A New Kind of Low

Last night I was walking home from my swim class and I spotted a guy walking a dog up ahead.

I got a little closer and was pleased to see that he seemed to be quite the hottie. Shoulder length brown hair, super tall and thin. Not that I am looking...but hey, eye candy is eye candy. And there ain't much of it where I live.

I took a better look and realized, this was a KID. He was probably no older than 16, out walking the family dog. And I was checking him out like a vulture circling a school of baby ducks.

I know I like 'em young, but EW.

Mal a Tete

I’ve had a raging headache for the last two days that I cannot seem to shake.
It is a headache the likes of which I have seen before, but I’d hoped I’d never have to see again.

It is the kind of pain that sucks all the life out of me. It’s the only thing that can zap me of any kind of appetite (and as we all know, that’s pretty damn hard!)

It is the type of pain that, if Adrien Grenier were to ask me for sex right now, I’d have absolutely no desire, and would most definitely say no.

THAT my friends, is PAIN!

Although I have been ill with some flu-ey thing since last Friday, and I’m pretty sure that this headache stems from the fact that my sinuses are clogged since I can’t take medicine or I’ll go into some sort of cardiac arrest, which would be quite distressing for myself and those around me, I imagine…of course, I have self-diagnosed myself with the world’s largest brain tumor. What else could possibly be contributing to this pounding in my skull?

No amount of Advil has helped. I’ve moved onto Aleve. Not helping.

Perhaps someone will come to my aid. Put me out of my misery. Shoot me like a lame horse. Give me a sedative.

This headache is becoming a real pain in the ass.

Tissue? I Hardly Even Know You!

Sleepy early Sunday morning sex.

Sitting on top of the boy, things are moving along just swimmingly. Everything feels just right, I’m getting into my groove.

“Achooooo!” I feel a spray of snot on my right tit.

“Um. Bless you?” I think this is the appropriate reponse to a mid-coital sneeze.

Except, then he reached for the tissues.

I stopped moving and just stared at him, not really sure what to do next. “Don’t stop, don’t stop” he begged, as he blew a fresh wad of snot into a Kleenex.

I continued to fuck the shit out of him as the Kleenex was tossed aside.

I guess there’s such a thing as being a little too comfortable. :)

Life's Little Paradoxes

The other day I was on the elevator going to work, and it stopped on the second floor.

A dour faced woman got on, gave everyone a look of pure disgust, and turned to face the front.

I noticed that she was wearing a very vibrant sweater with colorful little parrots all over it. The parrots were feathery and eye-catching, and really quite cheerful.

One would think that, with an ensemble that reeked of cheer, the person wearing such a thing would be just a tad more pleasant.

Or maybe she wears happy parrots on her clothes to deflect away from the fact that she's a miserable bitch. Who really knows for sure.

Another Reason Why They Pay Me The Big Bucks

One of my clients insists on using a funky form for inputting estimates, the likes of which I have never encountered before.

Truth be told, back in October, I was sent to a seminar specifically to teach me how to process said form, but of course, I daydreamed throughout the entire thing, thinking about how excited I was to be a block away from the West Village Jacques Torres store, and man I was gonna go pick me up some truffles like there was no tomorrow, and Jesus when is this seminar gonna be over anyway?

As you can imagine, I didn’t learn much in the seminar.

Here we are, four months later, and I’m finally sitting down to type up some estimates for a project. How hard can this be?

I’ll tell you how hard. So hard that I spent ALL DAY yesterday (with an hour’s break to go to the rapist) fiddling around with the system, doing online tutorials. When I finally thought I’d figured it all out, the motherfucker would log off automatically, and I would lose everything. When I finally figured out how to save everything, there would be some weird category that I wouldn’t know the answer to, and I would have to wait 5 hours for someone to get back to me with the proper info to input.

Mind you, in order to have access to this system, you have to have someone in INDIA assign you a username and password. Which in and of itself, took two weeks.

The emails went a bit like this:

Me: I need to gain access to the ________ system. Please add me as a user.

India: (3 days later) You’ve been added to the system. Please stand by for the email with your password.

Me: I did not receive my password.

India: (3 days later) Did you get our email with your password yet? You should have received that.

Me: No. Please resend.

India: Did you?

Me: Motherfucking shitass whorebags no I did not get the fucking email with my fucking password yet, can you please connect me with a real person who can actually help me with this because it’s now been 2 fucking weeks and still no password, and I am basically sitting around with my thumb up my ass until I can gain access to your retarded system that makes sense to no one but YOU. You assholes!


Needless to say, that didn’t exactly get me my password.

Just a word of advice to anyone who is in the process of setting up a system that is supposed to “better” the workload or make things more “efficient”. It ain’t gonna happen. Just know that your employees are going to expend more energy trying to figure out the process. More energy going to the bathroom to scream and tear their hair out. More energy complaining about it. Believe me, I know. I’m on day 2 of inputting the same stupid estimate…something that should have taken half an hour.

I’m pretty sure that, had I paid attention at the stupid seminar…I’d still be in the same boat. So don’t get all high and mighty on my ass, dear readers. ;)

"Reeking" havoc

Although I work in a creative capacity, sometimes I have to attend these important-ish meetings. Meetings where people wear ties and panty hose.
Meetings where people use phrases like "penny wise and pound foolish" and where clients spew things like, "her photography makes me think deep, gloomy death thoughts."

Thankfully, I can coast through most of these meetings never having to say a word, just making a peep here and there, giving the impression that I am a team player and I know what the hell I'm doing. I mean, that's why they pay me the big bucks, right?

This morning, I was in a meeting that was a carryover from the night before. We spent two and a half hours discussing the tone of a certain print campaign, and could not agree on who we wanted to shoot it. We slept on it, reconvened this morning, and after two more hours of discussing WHY we didn't want "deep gloomy death thoughts" to ruin everyone's day...finally agreed on a photographer.

As I zoned out for the millionth time, a pungent aroma tickled my nostrils. Actually, I think it pummeled my nostrils...it was really strong, and reeked of bottled up fart.

It was my duty to figure out who cut this rather large piece of cheese, for lack of better things to do. I looked around the room and surveyed the area. There was my beautiful Aussie art director, who would never do such a thing. There was the quite puny suit guy, who couldn't make such a big smell if he tried. Then there was the young guy, fresh out of college, frat rat. It HAD to be him. He probably rips farts like it's his job, right?

Satisfied with my conclusion, I turned to the girl sitting next to me. Very skinny, stylish girl, eating a hard boiled egg. Eating a hard boiled egg that smelled really nasty. Like...you guessed it...a fart.

I apologize to the frat rat college guy for thinking that he dropped an F-bomb in our meeting. I hope he can forgive me.

Drunk in the Office

After spending the entire day chained to my desk working on one thing or another (I swear, I was even too busy to surf the net, read my blog list, etc), I attended a portfolio review where there was free wine and cupcakes.

The free wine was located about 30 feet from my desk. How convenient.

Being that I have really stuck to my detox January, and am on a once a week drinking regimen, a couple of glasses of wine at 4 in the afternoon is really, really, really a bad idea.

I just went from being the quiet girl in the corner, to being that loud, obnoxious asshole who won't shut up.

I'm perky. I'm chatty. I'm making small talk. Small Talk!

I think I just propositioned the cleaning lady. Oh lord. Time to go home.

Just Your Typical After Dinner Girl Talk

After dinner last night, my engaged friend told me that her fiance thinks of me like a younger sister.

"He really loves you," she said. "He thinks your adorable."

"How sweet," I gushed. "That's such a nice thing to say."

"Yea," she replied. "He also really wants to fuck you and thinks you have great tits."

"huhhhhhh..." I choked.

"It's kind of funny to think that he wants to fuck someone that he thinks of as a sister, huh."

"hehhhhh" I sputtered.

The best part of all...THIS she couldn't care less about, but the poor guy forgot to start looking for a wedding photographer, and he got reamed for an hour and a half.

Girls are silly. :)

I HEART Nap Time

I've never been fond of napping.

I'm one of those people who always felt the need to be moving and grooving at any given moment. I'd wake up on a Saturday and be busy from morning til night, who the fuck knows what I would busy myself with but dammit, I was going to be doing SOMETHING. Anything.

Lately, I've definitely become more relaxed. I have found that I seem to enjoy a little catnap here and there.

In addition to the post-coital bliss nap (I've always been fond of THOSE, duh), I've been sneaking in some mid-morning naps, some during football naps, and some after dinner naps. 20 minutes, and I'm good to go.

All these naps have made me feel like quite the slacker, and also, old.

But this morning on NY 1, they just announced that apparently, naps ward off heart disease. A study amongst a group of Greek men showed that a mid-afternoon nap can help cut risk of heart problems by 37%.

So all these naps must be working WONDERS on my body. Hell, maybe I'll even stop working out, and just replace my gym time with naps.

I'm so good to myself!

Black Holes and Revelations

I sit in an open space that I share with three other people, which in and of itself can sometimes be a little grating on one’s nerves. I really like my coworkers, thankfully, but every so often I need a little private time because I’m sort of a freak like that…I’m not so good with people being in my personal space—which unfortunately,when sitting out in the open, sort of comes with the territory.

In our open space, we have a basket of candy that stays full at all times. We are known for fuelling our entire ad agency with mini-snickers at all hours of day and night—sometimes we walk in the next morning and know that a late night was had because the basket will be in dire need of refilling.

There are two things that I did not know about myself until I started sitting in this open space.

The first: I absolutely abhor most people. Abhor them.

Why, you ask?

People come in, looking for candy. That’s fine—come in, take the candy, and fuck off. Why, oh why the need for the fucking small talk? There’s a few types of small talkers that we encounter.

#1: The under-the-breath talker: This person comes into our space, and insists on muttering under their breath what they hope to find in the basket. While rummaging around, they feel the need to whisper to no one in particular what it is that they feel like eating or not eating. Shut the hell up. Nobody cares.

#2: The bellower: The more arrogant of the candy eaters. They walk in, shout out loud that they are taking some candy (again, who gives a shit. That’s what it’s there for. Eat. Eat.) and sometimes even exclaim that the selection isn’t so great on any given day. On one occasion when I just wasn’t in the mood, a particular bellower announced that what we had to offer kinda sucked. I yelled back, “Maybe you’d like to bring in your own candy next time.” He didn’t come back after that. Mothafucka.

#3: The I-Swear-I-Didn’t-Just-Come-In-For-Candy phony: This person drives me nuts, because they come in and start making inane conversation for a few minutes before sidling up to the candy basket. No matter how busy we look, or how uninterested we are, the chatter continues for a good, solid 3 minutes. Dude, the candy’s free. Just take it. You don’t need to pay for it with your charm and wit (insert sarcasm here).

The other thing that I didn’t know about myself is that the sound of crackling paper makes my skin crawl. You wanna see the Cheese’s head spin? Crackle some candy wrappers near me. Just try it. Even better, crackle some candy wrappers while muttering names of chocolate under your breath. Watch the men in white coats drag me away, a permanent scream emoting from the bowels of my soul.

Just a word of warning.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning, I wondered what it would be like to be an alien from outer space, coming to visit Earth for the first time, and happening upon a living room in Brooklyn.

In this particular living room, the alien would see two people, a male and a female, writhing around on the floor playing a small, mutant instrument in front of a tv screen, a weird film covering their faces and shouting incoherently.

Would the alien call to his cohorts and demand that they view this strange sight, wondering what sort of weird practice these humans were involved in ?

Or would the alien chuckle and say, “Oh, there’s Cheese and Beehive, wearing mud masks while playing a very competitive game of Guitar Hero.”

Avert Your Eyes, Ashton

So I had this crazy dream last night that I was living in Ashton Kutcher’s house.
It seems that I was renting the house from him, and the bastard left all of his shit in it.

I kept tripping on his shoes, his clothes, his piles of old magazines. According to my freaked out mind, the dude is a definite hoarder. He had shit EVERYWHERE.

In the dream, I really wanted to pet my bunny, so to speak, and kept shutting the door to the bedroom in order to do so. But somehow, there were people hiding out behind the curtains, in the closet. Every single time I would settle down and assume the position, someone would pop out of a hidden closet and bust me.

Tres frustrating.

I’d like to say that there’s some deep, dark meaning to it all. However, all I knew for sure was, upon awakening, I was really horny.

A Drawer for my Drawers

As a grown woman in my late 30’s, I find the idea of me carrying around my panties in my purse after a weekend of sleeping in a bed other than my own to be quite amusing. Many times this was done due to the fact that, in the beginning days of dating Beehive, I did not want to appear presumptuous by carrying a bag with a change of clothes in it, for fear of freaking him out.

While the days of freaking him out are long gone, I have never longed or felt a need for a “drawer”. You know the drawer I speak of…the highly coveted space in a man's apartment that gets cleared out for your girly things…so you don’t have to carry your panties in a purse anymore.

Nah. I was never one for the drawer. I like to keep my things all in one place. I hate having my stuff scattered throughout two abodes, and much prefer to know where everything is. Carrying a change of clothes in a bag is not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things…

Until I was presented with my very own drawer.

I had been leaving a spare set of gym clothes at the boyfriend’s place, when I discovered that they opened a branch of my club in his neighborhood.

One day, he showed me where he was keeping this spare set of workout gear…the middle drawer of his dresser, which prior to housing my spandex, had been strangely empty.

And voila. I get a drawer by default.

Since acquiring this drawer, I have managed to fill it little by little, mostly with lounging outfits. I find that everytime I head over to Beehive's, I cart along a couple of tank tops…some pj pants…some shorts and maybe a few bras and underwear. For someone who never needed a drawer, I have certainly found a way to fill it to capacity!

In addition, the amount of loungewear that I apparently need when staying at Beehive’s place is quite appalling. One would think that all I do is laze around and eat bon bons all day (not far from the truth, I suppose).

I counted 5 wardrobe changes yesterday. FIVE. We never even left the house!

A dangerous thing, the drawer. Next thing you know I’ll be asking for KEYS. The gall!

Chit Chat and Bras

Those of you who know me are aware of my distaste for small talk and idle chit chat. To me, sitting in silence is way less awkward than having the elevator conversation that goes like this:

“My. It’s cold outside.”

“Yes. I heard it was 8 degrees this morning.”

“Wow. That’s crazy.”

This also goes for awkward conversation on line at stores, in the gyno waiting room, and especially in the locker room at the gym.

I have recently taken up swimming in preparation for my upcoming
triathlon and most weekends you will find me at the pool, in my oh-so-sexy Speedo and penis-head swim cap, struggling to get a true 30 minutes worth of freestyle in.

As I was changing in the locker room, and doing my best to awkwardly cover myself up with the towel that is the size of a small washcloth, and not expose my girly bits to all in the near vicinity (yes, I am an exhibitionist, except for when I am in the lady’s locker room. For some reason, being in such close quarters with all those women makes me highly uncomfortable), I was approached by a stocky Asian woman.

“Where did you get that bra?” she demanded.

I looked down. I happened to be wearing a purple Body by Gap bra, purchased circa 2001. I don’t even know how it ended up on my body, I haven’t worn it in years.

Which I started to tell the stocky Asian woman. Hoping that would satisfy her and send her on her way. Instead, she started to ask more questions.

“Do they still make them? What colors do they come in? How much did it cost?”

Ok, does it say “Gap Sales Representative” on my forehead?

While trying to remind this woman that I really know nothing in the ways of Body by Gap lingerie, I look up to see another, well-endowed woman about to speak. She asks, “Do they come in larger sizes?”

I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!!! JESUS CAN WE ALL JUST GET A GRIP AND MOVE ON FROM THE FUCKING BRA ALREADY?

But no…instead, I had to hear how this woman just CANNOT find a bra in her size, because you know, she is a 40 DD (and not in a good way. I promise you.), and she will walk into Victorias Secret and they just don’t have what she wants, ever, and would you believe that she has to go pick up her son from daycare now, and then go to work?

Oh God. It’s my worst nightmare. Small talk gone haywire.

I nodded. I smiled. I tried not to make eye contact but acted interested enough, in case she decided to go postal. I threw on my clothes and busied myself at the mirror.

And wouldn’t you know, she abruptly stopped talking. Put on her coat. And walked out of the locker room without so much as a “have a nice day.”

I mean, I’m going to listen to your bullshit for 20 minutes, you can’t even throw me a “have a nice day?”

To be sure, that is the last time I wear that purple bra in public. Who knew it would be such a conversation piece?

She Sells Sanctuary

So while at the gym during lunch, I got a brilliant idea.

“Self”, I said, “you’ve been doing so well with this no drinking thing and skimping on food thing. Maybe you should weigh yourself again.”

So I put my Self on the scale in the locker room, mind you a completely different scale from the one I weighed myself on a few days ago, and imagine my surprise when I weighed 7 pounds more than I did the other night.

Of course, rule number one is, always weigh yourself on the same scale. And rule number two is, never weigh yourself more than once a week. And rule number three is, don’t go by the numbers on the scale.

And rule # 4 is don’t let the Cheese get on a scale to begin with. Ever. Because it can make or break her mood in a span of seconds.

Ok. So what if I never lost those five pounds to begin with? I can’t really mourn something that I never had, right?

Instead of wallowing in a cesspool of self-pity, I am going to wax nostalgic about the song “She Sells Sanctuary” by the Cult.

It popped up on random on my Ipod while I was running—what is it about that song that makes me want to either dance til I drop or fuck someone senseless while listening to it on repeat?

It’s one of those songs that, when you hear it, you automatically think you look so much cooler walking down the street, and your hips sway just a little bit more, and your hair swings like the Breck girl, and life in general feels way happier.

See? Better already.

Reason #456,578 Why People Are Idiots

You wanna know what my favorite thing is EVER?

Take notes kids. This is a new one.

My favorite thing EVER is when a “friend” from the past, who has pretty much written me off for the mere fact that she was friends with my ex first, and of course, because we are all in kindergarten we must take sides in life (didn’t you know that?) goes and sends me an email out of the blue, asking me to attend her PLAY.

I’m not good enough to associate with anymore, but you want my money for your silly little play? But of course. Anything for you, FRIEND.

Er, I mean,

FUCK OFF.

SWF Seeks Same?

After my hormone-filled, shitty-ass day yesterday, I took myself to the gym.

I should seriously work out 3 times a day. It’s better than Prozac!

90 minutes later, wearing a runner’s high, I weighed myself, and damn if I haven’t lost FIVE pounds since Christmas!

This no drinking thing has definitely paid off!

Of course, I could have probably crapped five pounds out since breakfast, but never you mind, it’s five pounds that, in my head, is making a HUGE difference in my appearance right now.

So wouldn’t you know it, I got on the 4 train to go home—my aura glowing like the sun due to all the exercise and newfound skinnyness—and a cute girl smiled at me.

Now I’m no licker, although I have expressed my curiosity now and again…but I’m pretty sure she was smiling at me in a very inappropriate sort of way. I looked up from my cheesy romance novel and her eyes locked on mine.

I can’t remember the last time I blushed that heavily, but I could feel the redness creeping over my face, and after quickly smiling back I looked away, afraid to sneak another peek.

I can handle it when men catcall me on the street, leer at me, make lewd remarks, I can even hold my own when someone rubs up against me on the subway. But throw a cute girl my way and I’m a total retard.