HERE

Read this, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.

BAAAAAAAA*

*Like a sheep.

People I like did this (Jenny T. and Sarah Cool) and who am I not to follow in their pretty, well-manicured footsteps? I, humble though I may not be, am a nobody so bring on the sheep.. or lemmings. It's really your choice. I just don't know how to immitate the sound a lemming makes as it's drowning. Gurgle mayhaps?

My Perfect...

Day: Getting hired (ANY place not retail), getting paid more than I think I'm worth with a great benefits and vacation package, finding my first big-girl-doing-this-on-my-own apartment, realizing I actually CAN afford my way of living and getting a dog.

Getting a book deal would be a pretty damn good day too I would imagine.

Job: Good Lord, I don't know. If I knew then I would HAVE a goal and not be so stressed (AAAAAAAHAHAHAHA! I just put that in print! Like I actually BELIEVED it! Hoooo.)

Food: Quaker Caramel Mini Rice Cakes. They are perfectly scrumptious, a euphoric blend of crunchy and sweet that won't make my butt balloon.

Color: I'm beginning to dislike the fact that is this "My Perfect..." rather than "My Favorite..." because how can you define something as broad as your perfect color? It changes with the circumstance. Such as: Wall color? Sage or a dark taupe. Dress color? Deep red. Shirt color? Black. Pant color? Striped. You see? It CHANGES people.

Date: A moonlit walk along the beach after a candle lit dinner until we find some lifeguard station that was accidently left unlocked and we shack up until one or both of us gets splinters in our butts from the friction against a wooden floor. THAT or something that we won't walk away from clean (SEE: 4-wheeling, horseback riding, cow tipping, mud wrestling).

Book: Lullaby, Brave New World, or Lovely Bones.

Life: Traveling and writing about it.

Word: Damnit. I like the way it curls around my teeth.

Ending: The End (written in a scripty font).

DAMN THE MAN

Here is a list of things I have continued to do since a boy roommate moved into the house that I probably shouldn't do:

1. Change my clothes with the door open.

2. Openly complain about feminine hygiene products (I've also thrown them at him).

3. Openly complain about the causes for the need of feminine hygiene products.

4. Walk around the house without a bra on.

5. Not put clothes on when I have to use the bathroom at 4 in the morning.

6. Attack Katie and tickle her.

7. Not always close the bathroom door all the way (in my defense, it is sometimes hard to close because it sticks).


Just a thought.

WHY I'M A TERRIBLE GIRLFRIEND

Man Friend and I are what some uneducated individuals might consider "verbally abusive." What I mean by this is we pull out all manner of "your mom" jokes and "no, you are" and "that's what she said." (Man Friend is the SOLE perpetrator of the "that's what she said" crap. MY sense of humor is MUCH classier). I, unfortunately, suck at "your mom" jokes which just so happen to be the go-to joke of choice and Man Friend starts to get VERY annoyed when I give up and pull out a, "your mom is a whore." (She isn't and I like his mother but I really do suck at this game.)

Well, today. Today I tried to mix it up a bit. I don't remember the exact prompt but it was something along the lines of an accident and my BRILLIANT retort was, "well, you're a..."

"Yeah! Say it! Just say it!"

Now, under most normal circumstances, this retort wouldn't have been THAT bad, but Man Friend? He's adopted. And I've known this since BEFORE I MET HIM.

Sigh.

I'm going to blame it on the hormones.

AIRING OUT THE DIRTY LAUNDRY

Can you get fired for calling a manager a caustic asshole?*

I hate retail. I hate managers of retail stores (and food service but that's another story). NEVER IN MY WORKING CAREER have I EVER disliked a manager, unless... that's right. Retail. What is it about the phrase, "Customer service is our number one priority," that turns what MIGHT (and I use this term loosely) be normal people into raving control freaks with condocending undertones? Is it the POWER of it all because for for the love of all that is holy, it's r-e-t-a-i-l. Ooooooo! Color me impressed.

I'll give it one thing though. It has certainly taught me how to go from glaring at a manager and in one quick and easy quarter turn be smiling and asking in an apparently genuine tone how a customer is doing and what I can do to further help them today. Here. Here is my soul.

Let me give you an example of WHY these managers are so bloody effing charming in a convenient "what I thought" and "what I said" format:

Me to a customer: "Here is your receipt. Have a good evening!"
Turning to Bossy McBoss who is checking out: "Employee number?" (So the man can get his employee discount)
Bossy McBoss: "You know, usually at these places they tend tp greet you with a 'hello, how are you?'. Here it seems they just bark out 'employee number.'" (This wasn't even said TO me. It was said to his girlfriend. Can you say passive-aggressive?)
What I thought: "Are you bloody effing serious?"
What I said: "I do greet customers."
Bossy McBoss: "I would hope. Can you throw in (some other item) too?"
What I thought: "No."
What I said: "I would be happy to do that for you today, sir." (Yes, I really did say that and NO, I'm not proud of it.)
B McB: (Looking at the receipt) "Oh wow, you DID charge us for everything."
What I thought: "Imagine that! I'm competent at my job! And without the proper body parts to boot!"
What I said: "Yup. Have a nice evening."


*I didn't actually CALL a manager this but Lord strike me dead if I didn't THINK it to myself.

BRINGING THE SMACK DOWN

This weekend was full of attempted dutch ovens, ticklings, near suffocations under the covers and LOTS of, "don't you dare (insert not nice action here)'s," followed quickly by, "OW! BUTTHEAD!'s."

Some of the more noted occassions were Man Friend biting my arm, snapping me with a towel, and putting a bike helmet on my head and then hitting the helmet, which wouldn't have been THAT bad except one of the little plastic chin strap pieces is UNDER the helmet and got pushed into my head.

Don't fret however. I got him back. The most notable of these attempts was shoving a finger under his nose (a perfectly clean, relatively sterile finger) and telling him to sniff it (there may or may not have been a wedgie given as well).


NOT ANYWHERE NEAR G-RATED:
Mom: "Did I tell you that we had decided to get you and your (older) sister a hotel room you all can share with your significant others (at the youngest's wedding in August)?"
Me: "Yeah, you told me. Guess we're going to have to come up with some sort of sock on the door knob system then, aren't we?"
Mom: "Things I didn't need to know."

Me: "My dog won't be like that. I'll keep the pooch on a tighter leash than I keep him (Man Friend)."
Rusty: "..."
Dad: "Don't worry, Rusty. If you fly over (my home town) you'll see the dirt path I've run around the end of my lead."
Me: "Just shy of those tittie bars, huh Dad?"

Man Friend: (He got shocked, as in high voltage electricity coursing through his body, this week) "It felt like someone kicked me in the chest. My nuts jammed so far up into me, I thought I was going to choke." (That is more a rough guesstimation what was said because I don't remember EXACTLY.)

BARNESY, BARNES, BARNES!!!

I have attempted to use this site to try and entertain the masses. Occassionally it's hit or miss but I think I've done a fair job, so when I hear that one of my masses (no, that is NOT a fat joke) is despressed... WELL! I'm going to do my damnedest to try to cheer them up. So may I present to you:

TOP 10 REASONS I HEART ERIK WITH A K!!!*

10. He works with crazy people.

9. The man is brilliantly sarcastic with a dry wit that is like the creamy sauce on top of the fetticini.

8. He's going to be a pro-wrestler.

7. He's like the Rock only A MILLION TIMES COOLER!

6. He's definately not ashamed of his MASSIVE action figure collection.

5. He doesn't get all squeamish when I make dirty jokes, and often times joins in.

4. He gives really good hugs.

3. He isn't bitter and resentful of (most) women.

2. He has superhuman powers. It's true. I've seen it. It's called compassion.

1. He writes the greatest theme songs KNOWN TO MAN!


*There are certainly more than ten reasons but I had to end this entry somewhere.

FEEL BETTER, ERIK WITH A K! I command you!

MORE THAN JUST A ROOMMATE

"Katie, I think I have a (left blank for your well being and because there actually ARE some things I won't admit to the web viewing public... let us just call it a "thing")."

"Are you sure it's a thing? Do you want me to look at it?"

"Not really."

"Well, I could tell you if it actually IS a thing."

"..."

"...?"

"FINE!"

(Looking intently at some part of my body) "That's a thing alright."

"We must NEVER speak of this again."

TOILETTE

"We have a girl bathroom. There are no magazines in there. It is not set up for power pooping."

"You know what you can do to fix that?"

"There's a boy here now. He can fix it, though arguably he has not yet asserted his dominance over that part of the house. He did however attempt to mark his territory by clogging the bathroom sink with his chin pubes*."


*And leaving the toilet seat up.

DISJOINTED AND HAPHAZARD (MUCH LIKE MY GRIP ON REALITY)

I can relate. It's like a disease! Specifically, syphallus. Except incurable. The part I'm really digging for is that it eats your brain rendering your head full of swiss cheese.

IN OTHER NEWS:
About my copy editing professor. Beyond the fact that the man is categorically insane and insatiably long winded, it DISPLEASES me the way he talks about design.

GRANTED, he does say that simply because you're familiar with a program doesn't mean you can design and granted, newspaper design is unlike what we are taught at DAAP, it still drives me up a freaking wall when he talks about teaching something in five WEEKS that I had to study for five YEARS. Not that I'm the best designer ever and I haven't ever seen his stuff but COME ON. There is SOMETHING to be said about raw talent (which I don't really feel I was blessed with - shut it, you naysayers. Design is hard and it has a whole hell of a lot to do with the fact that I'm too hard on myself) but I refuse to believe that EVERYONE in that room has a smidgen of it.

AND FINALLY:
When I finally get my dogget I promise not to do this. Okay, MAYBE the harem dog but only to shame and humiliate him when he shows himself for the slut he really is.

CONFESSIONS

God damn, I'm a bitch.



I'm sorry.

ABOUT AS GRACEFUL AS AN OSTRICH MATING DANCE* **

*For those of you who don't get this analogy, I apologize. For those of you who do, I profusely apologize.
**Yes, I do watch a lot of the Discovery Channel.

I am not graceful. Shock. I can trip while not even walking. I have no doubt you've all seen that "keeping my balance" dance I perform whenever I lean too far to one side and have to bounce around to regain a normal standing position and to prevent myself from crashing bodily to the floor.

Unfortunately, that little hop along dance isn't always an option. Like when I'm squatting. At work. In front of the printer.

Now, I work at the customer service desk. This means I am completely surrounded. There is MAYBE three feet of space from the wall where the printer is located to the wall that is the actual desk that customers (and by customers I mean devil spawn) stand at, asking me in all sorts of demeaning and unflattering tones to do their evil bidding. There was plenty of wall space for me to merely reach my hand back and catch myself as I teetered off balance while in that unflattering squat. At least you'd think.

I reached my hand back all right to what I thought was the drawer. I was off by about 5 inches. Rather than the drawer, I planted my hand and thus my weight onto the flap creatively put into the wall to hide the trashcan. I fell down.

Luckily, our trash almost entirely consists of paper products so it isn't horrendously disgusting to accidently stick your palm into the garbage but that same little flap that betrayed me? It also raked its little corner across my arm.

Two managers were behind the customer service kiosk with me at this point (neither of them doing a damn thing to help me out with the barrage of people standing before me). One asked in the most disgusted tone if I was alright. The other couldn't breath enough to even make an audible chuckle, the same manager that told me, after I asked if she'd gotten a haircut, that no, she hadn't gotten her hair cut, she'd just bought a shampoo that makes your hair shrink AND MY BRILLIANT RESPONSE?!

"Really?"

...

I deserved to fall on my ass in front of a lot of people.

HOW DO I POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THIS? (continued)

I forgot one of the better thing that resulted from the costume, the thing that made me laugh so hard I thought my insides would liquify and forcibly leave my body.

While Danny was still packing that lovely image as seen below, someone (Dan) suggested he sneak himself around the corner and "present" himself to Jenny because she was a) sitting, and b) face height with his crotch.

So Danny, of course, did.

And Jenny shrieked. She actually screamed when presented with Danny's penetrating manhood in her virginal face.

This is what it's like when girls swoon over Danny. Some of us can't breath. Others scream for joy.

HOW DO I POSSIBLY EXPLAIN THIS?

I threw Dan (another) "Go Away" party tonight. Because he's going away (Guatamala). Forever (2 years).

In the process of packing, Dan found a number of things he put into a grab box for all of us at the party to take away a piece of him in his absense.

He packed a special bag for Danny.

In this bag was a Warrent t-shirt, a blond wig, and red spandex track pants. Think about it. Roll it around. Settle it under your tongue. Let that just sink in a moment. Yup.

I'm completely unashamed to admit we're JUST that kind of crowd to encourage Danny to put it on and Danny is JUST that kind of guy to succumb to our peer pressure.

For those of you with queezy stomachs, I suggest you look away.


May I present what Danny is packing. You know you want to hit that.

So after he removed the fruit and potatoes from his nether regions, I was still debating putting the produce back into the feed bin rather than throwing out the testitaders. Innocently, I pointed to Danny's crotch and said with no shame, "can that thing penetrate?"

He looked down, almost dejectedly and responded, "I sure hope so. That IS what it's for."


Oh, it can penetrate all right. It just raped my eye sockets. I dare you to try and look away.

BECAUSE I'M INSANE

The Man Friend and I were walking through the mall the other day, specifically the younger adult apparal when this little sprite of a conversation convulsed forth:

"I'm going to piss off my kids something awful when I tell them I'm not buying them shit like this because they'll look like filthy sluts and arrogent little pricks."

"Glad to know I won't always be the mean one."

"Nah. But I think I'd be a good mom."

"I agree. You'd make a great mom."

"Well, probably. You know, after I got past the first few stressful years of no sleep and the screaming."

"Just until I got you drinking again. Heavily."

SCAPEGOAT

I started taking the Pill. No, not for THAT reason but rather as an attempt to level out my hormones. I've been on it two days. You wouldn't think that's really enough for it to have much effect but I have been in a foul enough mood the last two days that I need SOMETHING to blame it on.

Hello, little blue scapegoat.

This is usually the part of the month when I'm okay with who/what I am and where I'm going/what I've done. But not right now. Nope. Every little insecurity is latching itself to my leg and it wants my full attention which, being the overly self-critical worry wart that I am, I am only too happy to supply.

The really pathetic thing? There isn't so much going on right now that I can't handle it. Granted it isn't the best of situations. It isn't what I REALLY want. I'm just being a huge pussy. I'm just too scared to really do anything about it.

And talking to Mom about it had the reverse effect of what I was hoping for.

SMOOTH AS A BABY'S BUTT

I did something dumb.

The worst part? It was ENTIRELY my own idea. I thought it would make life simpler. I thought it would save me time but there are just certain things better left to professionals and the tearing of one's own hair from ((cough)) down there is one of them.

It started off simply enough. As I was haunched over in the shower shaving away at the inevitable strays that make the bikini line just oh-so-unappealing it came to me. Why not forcibly remove said bikini line hair with HOT WAX?! On the most delicate part of my body?! It'll be easy! I do it to my eyebrows all the time!

Pity the tolerance for pain on my face doesn't translate below the belt. Who knew?

To Sally Hansen I go to get the proper supplies. I absolutely refuse to tell you how much I spent but suffice to say it was too much. I even bought a spray-on numbing agent.

So away I spray, securely seated on a towel on the bathroom floor (I'm not putting my butt on that floor. It's hairy) and slather on a nice, thick coat of Wicked Witch of the West Green wax. Rub on a strip to make sure it sticks, hold taunt and OH MY EFFING GOD WAS THAT UNPLEASANT. Not only was my nether region NOT numb, it made the wax not want to stick to the strip. Multiple attempts were made at removing THE SAME CLUMP of wax. To. No. Avail.

BUT! I'd thought of this and my kit kindly came with a bottle of Wax Off, for the purpose of removing left behind waxy residue! One problem? The Wax Off was on the other side of the bathroom.

Yes, I most certainly did. For those of you who have read that horrible email that did NOTHING to dissuade me from this endeavor, you know what is about to happen. I stood up. I IMMEDIATELY regretted that decision. I waddled uncomfortably to the Wax Off and proceeded to rub it onto the problem area. But here is the real kicker, what they don't tell you in school. This miracle Wax Off shit? About as effective as my numbing agent. Oh, it clears the wax off the skin alright, makes it nice and brittle so you can chip it away. But it's a REAL pity if some of that wax just so happens to still be attached to some hair. Now you're forced to remove those chunks A LITTLE BIT AT A TIME. And what's more unpleasant than ripping hairs out by the root? Doing it slowly and in small increments.

And the real bitch of it all? It's patchy. I still have to go over my bikini line with a razor to clean up the parts that didn't turn out so smooth. And for what? It's not even bathing suit season! Apparently, I didn't think I had enough material for here. Needed to spice it up a bit. LEARN YOUR LESSONS FROM ME KIDS. If you're brave dumb enough to go through with it, professional is the way to go.