Wednesday, May 4, 2005

Wow, once the ranting begins, there's no stopping it.

BAH! My friend went home early feeling ill, so now I am stuck doing *gasp* work. Not cool. But before the work, obviously, I'll write a little. Like a total dork, I make little notes to myself about things I want to discuss on our little page here. I got sick of thinking to myself "Oh, I must remember to write about this" then immediately forgetting about it. Apparently, I am a total scatterbrained freak because even with my notes, I still can't remember what the hell I was talking about. On my little notepad is written: bathroom, babies, moving. Yeah, really helpful. I kind of remember what the hell I was thinking with the last two, but what was the hell did I want to write about bathrooms? Senile at 23, ladies and gentlemen.

So, one of my coworkers has a beautiful little 7 month old kid. Every now and again, he comes into the office for some reason (childcare gap, on the way somewhere and mom forgot something at the office etc). Anyone who has ever met me will tell you I love kids. Any age, bring them on. Throughout my writings on this site I've talked about my overwhelming desire for having children, dozens if possible. The presence of this unbelievably beautiful and happy baby is not helping matters. At 23 years of age, my biological clock (sorry for the cliche here, I hate that term. As though every woman has a built in need for kids, I just don't have a better term for it) is screaming in my ears as though I were 43. Not cool at all.

It's getting really awkward for the poor mother of this child as well. Every time she brings him in I start threatening to steal her child. She doesn't know me very well so she is terribly afraid. She looks at me as though any given moment I'm going to hit her over the head with a three-hole-punch, snatch the kid from her arms, and run. Although, even if she did know me really well, she'd still probably look at me like that.

I had an awesome day at work, here I'll tell you about it (like you really care, but if you are still reading this, then you are probably just bored enough to read about my day at work rather than actually do the work you are avoiding). I usually get to work around 8 am, an hour before most people get here. It's quiet in the office and I can drink my coffee and chat with my friend in peace. Yesterday, however I get an email at 8:15 informing me that our team has until May 21 to vacate our office space. I had just read that sentence and begun to hyperventilate when my phone rings. My manager is calling to talk me down from the ledge I was already threatening to throw myself from. I've known for a while now that our team would be moving and that I would be coordinating the move, again. However, we were told we would be moving in August. NOT MAY FUCKING 21!

The best part about this, is the KP received a 30 day get-the-hell-out notice from the property managers, and waited TWO WEEKS TO TELL US! So, two and a half weeks to organize 30 some odd people moving? I can't wait. The best part about it, we still don't know for sure where we are moving TO. So, there is nothing I can do to prepare, but am now completely stressed out. Kick ass.

OY! I've just remembered what the note "bathroom" was about. You may ask, what would a classy dame such as yourself want to discuss about bathrooms? I'll keep you waiting no longer. My entire life is now punctuated by a half-hourly trips to the bathroom. I started freaking out, "oh no! Constantly having to piss is a sign of diabetes (which I have no reason not to have with the amount of sugar I ingest daily)!" My hypochondria is still in tact, whew! There's a load off.

But after giving myself hives over the thought that I could no longer drink coffee with approximately 40 teaspoons of sugar and that every bite of this cookie would be my last act before going into a diabetic coma, I realized something. Maybe the reason I have to piss every 30 minutes has something to do with the 60 ounces of caffeinated beverages and 3-4 quarts of water I drink while sitting at my desk from 8 am to 6 pm. Do you think? Sometimes I'm amazed at my own ability to freak out.

So why do I never have this kind of thing happen to me? Instead I get to have people yell things like "Oh, girl you too pretty to be smoking that cigarette. Better be careful, or the principal is gonna spank you!" (yes that actuallly happened to me. Even worse was that I was caught in the rain in a less-than-opaque-shirt to begin with and desperately trying to make it home without an unrequested breast exam) The thing about people yelling things like that at me is this: it's way too obscure. I'm confused. Are you "the principal?" Are you warning me about a crazy person you know of who spanks girls who smoke and calls himself "the principal?" Do you think I'm in school and therefore still under the laws of a school principal?

If you are going to yell lewd things at people, make sure your meaning is understood. When someone says "Oh yeah baby, I'd like to get a piece of that" I know what they mean. Bizarre statements like "Damn foxy lady, I'd like to cross the street with a chicken" don't mean much and just confuse people.

So, I've mentioned before that I'm not as thin as I used to be. I was a pretty thin kid growing up. I never looked emaciated, always had a lot of muscle, but was pretty lean. Toward the end of college and a little while afterward, I gained a lot of weight. Some of it was just "filling out" (hip bones widening, getting actual breasts at the age of 22 etc) but the rest has all settled in one general area. All my fat has settled in a semi-circle that begins at the crest of the hip bone (you know the rounded bone where your hands rest when you put your hands on your hips) and continues under the navel around to the other side. So, it's like part of a spare tire. Hot. Makes wearing clothes really easy too. So in order to try to stop this, I've started adding a large number of abdominal workouts to my routine (which, admittedly, consists of walking to and from work out of necessity, and the somewhat regular walk at lunch with my friend/coworker) making my abs unbelievably sore. So sore, in fact, that I can't sneeze or cough properly. Last night, I inhaled some chardonnay and in between half-assed coughs had to moan. And we wonder why I live alone?

I saw a commercial last night for femme deodorant. I personally feel that most advertising for "hygeine" products for women has gotten out of control. It's so over the top and all claim that they will "change your life." When, really, did you last say to yourself, wow switching razor brands has changed my life? If you answered anything other than "never" come to my house so that I may slap you upside the head. Anyhow, enough digressing. So this deodorant had irritating names for the "scents" to choose from like Pearly Pear and Luscious Peach (this deserves its own tangent. Why would I want my underarms to smell like food? Your underarms should not attract attention for the "pleasant aroma" emanating from them. What ever happened to just smelling clean? Sorry to get all Jerry Seinfeld on you here. Let's move along) and not only were the names for the different scents gag-worthy, the deodorant had glitter in it. They call it "Sparkling" but it has glitter in it.


Who, on this gawd-forsaken planet, wants their armpits to sparkle????? Dear lord, as though it isn't hard enough choosing from the 483 different smells available, now I have to decide if I want to "sparkle" or not. Where can they go from here? Colors? Purple armpits? Different colors to match your outfits? I thought the whole point of deodorant is to pretend you naturally don't sweat or smell. Doesn't this kind of negate all that? Jen, my coworker/friend, had only one answer to the Who needs this product question: Strippers.

Back to the narcissism: Clearly, this person is talking about me. I mean who isn't talking about me?

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