Monday, January 29, 2007


Boy Roommate has been bringing around a certain lady friend. I do not know what their official business is, nor am I really one to pry but I have to admit that I TOTALLY have a crush on her. I adore her. Not only is she beautiful in an uncommon way, she's got this aura of... I don't even know what but I'm smitten. If he doesn't start dating her, I might have to sneak her in on the side (sorry, Man Friend).

I would be the Sam Wise to her Frodo.

Yes, I realize how lame that sounds.

Thursday, January 25, 2007


"I lifted. That means I can kick your ass."

"Doubtful. I could take you. Easily."

"Yeah, well I AT LEAST have more endurance than you, especially since you smoke. You would get winded."

"Baby, in the 30 to 45 seconds it would take me to beat. your. ass. I'm not REAL concerned about getting winded."


"See, this is why I won't let you have nice things. Because you won't let me grow majestic facial hair."

My boyfriend didn't say that. Her's did. (My boyfriend is unable to grow majestic facial hair.)

Tuesday, January 23, 2007


(Those high heels are yet to be bought but don't doubt that I've been looking.)

So, rather than go out tubing like I REALLY wanted to do this weekend, mom (that would be me) decided that since Man Friend had been fighting a sore throat all week and I have something in my sinuses that refuses to budge (and since I didn't want it's first move to be an advance) we should go shopping instead.

It should also be known that since I've started my big girl job, I'm pretty well always ready to fall asleep at a moment's notice (unless, say, that moment is my chosen bedtime... THEN I HAVEN'T A DAMN PROBLEM STAYING AWAKE). I requested of Man Friend that we visit the local Starbucks so I might partake in the wakeful glory of concentrated coffee (see: espresso). Now, it is well documented my love of the frappuccino and it is well known, by me at least, that Man Friend is disgusted by this particular mega-corporation. Luckily for me, he is willing to go through minor torments in order to make me happy.

As I am walking out of Starbucks, frothy drink in hand, Man Friend comments on my submission to the evil corporate giant... as he sticks a Camel cigarette between his lips. Pretentious little shit (WHO I LOVE ANYWAY, ya bastard).

Anyway, I also mentioned that Man Friend took me shopping. I found out something about myself on this trip. MY LOVE CAN BE BOUGHT! AND IT COSTS $21.95 (on sale). Man Friend bought for me for our upcoming Six Months of Dating Day a sexy, luscious, would totally have sex with were it not an inanimate object, red purse. Unfortunately, he won't let me have it until said SMofDD which I think is TOTALLY unfair. He even said I wasn't allowed to mention the purse on here. I snort at his ignorance. He IS just a boy. Us ladyfolk realize that a find this ripe must be shared.

Pictures to follow.

I was so in love with this purse that had Man Friend NOT gone ahead and purchased it for me (along with a pair of socks), I would have been hard pressed to not purchase it on my own dime, something, that, despite my recent venture into the world of adults, would certainly be pushing my straining budget since I spent a SHIT TON of money since last was my payday. To the effect that in order to buy groceries, I was subtracting in my head the amount gas will cost me along with rent that is due WAY too soon so I wouldn't overdraw.

Just in case you didn't know, math is hard when "f*ckityf*ckf*ck" is prancing gayly (much like men when they are thinking of Jack Bauer) through your head.

Hello, payday.

Monday, January 22, 2007


"What time is it?"


"I have to get ready for 24."


"I need to get syched up for it. Get my guns out."

"You need to get your guns out to watch 24?"

"And my messanger bag just like Jack Bauer. I like to fondle them while watching Mr.Keifer."

"You are so queer."

"Hey! There is nothing gay about getting naked and touching yourself while thinking about Jack Bauer."

"How do you figure?"

"Jack Bauer is saving the world! The LEAST I can do is touch myself."


"What time is it?"


"I have to go now."


"To get ready for 24!"

"YOU HAVE 15 MINUTES! Whatever. Go get ready for your show."

"No, you're more important than Jack Bauer... I think."

"And don't you forget it."

"I don't know what I'd do if the Buckeyes were playing the same time Jack was saving the world. I think I might have to kill myself."

"Or you could always tape it."

Sunday, January 21, 2007


"He told me he f***ed you."

"Really? He must not have been very good because I don't remember that."


"I'm going to Cincinnati this weekend to see my girlfriend."

"Is she hot? Wait wait wait. It doesn't matter. Does she give good head?"

"Not as good as your mom, but she's learning."

"... Good burn."

Wednesday, January 17, 2007


It would appear that I am wholey incapable of putting on makeup. It never fails. I make my way to my toilet of choice for my now daily early morning work poo, I peek into the mirror (which admittedly has much better lighting than mine at home) and find streaks. Of unblended makeup. This morning it was along my eyebrow but yesterday it was in the middle of my forehead AND I didn't catch it so early in the day. What sort of girl am I? Honestly.

So. Now. You might be wondering WHY I have a toilet of choice. This is because the wonderfully brilliant people who designed the building I work in thoughtfully added the "shitter" (handicap) bathroom. I am sooo NOT the only one who uses it for this purpose.

Don't ask me how I know.

It is a single occupancy bathroom with rails available for power pushes should you really deem that sort of move prudent at work when attempting to make this shameful, messy necessity as unobtrusive as possible.

I've only once ever been interrupted during this, my early morning ritual, and oh the pity. I mean, HOW do you convey in a solitary, sympathetic glance the absolute necessity that she not go in there? You have GOT to let that air out, sweetheart. I mean, damn.

Speaking of damnation, is it wrong the level of mirth I got today when I farted in my boss' office?



You know what else I DEFINATELY didn't do on purpose? I ALSO farted at the gym tonight. Loudly. I was on the "GLUTE ISOLATOR!!!" Do you have any effing clue how difficult it is to hold in your gas when you're horse kicking a 40 lb. weight out behind you? Oh my effing shit. I would have MUCH rather THAT have not happened.

LUCKILY, it is very noisy in there with all the treadmills and such. Not so luckily, there was definately a guy behind me. Heh.


In case you hadn't been paying attention, I've been having bowel issues recently. Of the gurgling around uncomfortably in my intestine sort. This has happened before. The gas remained in my gut so long that it started causing me pain rather than just the normal level of discomfort. We're talking levels of pain that would cause me to DOUBLE OVER. The kind of pain that made Courtney threaten to take me to the hospital if it didn't knock itself the hell off in a very speedy amount of time.

I'm seriously tempted to blame it on the coffee I've recently started drinking in the morning rather than the amount of fiber I've been consuming because isn't fiber supposed to help your bowels, not hinder them with excessive flatulance? And it really is crappy coffee but I am unwilling to cut one or the other out for a week to see if that helps because FIBER IS FREAKING GOOD FOR ME GODDAMNIT and I get up WAY too early to not drink coffee (I've stopped drinking pop (too much sugar) so that won't work). Drinky, drinky coffee equals functionality. Apparently, that's worth an irritable bowel.

*Aarrrhhh! (See? That's the sound a pirate makes.)

Tuesday, January 16, 2007


I concur sans the part about becoming a car guy.

I am not, nor shall I ever be a "car guy" (I don't have the right body parts for that) though I am bound and determined to not only LIKE autocross but to kick the boys' asses. Just like I do at Settlers (I have never actually won that game and IT DRIVES ME UP THE BLOODY EFFING WALL. GAHH!!!).

Yeah, that whole trip taught me two things:
    1. I never want to live in Detroit.
    2. I am sooo not kidding about the never wanting to live in Detroit (it smells funny).

25 (ISH)


I heart your existance. Good job being born!

That is all.

Monday, January 15, 2007


I very much like sleeping in the same bed with Man Friend.

Actually sleeping, pervs.

I like it because Man Friend keeps his room FREAKING FREEZING. But give him ten minutes under the covers before I climb in and he is like a furnace. And I have to have some part of me pressing up against him all night, whether it be just a leg or actual cuddling (aww... barf) in order not to freeze to death.

Well, Man Friend has a large bed (king) but, despite this, he tends to keep to his side of the bed so I have to scoot way over into the middle to be able to keep warm thus invading his space. Normally, I'm a light sleeper but with my recent thrust into adult life, I haven't been getting near the sleep I'm used to/would prefer so when I get the chance, I PASS THE SHIT OUT. So, in an attempt to get away from my smothering sleeping habits, Man Friend (APPARENTLY) tried to roll over.. and almost fell out of bed. I SLEPT THROUGH THE WHOLE THING! He had to tell me later when I finally woke him up and told him, like I do every weekend, that it was "get up time".

There seems to be a trade-off however. One or the other of us gets a good night sleep. Never both. So he wasn't real happy with me when I finally woke him up at ONE IN THE AFTERNOON. I ended up poking him to get him to get up. He ended up pressing a line into the blanket between us and, pouting, told me to stay the hell on my side. The last time someone told me to stay on my side I was in the car with my sister... so December.

My boyfriend is 5, soon to be 25. Like tomorrow. Yay! HAPPY (almost) BIRTHDAY! Birthday spankin's abound!

Thursday, January 11, 2007


"You've never seen one of my poops."

"And I'm thankful for that. I'm just waiting for the day you get over that little shyness of yours and feel the urge to take a dump while I'm brushing my teeth."

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"... I believe you wouldn't do that to me NOW. Just give it a year of living together though."

"It would be pretty funny."

"It's my idea of torture."

Wednesday, January 10, 2007


Please won't you pinch us off a big old clue.

Turn up your volume and click that little link. You're welcome.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007


Now, I am well aware that I'm not SUPPOSED to talk about work because.. ohhh, what if someone finds out and I get in trouble? Or even get fired? Well.. screw it. It isn't like I'm using this forum to libel my boss. I'm merely venting some frustration that I don't feel the inspiration to actually DO anything about (which arguable means I should just shut the hell up about it but this is my bloggity blog and I'll do whatever I damn well please, thank you VERY much).

  • Ever since I started back at this place I have felt this swelling of need. A need to run throughout the building, particularly MY department, screaming, "I AM NOT A BLOODY EFFING INTERN!"

    Granted, I am only with your company temporarily. Granted, I have previously been an intern at your establishment. But that is no more. I have graduated. And not only have I graduated, I even have a brandy new job title. You wouldn't PAY an intern what you're paying me (my past rate of pay being a singularly spectacular visualization of this) and if you would? Well, then you owe me a shit ton of money that I expect to be reflected in my next paycheck.

  • I also HATE when I have to stay late. I'm H-O-U-R-L-Y. And I cannot get overtime. That was sooo MY 10 minutes, damnit! It's a freaking pity I don't have it in me to be late in the morning.

  • THE quickest way EVER KNOWN TO MAN to piss me off is to tell me that I am not funny. Occassionally, I'm willing to forgive you of such an egregious error in judgement but you only get so many freebies. And you get none if I don't like you.

  • Sun glare. I like the sun. I particularly like it when it's a cool day and I can feel it soaking into my limbs. What I hate is the last (or first) 25ยบ where it's right in line with your windshield and your visors aren't doing shit to prevent the blinding splash of gold. This does not, however, really prevent me from speeding the entire way home despite the fact I can BARELY even perceive that car in front of me.

  • People who give me paperwork I needed YESTERDAY and then still expect the project to be fixed to their specifications. Screw you.

  • Clothing that doesn't look anything like what I think it should look like in my head. Plumming out in strange ways that give me the appearance of a front butt is not the way into my cold, bitter, little heart.

  • Not being able to fall asleep at night. I am bloody effing EXHAUSTED, yet once I pass that 7 o'clock mark, I cannot fall asleep until well after I would like to in order to be well rested/at all pleasant the following day. The thing is, from when I wake up UNTIL that mark.. I could fall asleep ANYWHERE. I have seriously almost fallen asleep on the toilet at work. How do you explain that?!

Yeah, I'm done. Fer now.

I do have a question though.

Does it make me a bad person that I find it endearing that Man Friend couldn't sleep at all last night because he was worried I was pissed off at him? I thought it was cute! Totally unnecessary, but endearing all the same.

Monday, January 08, 2007


Oh my bloody effing shit, I hate pantyhose. They HAD to have been invented by a man. Torturous contraption. Especially those damn control top. Control top my ass. You know what they do? They don't HIDE the rolls. They mush everything around and then cut off in the most unflattering places producing rolls that were not previously there.

Like in the middle of your stomach.

Or back fat.


AND because there is constant pressure against your gut you can't tell if the skirt you're wearing is sliding its way up to your armpits.

This afternoon it suddenly dawned on me that my jaw ached and I didn't DO anything this weekend to justify that happening. It sort of felt like the back of my cheek was stuffed with dental gauze and as if I'd run my face into somebody's fist (which actually DID happen this weekend as I was attempting to wrestle the remote away from Man Friend because, despite the fact that it is MY television, the mere presents of a penis on his part negates all claim of ownership I supposedly possess.. but that was also my lip and not the back of the jaw that was causing the discomfort).

And now before any of you assume foul or naughty deeds on my part, I suspect the root cause is actually an ear infection manifesting itself in my jaw.

And I don't have any insurance right now.


Sunday, January 07, 2007


Man Friend's dad apparently got absolutely freaking sloshed the other night out in his workshop with the neighbor and told Man Friend as he was being helped back into the house (yup, THAT sloshed) that he and the neighbor had decided Man Friend and I were going to get married. He then suggested that when this happens, we should get married in Vegas. Because it would be cheaper on him.

The VERY first thought that ran through my head? "He's going to help pay for it!! Hot damn!"

Hot damn indeed.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007


Alright. I have heard from a number of people (peculiarly, all male) who have stated their great joy, even elation at pooping during work hours. There is just something about getting paid while you do your business.

Now, it goes against my entire girl nature to poop anywhere but in the safety of my own bathroom but I am not one gifted with inhuman sphincter control and when I need to go, the need, though not IMMEDIATE, is strong enough to convince me to take my chances where I squat.

It goes without saying that I spend a majority of my work poopage praying that I not fart, or, if I do, that it silently slips from its shadowy home. My coworkers DO NOT need to know what I'm doing mere feet from their cubes.

Rarely in these excursions am I overly concerned about smell. No, girl poop is not a desired aroma but it's really never been overwhelming enough to cause serious consideration for the health of others. That was until what eeped out of me today.

Holy God was that wretched.

I don't know about you, but while I don't find my smell a pleasant experience, it is still MY smell and thus something that is far more tolerable than, say, anyone else's smell.

You know it's bad when YOU are sitting there wondering what the hell died.

And then it struck me. This shit is going to CLING! And not only is it going to CLING! to my clothing, thus revealing my hidden(ish) secret to the ever penetrating senses of my coworkers, but it's going to invade my very pores and eminate from my body in wave upon wave of peevish funk. Legions of coworkers were to lay dead at my feet.

To be totally honest, it aired out rather quickly upon flushing but DAMN. I still am curious what the hell I ate.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007


Today was my first day (my fourth first day at this same place if you REALLY want to get technical).

I work in an OFFICE BUILDING. I sit on my ass all day and do wicked voodoo with the mad computer design-y skillz. So how the hell do I manage to get mud all over my favorite pair of shoes? That's because I have to go take new photos for a panarama of a building. Not so bad, you would think, BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG. Sure, I get out of the office. Sure, today was a BEAUTIFUL September day (yes, I am FULLY aware that it is J-A-N-U-A-R-Y). But it's been raining. And it wasn't warm enough to make that go away.

So I have to tredge through the soppy (is actually a word), haphazardly placed, piss-poor grass to some point on a hill that NO LONGER EXISTS to take some fine photos for this panarama extravaganza.

Woe be to you had I actually managed to get up early enough this morning to wear the outfit I had PLANNED to wear (which needed ironed) that involved high heels. And as I'm walking back to my car, I'm whining to Man Friend ("Would you like some wine with that cheese?", "How about cheese with that whine?", "Shut up.") who suggested I throw a pair of tennis shoes if ever such an occassion arose again... to my dismay because I did have tennis shoes in the back of my car but I wasn't smart enough to think of that.

My bed squeaks when I jiggle my rump.

Monday, January 01, 2007



"You just blew snot on my arm."

"No, I didn't. See, watch."

(Snort, again)

"Rubbing it in doesn't mean that it's not there."


"See, I just licked you so it isn't.. there... You taste HORRIBLE! UHH!"

"Serves you right."