s the tampon issue. who wants to have to think about changing a tampon while on the beach? but if you don’t, you might get that dreaded toxic shock syndrome. what is that anyway? and has anyone ever gotten it? my mother acted like everyone got it if they didn’t change their tampon every 2 hours.
let’s just say i’m negligent when it comes to changing my tampon. i’ve definitely left a tampon in for more than 8 hours. in fact, one time i remember forgetting it was in all day. i even had the sex with it in, and neither my partner or me realized it. so maybe it was blotto sex, but still.
it’s all pretty gross i know. but even the design of a tampon is twisted. there’s this stupid string hanging out of the critical entry to your lady vessel just acting like a giant wick, able to absorb all sorts of nasty bacterials, yeasties, paper mites, bed bugs, and dare i say fecal matter. *twitching trying to shake THAT the fuck off*
so what the fuck tampon makers? couldn’t we get a little plastic handle or knob or something instead of the wick?
though it’s definitely better than the alternative: the frightful maxi pad. i realize some people may have to wear them after a procedure or something, but why would anyone choose to sit in a pool of dismantled endometrium? (<– omg laughing hysterically. i wish i could take credit for that but i copped it from wikipedia. i still get credit for realizing the disturbing impact of these two words.)
i’m no scientist but i think when your body expels something its a clear indication it should be kicked to the curb and taken away by tony soprano. not cushioned by a tempurpedic mattress and held touching your delicate skin.
i give one helluva vacation review, don’t i?
oh ok, here are a couple of pretty beach pics to erase everything i just wrote from your mind. peace out, punkers.
some people are real scholarly bloggers like absence of alternatives,for the birds, or 20prospect. they use descriptive language and make compelling arguments. i’d like to be sophisticated like that, but you’ve probably noticed i’m not that fancy.
i try to make my goals realistic. i’d be happy even if i could write as good as missy elliot in this work it song:
If you a fly gal get your nails done Get a pedicure, get your hair did Boy, lift it up, let’s make a toast-a Let’s get drunk, that’s gonna’ bring us closer Don’t I look like a Halle Berry poster See the Belvedere playin’ tricks on you Girlfriend wanna be like me, never You won’t find a bitch that’s even better I make you hot as Las Vegas weather Listen up close while I take it backwards I’m not a prostitute, but I could give you what you want I love your braids and your mouth full of floss Love the way my ass go bum-bum-bum-bum Keep your eyes on my bum-bum-bum-bum-bum And think you can handle this gadonk-a-donk-donk Take my thong off and my ass go boom
take my thong off and my ass go boom? that is some powerful imagery. you agree right?
i’m totally phoning this post in because holy tanuki balls i’m slammed at work. by the way that was a reference to the tom robbins book, villa incognito. you have to respect a book which opens with:
”It has been reported that Tanuki fell from the sky using his scrotum as a parachute.”
see tanuki’s scrotum is proportionately larger than the scrota of elephants, whales, and the jolly green giant.
so i declare that reference makes me literary and some shit.
i’m also trying to plan a trip to the carribean. which doesn’t exactly make me a starving and tortured writer person, but i can always drink excessively and take some happy pills to simulate the agony.
speaking of agony, fucking pms. it’s killing me this week. and why doesn’t anybody tell you not to go to the grocery store with pms? they tell you not to go hungry but it’s much worse to go with pms. guess what i ended up with in my cart?
pepperoni and cheese stromboli cheesy scalloped potatoes tater tots strawberry toaster strudel
no, of course not. we of excess and gluttony need one more round of overindulgence and self-destruction. motherfucking awesome.
i’d like to tell you that i’m all resolved, absolved and involved in the new year. but, i’m still looking out at all of you wondering how you have it in you to remain spirited, social, and drug-free.
i always wonder what those of you with faith do when things seem dark and hopeless? i mean isn’t that why you have faith, so things don’t seem all dark and hopeless? at least being an atheist, i’m not pissed at god for feeling low and estranged. one less person to be mad at and blame is kind of a win, don’t ya think? unless of course god is within, so god is me; therefore, i’m just feeling more wrath with myself. that actually sounds about right.
oh i know i should be all ”to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.“
turn, turn, turn.
but i don’t fucking get it. every time should be a time to laugh, embrace, and dance. fuck the times to weep, mourn, break down, hate, lose, etc. are they really necessary? i’m done with those times, just like i’m over the ass sore that is the holidays.
so i wont talk about those times in 2010 that were supposed to provide some kind of ‘leveling,’ ya know to keep us all humble. like the bp oil spill, teabaggers election wins, jessie james’ infidelity, arizona’s anti-immigration law, bristol palin’s psa, prop 8 supporters, bill donahue blaming the gays for pedophilia, etc.
thrash, thrash, thrash.
this ain’t no grammys, no oscars, no disco, no fooling around, this is just the shit i like from 2010 presented in categories i like:
indie album:high violet by the national (it’s my new testament. their album, alligator, is my 13 commandments. hey, i’m very religious — god is within me, remember — so 10 commandments weren’t enough.)
pop song i couldn’t resist: love the way you lie by eminem and rhianna. (shut up, it’s like a punk pop song. ‘sides, bitch got pipes and i totally sound like her when i wail in the car.)
breaththrough movie:the kids are alright (color me a lezzy cuz i have the hots for annette bening and juliane moore. then again there’s mark ruffalo. so color me bi-curious.)
salacious sex scene in a movie: casey affleck and jessica alba in killer inside me (not for the faint-hearted and really sick to like any part of this ultra violent film. but my dreams don’t lie.)
rocker tshirt: tie between “it’s motherfucking booze time” (check it here) and “i think i brained my damage” (here).
caught on tape: joe biden to president obama on the passage of health care reform, “it’s a big fucking deal” (vp with a dirty mouth = hawt.)
commercial worth watching: tie between the kia hamsters doing the black sheep and kevin bacon talking about kevin bacon. (i don’t know what product this latter one is for, but who doesn’t love kevin bacon crossing his fingers wishing he could turn into kevin bacon.)
actual comedy: modern family (lmao every week. should be on hbo for added irreverence.)
dramedy: nurse jackie (girl likes herself some narcotics. why didn’t i consider nursing?)
real drama: tie between dexter and mad men (serial killer who slays serial killers vs. stylistic ad biz show. that’s a toughie, right?)
useful technology: ipad (internet on the train with a large screen for my over 40 eyes + name jokes = no brainer.)
memorable talk show moment: conan obrien doing freebird on his farewell show. (dude can rock out with his sub-woofer out. and he tickles my funny bone.)
depraved blog: vodka and ground beef (i’d link you to it but for some reason it’s like gone. without notice. wtf!)
intriguing blog commenter: tie between bugginword and dufmanno. (both make me feel like i’m swirling in some kind of an imaginarium. that’s a good thing, btw.)
awesome gift giver: three way tie between subwow, wicked shawn and a vapid blonde. (i retire my tiara to these sexy, amazing girls who all blew my mind this year.)
rad nail polish design:fuck u on lindsay lohan’s middle finger (how much do i want to wear this in the corporate conference room!)
book without flowery language: tie between squirrel seeks chipmunk by david sedaris and life by keith richards (each of these artists are iconic and the fiercest in their respective crafts: satirist and rock star.)
and since i’m still wallowing in my suckdom, i’d like to end on bad note. why jimmy choo, why?
uggs aren't pretty to begin with, why bedazzle them?
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.
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.
i’ve been feeling kind of shitty lately. and my last post was pure crap. except it was saved by the intensely clever comments of my interweb friends. they so rule. and they’re all so damn good at blogging. like they actually get better everyday. i shit you not.
truth is i’ve been down in the dumps because i’ve been feeling my daughter’s pain. she’s had a real shitstorm of a week and i just ache for her. and the stress is bringing out the worst in me. i’m so fucking weak and apparently a total shit for brains.
anyway, i was going to write about my issues with work bathrooms. but i thought that was just too much shit in one week. i’m sure you punkers have had enough of my shit. i sure as shit have.
so i thought i’d introduce you to my three pugs. they were there for me, for all of us, this week providing comfort and joy. these dogs are the shiznet! ok, i’ll stop.
their names are penelope, elliot and angus. they’re all british names, and that was not intentional nor does it make any fucking sense. there is nothing british about them. pugs have chineese origins and were bred to adorn the laps of their owners. and adorn they do. with all of their fatness, wrinkles, folds, smushed-in leather noses, snorts, and grunts — it doesn’t get any fucking cuter.
despite the british names we have given them, the thing i find interesting is how we’ve evolved their names. here’s what i mean:
the sausage
this is penelope. she was our first pug. sometimes she is called “the sausage” because she reminded us of the german luge guy in the 1981 olympics who was referred to as “the speeding white sausage.” but don’t you dare talk about her weight in front of her. she is very sensitive. and she’s lost weight recently and regained some of her girly definition.
then somehow penelope became “vanilla bean.” it was a sounds-like thing. then just “bean.” and of course, “penny.”
when we got the first boy pug, she became “the girl.” or “penelope cruz” because of her girly curveys.
the man
this is elliot. or “elliot smelliot” which turned into “elly smelly” and then “smelly belly” which morphed into “smelly bells.”
he is also “the man” because he’s so, well, manly and was the first male pug. and “shitake” because when he was being a little shit (sorry), i’d say to him, “you little shitake mushroom!”
he’s also my “little lamb” because of the way he lies on my lap every night and watches tv with me. yes, he watches tv. he happens to be a racist and goes all crazy barking when there are blacks on the screen which is fucktarded because he’s as black as james brown. he also barks at horses.
shmagegi
this is angus. so of course, he’s “angus burger” or just “burger.” and because he’s the youngest and most needy, he can be a schmuck for attention so we call him ”shmagegi.”
being the second boy pug, he’s also ” little man.” and when he acts like a whiney little wussy boy because his tennis ball rolls under a piece of furniture, we call him “agnes.”
