But it's Friday!

Fridays at work are supposed to be the day you catch up. You return the ugly emails, do your filing, clean out the fridge etc. But today was a parade of surprise. You're hosting two workshops in December! You'll have to complete the on-site audits by January! You need to invite everyone TODAY!

I went to a meeting I had at 9am and waited in the conference room as two of the people who were supposed to be there arrived to work an hour late and walked right on by, realizing about 20 minutes later that I was stuck in the conference room with, we'll call him Mike.

Now Mike is your regular run-of-the-mill cocky douchebag. He's better than you, more good looking than you (never mind the receeding hairline, gut, and fact that he's 5'5"), smarter than you, and practically omniscent. Normally he won't even lower himself to speak to me but today, wow, he was hosting a talk show and I was the guest he'd been waiting for.

Are you drinking a milkshake this early? (it was a blended chai, thank you)
What's your married name again?
What nationality is that?
What was your maiden?
Is that a French name?
How old are you?
How old is your husband?
How did you meet?
Do you think you guys look alike? He totally looks like your brother....
Doesn't he have the same hair?
The same eyes?
Where did you get married?
and on and on and on ad nauseum

I answered politely, slowly, to show that I wasn't thrilled he was asking and very suspicious and even at one point asked "what minions are you reporting all this back to?" But none of it was stuff I was trying to hide - it's all stuff you could easily find out about me.

Though I must admit my response to the leading questions getting me to agree with his assessment that Todd and I look very much alike (which we don't) are my favorite.

Me: "Why because all white people look the same to you??.............Maybe it's because we have similar asthetics - as in we like cardigans and glasses..."
Him: "Yah, I guess my wife and I dress similarly..."
Me: "Oh? Does she also dress like a douchebag?"

He, of course laughed, thinking we'd shared a fun moment. Then when others finally joined the meeting, Mike recounted the discussion about how my husband and I look alike and the female coworker I guess "defended" me by saying:
"No! I think they are a great match! They look good together....I mean, if he were the same size as Mike I'd say you weren't as good a match..."

Again with the reference to my size! I am so over people giving me assessments of my height, weight, body, etc!!!!

I have 9 days off work starting tomorrow and it is coming at the best time possible, I really need a break.

A brief recount of the work party:
It was actually fun, they are just not my people. One of my coworkers looks like an Asian version of the Godfather (no joke) and walked around the party with 80s dance music blasting from the phone he had in his pants so it sounded like his penis was singing Cindi Lauper songs. We ate, drank, played Bunco. A good time was had by all. I even won a prize.

Clenched

So today is our holiday off-site for the new department I'm in. Per standard operating procedures, I am dreading it. It is scheduled for 5 hours - from 11am to 4pm and is to be held at the assistant director's house. We are to eat and play Bunco. Both propose issues for me.

First, eating. As always, this department claims to eat a "MOSTLY vegetarian diet" but the sign-up sheet is chock-full of shrimp rolls, pork egg rolls, turkey, turkey broth, and, as always, a little bit of pork shoulder. My boss and I are both making stuffing. She told me hers was "MEAT FREE" so I, accustomed to having to teach people what is and is not an animal asked: "do you use vegetable broth?" and her reply was great: "Oh no, I use chicken broth, but other than that, there's no meat." Uh...chickens are animals which make meat which you have liquified. All lines still lead to meat.

Second, fun. I hate manufactured fun with your coworkers. Bunco is for old people and stepmoms. My old step mom plays it. So does the woman who I used to share a cubicle wall with who I am certain has Asperger's. Awkward middle-aged women LOVE Bunco. Myself, not so much.

So, as you are probably noticing, it's 10:57am. About ten minutes ago I noticed no one was leaving to get to this lady's house so I thought, silly me, 'let's ask her secretary!' I approached the secretary and this is what happened:

Me: Hey! How come no one is leaving?
Her: Uh, I thought 11am was too early. 11:30 is better.
Me: Oh.      Are you telling people that?
Her: Not really...this is the first time I've been involved.
Me: OK, so what time are we supposed to get there? 11:30?
Her: Ya, or 12
Me: O.....K

I just received an invitation to be there at noon. Prepare yourself for a long post of fail tomorrow, my friends.

She got a fat old ass

I've been told by a fat lady who was balding that next time I saw my hairstylist she needed to dye my eyebrows along with my hair so they didn't look so funny.

I've been told that my Halloween costume made me look exceedingly pale. As it turns out, I am pale. I was outside for a few hours on Sunday and got burnt...in November.

I've been told my giant feet don't look that big and people have guessed when I have news that I'm pregnant when I'm not.

I've been asked about zits I have and about clothing I haven't bothered to iron. I have really sensitive skin and people sometimes assume it's a hickey when I get a little red on my neck from something innocuous like a coat rubbing against it.

And I really don't care.

Well, it's not that it doesn't hurt my feelings because sometimes it does (the pregnant thing really got me) but it's that I still, after all that, choose not to put the time in to have perfect eyebrows or perfect hair or pristinely ironed clothes. And I can't really say why but I'm fairly certain it has nothing to do with me having low self esteem. It's not that I think I can't look great because I know when I spend hours on my hair and makeup and plan outfits and accessorize that I can look pretty great. But I also know that it will take hours to do that and it's just not how I want to spend my time.

But lately it's come to my attention that all my pants are tight again. It's come to my attention that all the weight I lost 2 years ago is back, lurking around my ass and thighs and I've gotten fat in place I've never gained weight before. It's time to get it back together. This is literally the worst time I could be deciding to do this because holidays at my work entail constant eating. I don't even like cake and pastries or chocolate.

So, this holiday season I'd like to say, keep your junk food and judgements while I work on the junk lingering in my trunk.

Send in the nothing, please

I hate giving my email address out to companies but somehow, at craft fairs, I get caught up in the glitter and rubber stamps and just give in. And it takes a lot for me to remove myself from your email list too. But after today, "I Break for Stamps" can kiss my ass.

First, I need to just remind everyone apparently that it is 2010. Clowns are no longer flocked and put on hallways walls, gleefully ushering people to the magenta bathroom in your brown-and-orange home. They are no longer invited to the party, OK?

It is now apparent to me that "I Brake For Stamps" is run by the oldest people on the planet. Things that are cool right now: owls, squirrels, cupcakes, CUTE THINGS. Not people in costumes that will eat you while you sleep. Anyone under 150 years old knows that clowns are scary and not welcome in the crafting world.

But, if you are criminally insane, please feel free to go to this link and purchase all the hideous stamps that will one day haunt your childrens' dreams.

Someone, please, check under Rick St. Dennis' bed for corpses.

Ghandi, is that you?

So, my grandpa sends me an email with this picture last night or the night before (can't remember, everything is rushing together) and just titles it "Busted!!!" with no explanation.

There are a lot of places my mind could have gone. 'Are you telling me that Ghandi is alive and fat and hanging out in diners, drive-ins and dives?' 'Are you asking for buttered toast?' 'Does your life not have as many stools as you were hoping for to put your left leg on?'

But I ended up sending this:
Papa,
I'm not sure what I'm looking at here? I can only guess this is the Eastern European version of you eating pie which is not creepy or irrelevant in any way.
Love you,
Jess

Thank God for my family. We have so much fun together. Be the change, Papa!

The Sap Continues

All right, I'm just on a kick. On a "Grateful, Thankful, Glad to Be Alive" sort of kick. 


A dear friend forwarded me a blog entry from a woman who runs a therapeutic art camp for women in rural Idaho. I will admit, the camp is a little bourgeois. It's a little cheesy. But the point is that we all have pain and we all have struggles. We forget it though when we see others who are happier, richer, better than us. Or at least when we THINK we see people who are happier etc. 


I've always been fascinated with psychology and psychological principles. I often think about the fundamental attribution error. It basically says, when I'm an asshole it's because I'm a good person having a bad day. But when you're an asshole, it's because you are, at your core, an asshole and not because you're having a bad day. 

I'm often saddened when I do share myself to people that they keep quiet and avoid sharing themselves but lately I've been coming across people who do tell me their truths and who do share themselves willingly and who get true friendship back. 

This blog post touched me and it made me think about the signs I might wear or that I've wanted to wear at different points in time. 

I'm worried about my grandma because she has (HAD!) breast cancer. 

I'm worried about my mom because my dad has an erratic job and sometimes paying the bills is tough. 

I wish I had a better relationship with my brother. 

I'm sad that my aunt can't get help for her addiction.

Think about your signs and stop being afraid to show them. 

Read the post here. 

Just keep laughing

Yesterday was a comedy of errors but through all of it, I just kept laughing.

While getting my coffee yesterday, Lori let me know that my front right tire looked low, nearly flat.

My first reaction: Great. Car shit. My favorite.

Before I knew it, another email had come in from Cherie letting me know that she too thought my tire looked funny.

My second reaction: Thank goodness for the wonderful people I work with! I wouldn't have known my tire issue until I had to leave for class and I had a presentation that accounted for 30% of my grade - yikes!

AAA came, handled that stupid tire, and only cost me $8 (which he annoyingly needed in exact change, which I had to borrow from a friend, but I digress).

At this point, I am gathering my thoughts and realize: the hem has fallen out of my pants. So, for lunch, off to Original Hems for a quick re-do and then off to the credit union to pay my credit card bill (it will be paid off by the end of the year!).

I just kept thinking, 'I am so lucky'. Lucky to have friends who look out for me, lucky to have my own car, lucky to have disposable income, lucky to have friends who let me borrow exact change, lucky to have AAA, lucky to know I have plans B-G if plan A fails, lucky to be in school, lucky to have pants! Just lucky!

The friend who I borrowed the $8 exact change from (OK, still bitter) told me that when she was coming to America from Denmark to marry the man of her dreams, her pants ripped at the seam in the, ahem, rear. Her father told her it was an indication of luck and I must agree with her, both she and him were lucky to have found one another, what a love story.

Todd tells me that Irish people consider it lucky when a bird poops on you. Without quoting Alanis Morisette, I definitely think misfortune is lucky. You can't really appreciate the good stuff if everything is good stuff.

For little old me???

An older story, but one worth repeating.

All packages are delivered to one of two buildings at my work location. When a package for you is received, the receptionist gleefully calls up to you. You then get to saunter like the Queen of England, going to pick up the custom fabrege egg that a diplomat from South Africa sent you, lean over the desk, tell them your name and reach your hand out, ready for wealth, lavish gifts, and any number of flora and fauna.

So, when I got "the call" a few weeks ago, I was ESTATIC! I was having a bad day and could have really used a little treat. Is it an edible arrangement? Is it a bouquet of flowers? Is it a check for the exact amount of debt that I carry?

It is important to note the actual conversation that occurred when I got "the call."

Me: Hello?
Receptionist: Hi! You have a package here!
Me: OH! Is it something good?
Receptionist: Yeah, it's something really good!
Me: I'll be right down!!!!

Then running ensued. I pushed the elevator button, heart full of glee and hope, and arrived at the first floor reception desk to find....

...An empty pizza box. I looked up, dejected, and the receptionist told me that zPizza hates empty pizza boxes and that, if taken to the right location, they will fill it with a zPizza creation of my choosing! Apparently, they liked my business so much they wanted to give me free pizza.

Now, I am a fat kid. Free pizza is like a kiddie pool full of cool water for a labrador. But I was expecting something really fabulous. After schooling the receptionist on what constitutes an exciting delivery and what constitutes an OK delivery, I took my empty pizza box back to my desk.

I had a nice little date with the husband a couple weeks later but I will never trust the receptionist who cried "something good" again.