My butt hurts and other things

Wow. I suck. I mean really bad.

2007-03-12T17:53:00.000-07:00

So what if you were nice enough to let someone stay in your home for one month? What if you cooked for them and tried to make them feel at home as much as possible? What if they took your hospitality and decided to write exaggerated things about you on the Internet? What kind of person does that make you?

Or actually, I should be asking what kind of person does that make me? A pretty shitty one, I think.

Yes, I did all of the above. Someone was nice enough to let me into their home only to have me turn around and completely misuse their generosity and kindness.

I was going through an extraordinarily rough patch in my marriage and I completely focused all of my anger, confusion and lack of self confidence on a totally innocent person. All the things I say will never make anything ok.

I am not a good person.

I'm thinking this will pretty much be my last blog entry as I would never want to inflict any sort of hurt on anybody else. What I thought was going to be a fun way to make fun of myself turned into something completely different.

The only thing I can say is that I am sorry and that is completely worthless now.

I am truely sorry for saying everything. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met. Your continual loyalty and perserverance through a seemingly never ending nightmare is something to be revered, not made fun of.

You are an amazing parent with an absolutely beautiful child and I can only hope that one day I will have one half of your patience and kindness.

Thank you for being an inspiration. I have always looked at you and known that I could not complain because of the sacrifices you make on a daily basis.

I don't know if we will be friends again, but I hope so. You were so good to me and I've thought of you often since moving.

You know the part of the skin after a baby get circumsized that gets thrown in the trash? I feel like that piece of skin. Actually, I'm waaaay lower than that.

Good bye.

No More Drinkie for Marfie

2006-08-02T09:08:00.000-07:00

I'm so retarded.

So, my friend Heather came to visit a couple of weeks ago and the last couple of nights she was in town I got shit faced. I know...huge surprise, right? In particular though, the last night she was in town I was a complete drunk truck. When I awoke on Sunday morning, still groggy and dry mouthed, I rolled over to Donny and said, "I think we should stop drinking until Russo's (his good friend's) wedding." Well, the f-ing wedding is at the end of August.

WHAT DID I DO!?!

This was just the crack in the door, the chink in the armor Donny has been looking for for years! He didn't waste any time saying, "What a great idea."

I have been completely sober for 1.5 weeks. I seriously can't remember the last time I went without one drop of alcohol for this long (sad, but true). I'm always making jokes like, "let's just get wasted" or "I want to drink so much I puke and pass out" as a way to test Donny's conviction to this pact that we made. Maybe it's my less than subtle approach, but he's definitely not budging.

Do you know how hard it is to not have a beer during a hot summer day on the beach? It's like eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no jelly...your mouth gets all dry and thirsty. Or going to happy hour and not ordering a glass of wine (why in the hell would someone go to happy hour otherwise)? Why bother going out at all? My husband says, "just because you're not drinking, Martha, doesn't mean that we can't go out." What f-ing planet is he from? Of course it does!

The worst thing is that we made a "ring swear." It's basically like a pinky swear, but with our left ring fingers (you know, the one the wedding bands are on?). This is serious business too. I mean pinky swearing is important stuff, but ring swearing is like life or death to the old D-man. I can't go back on it.

I do have to admit though that it is pretty f-ing nice not to wake up with a heartbeat in my head...or being completely immobile for an entire weekend (Donny always wants to go be "active" and shit)...or feeling like crap because I ate an entire bag of Cheetos...or slowly remembering fragments of my actions of the previous night...or not remembering anything at all and having my husband relive his embarrassment (hee-hee).

Maybe this not drinking thing is the way to start living my life.

Who am I kidding? How in the hell am I supposed to deal with awkward social situations, a hard work week, a Saturday afternoon or anything other situation I deem drinking worthy? I'll tell you this much, I'm certainly not going to address the circumstances in a mature and responsible fashion.

Actually, shouldn't we be training for the wedding in all reality? Getting together with college buddies is a hazard in itself, but not being in tip top drinking shape is just plain dangerous. Maybe I'll start using that angle...

I Hate Interviews

2006-07-17T11:48:00.000-07:00

Seriously, sitting in an interview as a potential candidate for a position is like sitting on the toilet while your bowels decide whether or not to release the mountain of crap inside of you, it's just plain painful.

I think the interviewer knows within the first ten minutes if they think you're suitable for the position. It's like dating, you know right away whether or not you want a second date. Unlike dating however, being in an interview requires extensive ass kissing. Between the obscene amount of smiling, laughing and generally attempting to look interested and genuine, I'm exhausted! Plus, do you know how hard it is for me to act proper for longer than 10 minutes? When I get to my car I usually call my husband and start spouting disgusting, rude and tactless comments. It gives a whole other meaning to the word turrets.

I never listen to anything people say if I'm not interested, especially at work. I just do the whole nod my head and make eye contact, but I'm either wondering what would happen if punched them in the face or what they would do if I took my shoe off and started licking it. Does this mean I'm destined to be like Michael Douglas in the movie, "Falling Down?"

I once went to an interview with a CEO of a bank that lasted 1.5 hours and the A-hole interviewing me didn't let me get a word in edgewise. He was too busy talking about himself including how effective his management style was, how he rose through the ranks to make a bazillion dollars and how big his dick is (I'm sure he thinks Ron Jeremy has nothing on him). At the end of the interview he gave me this book and I actually thought it was a nice gesture, until I got home that evening. Take a random guess about who wrote the forward...you're right, the A-hole! He was obviously just trying to spread his literary genius. Dick head.

Then there's the questions. The f-ing questions.

1. Where do you see yourself in 5 or 10 years?
Rolling around in a pile of money while watching you kiss my ass.

2. What were the five most significant accomplishments in your last position?
There's only one, not getting fired.

3. What do you look for in a job?
To work in an environment that allows me to write my blog during the workday, not be expected to follow through on assignments given and the ability to verbally berate customers who are not behaving in a fashion I deem worthy. Oh, I want to get paid a shit load too.

4. Can you explain your salary history?
Yeah, it's pretty lousy.

5. Do you have any questions for me?
Are you done wasting my time?

It's inevitable that I will have to wade neck deep in this crap if we ever want to hightail out of So-Cal. Thinking about it makes me want to kill someone.

Our House F-ing Sucks

2006-07-13T10:16:00.000-07:00

So our house has been on the market for about 300 years now and there's no buyer in sight. I would eventually like to leave this silicone boob infested cest pool known as San Diego and move back to a simpler lifestyle.

I'm over spending my life on an interstate moving 5 miles per hour or at a dead stop with my palms sweating and my anxiety level at an all time high because I'm going to be late (when a reasonable person would deduce that leaving one hour in advance would be plenty of time). Back and forth, to and from work I spend anywhere from 45 minutes to 1 and a half hours driving 18 miles.

I'm over spending $16 for a pitcher of Miller Lite and no, this is not a joke. I would never joke about the golden piss. The other night, Donny, myself and my friend Heather went to happy hour. Well, there was absolutely nothing happy about it. Heather and I ordered the $3 happy hour house wine. "That's actually not bad" was the exact thought that went through my head, that is until I saw the size of the wine glass (shot glass would have been a more accurate description). One gulp and I was heading out the door to the liquor store.

I'm over spending an arm and a leg a month for our mortgage payment. By the way, our house is 1,000 square feet. And now that I think about it, it's not even a house, but a condo and technically, we don't actually own the land. So basically, we own the air inbetween the walls. Hmmm, I'm spending a shit load for air?

I know that if we ever actually got offered good jobs in Montana, I would probably shit my pants, but I miss the little things that made life easier. I know this is an atypical post for me, but I'm hungover and feeling a little sentimental.

Two Pounds Down, Ten To Go

2006-07-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

Arg! I've gained 10 pounds (okay fine, 12 pounds) and I can't seem to lose any of it! I've basically had to purchase a whole new wardrobe (gasp!) because I literally can't fit into my work attire. Alright, maybe I can squeeze into a pair of pants, but I can't exhale, bend over or walk. Then there's this issue of my work out shorts...my thighs literally eat them. If I don't constantly tug on the nylon out of the cottage cheese, it ends up looking like my crotch actually eats shorts. I also get scared that if I don't constantly pick my ass, I will lose my workout clothes to a black hole. Who know's where they'll end up?

Oh yes, there's more.

I gain weight particularily in the thigh and ass sections (couldn't have guessed that one, right?) and I swear to God that's where each pound I gain goes to. I would be the most awkward looking obese person ever. The majority of my upper body would be relatively slender and from my calves to my ankles wouldn't be into too bad of shape either. I just wouldn't want anyone looking at my midsection. You've all seen a gross lady with a HUGE fat ass. You know it's actually as big as it looks because you can see the green cotton shorts stretching to barely cover the fatness (not that I've ever noticed such a thing).

So I've been hitting the gym like a complete psycho. For those of you who are familiar with me personally know that the word "psycho" is definitely fitting for my work out ethic (let alone my entire personality). Lifting weights, running, doing seemingly endless stints on the stairmaster and the eliptical machines and not to mention killing my abs has rendered a weight loss of frickin' two pounds!

Why does my weight fluctuate like twenty pounds in one day (you know what I mean)?!? Seriously, one day I was feeling pretty good and then the next day I felt like I was right back to square one! Alright, I know there's no mystery when I eat like an absolute pig and drink like a f-ing camel, but it's still a little frustrating.

The truth is I'm getting older and my metabolism is slowing down, but that still doesn't mean this bull shit doesn't f-ing suck ass!

I seriously think my body is changing. Or maybe that's just my excuse until I can fit into my pants without hearing the seam rip, but what if that day never comes? I can't bear the thought.

Then I somewhat take solice in the fact that I was unable to run for a couple of months because I aggravated a nerve somewhere in my ass and as a result, I got kind of depressed and started drinking and eating a little more than ususal. Fine, I ate and drank like I was being transfered to a concentration camp each and every day. I just remind myself that I didn't grow out of my pants overnight and I won't be able to fit in them in that amount of time either.

Happy 4th of July (almost)!

2006-06-29T08:24:00.001-07:00

Ahhh... Independence Day is right around the corner. This is a day to give thanks to our forefathers for the trials and tribulations they encountered in order to for people to have the precious freedoms that are so often taken for granted.

Let's get serious people.

The only things I will be doing on the Fourth are keg stands, shots and puking and rallying. I love how Americans unite on the anniversaries of this country's history to eat a shit load of food, drink cases of crappy beer and show up to work the next day hungover complete with bloodshot eyes and trips to the bathroom (because at this point in time, it's probably coming out both ends).

There is apart of me, however, that actually feels the pains of guilt at holidays such as Memorial Day, Veterans Day, Labor Day, independence Day, etc., for not truly appreciating the sacrifices that so many Americans made in the hopes that future generations would be able to enjoy a better standard of living.

Then I drink...and drink some more...puke...and drink more. Amazingly, the above thoughts and "pains of guilt" disappear and are replaced with the following:

1. Shotguning Miller Lites.

2. Jumping in the community pool fully clothed.

3. Proceed to call everyone "pussies" for not joining in on #2.

4. Eating anything that anyone dares me to. This includes floral arrangements, day old suckers on the pavement and generally anything out of a trash can.

5. Shotguning more Miller Lites (this is where the puke and rally technique comes into play).

6. Talking to the neighbors (doesn't sound too bad, but wait):

Neighbor A - The alcoholic, drug abusing dude and his retired stripper girlfriend. Folks, she's worked at the same adult book store/strip joint for 30 plus years and I'm not joking. The dude is a deep-thinker-drinker, you know the one that corners people talking about politics, the administration and world hunger (c'mon you idiot, it's the f-ing Fourth of July!).

Neighbor B - This house is a three bedroom, two bath residence currently occupied by three adults and four kids. This is Santucky (Santee) at it's finest. The "adults" chain smoke, drink more than I do, intermittently scream obscenities at the children and as the day gets older, they get louder. Oh, they apparently feed my dog cigarette butts and beer because that's what his breath smells like after they play with him.

Neighbor C - Grandma and Grandpa Alchoholic. I have never seen any either of these people sober. They have the pleasure of living right next to Neighbor B. Grandma told one of the adults that she was going to kill him with her husband's rifle. She also accused Grandpa of poisoning fruit that he bought her. She wears so much makeup that when she's done walking her dog, her face looks like a melted wax sculpture.

So all I have to do is pick a house, any house to hang out at.

Disclaimer: We actually have one set of normal neighbors. Homeboy's in the military (flying helicopters that drop the soldiers on the ground) and Homegirl's a stay at home mom with their infant girl.

On second thought, maybe this year Donny and I will venture out of our town (the place where each KKK spawn was dropped off at) and head to a more civilized area, but I'm still bringing my Miller Lite damn it.

Here's Martha (yes I know that's a particularly "hot" name)

2006-02-22T20:00:00.000-08:00

Oh...my...gawd (for those of you religious folks). I know I've been "absent" from the world of blogging; however I have a good excuse; grad school. Thank goodness that's over with.

Yes, I am especially ashamed to admit it, but I indeed dropped out of school (but I feel like I should be a latina or pregnant to give me a legit excuse). Okay, I just made myself laugh outloud, but I'm pretty sure that's because I'm drunk. Seriously, does anyone know how hard it is to type when you're drunk? These two paragraphs have taken me three hours! So, that might be a bit exaggerative, but I've also been smoking weed!!!

I just made myself laugh outloud...again, damn I am retarded. Don't worry dad, I don't smoke week on a regular basis or tonight for that matter. I'm drunk on a Wednesday night, but I'm unclear about whether smoking weed on a regular basis or being drunk during the work-week is worse.

Before I start a stand-up routine, I must go to bed. I am tired, but still kickin'.

Nothing else is new...just working (at my job that I could take 2 hour naps at a time), being married (yea, some of you know how that goes), and showing up hungover at work. Umm, is that bad?

Crappin' is Good Shit

2005-12-06T07:45:00.000-08:00

I really can't concentrate this morning. Has anyone ever taken such a large crap that you loose all sense of where you are? When the only sensation you feel is that of the vacant area the size of a small country that was just cleared from your bowels?

Just wondering.

I love shitting. This sounds extremely disgusting, but it's true. There's nothing in the world that compares to taking a great crap or popping a big ol' white head. It's the small things in life that make a difference.

But I have a question, why do your pants seem to fit better after taking a shit?

For instance, this morning I noticed I was looking a tad bit bloated and my pants looked like spandex around my ass and gut area (I know...totally hot right?). I felt like I needed some quality time on the porcelain throne, but there's no spare time to waste getting ready in the morning. I'm like a tornado running around trying to get my shit (hee-hee) together so I can ram out the door and drive like a maniac to work.

Anyway, the drive is especially annoying today because my f-ing pants were too f-tight! I was just hoping beyond hope that I would be able to relax enough at work to let the beast inside of me out.

I can't shit on command. I have only two ways in which I take a crap. The first one involves explosive diarrhea. Trying to find a place to crap your pants on the boardwalk of Pacific Beach is nearly impossible. Having to find the nearest public bathroom after you have crapped by someone's dumpster and not being able locate a suitable substitute for toilet paper to wipe with is just plain painful.

The other method of crapping is when my yin and yang are in complete harmony and I allow myself to relax enough to set the turds free. If I'm any bit uncomfortable, nervous or out of my element (pooping in a public restroom, at a person's house that I hardly know, etc.) I can kiss my chances of squirting out any Hershy's kisses goodbye. Even though I know I got some shittin' to do, there's no convincing my ass of this fact.

This morning's crap was really beautiful. I got into the office early and had the opportunity to sit at my desk while my shit fermented. When it was does baking, the oven timer went off and I scrambled to the bathroom to take a GIGANTIC crap. Ahhhhh, thinking back to it makes me smile.

When I rose to button my pants, it felt as though I had pooped out enough to lose a couple of dress sizes. That's when you know that your shit is da bomb.

Will Somebody Please Shoot Me?

2005-12-01T07:21:00.000-08:00

Well, maybe not with a bullet, but a good dose of muscle relaxant wouldn't hurt.

These are the reasons why work absolutely sucks my ass:

1. There is not enough work to do to consistently fill in an 8 hour day. I would much rather come in early, work my ass off and leave when I'm finished. I usually don't find much pleasure in staring at the clock like some sort of prison inmate checking off the days (in my case hours) until I'm free...and the shitty thing is my sentence resets the next morning.

2. Poopy people. There are many types of personalities, but the majority of females tend to sway to the talk-behind-someone's-back tactic when they feel they have encountered a professional or personal slight. This tactic is especially prevalent in the work environment. I have to admit that I resort to this kind of behavior on certain occasions, but I don't like the feeling of having to step on glass around certain FEMALES. And this immature form of back stabbing is only characteristic of the female gender. Can we just duke it out and forget about like the men? No wonder we were the ones who got pussies.

3. I don't really like what I do. It's not that I've become the Master Banker, but the profession just doesn't ring my bell. I don't want to a) be behind a computer for the rest of my adult life, b) always be worried about my next sale or making quarterly numbers or c) deal with the aforementioned species of FEMALES.

4. Same old shit, different day. Seriously, I should train a monkey to sit in my chair.

5. Nepotism (not going to embellish at all on this one).

6. Professional protocol. This includes kissing ass, doing hair and makeup on a regular basis, dressing in disgusting clothes, and not using obscene language in front of customers. Blah, blah, blah...

Kissing Ass - Does this shit every f-ing stop? I genuinely like most people, however I do not feel the need to consistently have my lips attached to someone's bunghole.
Hair and Makeup - Due to the fact that I do my hair and apply makeup every morning at the butt crack of dawn, I have absolutely zero desire to even think about the dreaded blow dryer and whale lard in my makeup bag on the weekend (when I actually want to look good).
Disgusting Clothes - I basically have to dress like an 80 year old lady (you should see the outfit I'm sporting today- definitely repulsive) because if I decide to wear something trendy, I'm the office slut, which is of course, according to the majority of the FEMALES at work.
Obscene Language - This is actually a subset of "kissing ass." Sometimes, I just want to scratch my privates and scream, "It burns and itches!" in the lobby of our bank. But that's just me.

My husband always lectures me on the topic of work by saying, "Martha, that's why it's called 'work' and not 'fun.' I reply by saying, "Yea, well you suck!" My maturity knows no bounds.

But, alas work is not all bad. I actually enjoy my coworkers (for the most part), I am not confined to "cubicle land," and I can use explicit language out of the customers' earshot. Oh yeah, the biggest reason that I can tolerate work is the money. Not that I make an extraneous amount, but mommy likes gettin' paid!

Thirty more days until I start school...I can hardly wait (it will be interesting to see if my disposition changes in the months to come).

Holy Shit!! Where the Hell Have I Been?!?

2005-11-30T15:31:00.000-08:00

Billings, Montana is where Donny and I spent Thanksgiving to visit the in-laws and they don't drink so I don't have any embarassing drunk stories to report. Actually, I thinks that's kind of good considering how I was getting shit faced every other night...although that was pretty fun too.

Anyway, turkey day at the in-laws. Both Ma and Pa have lost a combined 80 pounds! Holy f-ing shit. They look awesome. If you haven't been able to deduct from my previous posts, I have issues with food and going to Montana basically sends me into a tailspin. I normally try to lose weight before I go there, which means I actually gain weight because I'm retarded. A typical meal at the in-laws consists of lots of butter, lard and red meat with side helpings of mashed potatoes and bread. There are NEVER any vegatables, fruit or any other healthy foods to speak of...anywhere! On top of that, Ma is a food pusher! I would much rather her be an alcohol or pill pusher...anything but food! God love Ma, but if you're in the vicinity of the kitchen (which basically includes the entire house and surrounding acres) there's always the "Did you want any (insert any type of unhealthy food here)?" It's so hard to resist because she is just trying to make people happy, but it is really a form a torture for an f-ed up person like me.

After a day or two, the walls feel like they are closing in on me!! I have nowhere to turn and I enevitably gain even more weight. I absolutely love it when my jeans fit me before the trip and on the last day I have to lay down on the bed and completely suck in my gut to coerse the stupid zipper to the top. Love rockin' the tight jeans. It's basically the hottest thing since the early 90's.

But this trip was much different. Ma and Pa are both on Weight Watchers now and they are completely obsessed with the whole points system. Ma had her "bible" out the entire time. The "bible" is an informational book provided by Weight Watchers that determines the number of point(s) a serving of a particular food has. On top of that, they weighed almost 5 times a day...seriously. This scared me a little (I'm usually the one who is scary).

I guess I can't complain. I had steamed broccoli and some desert that had only 5 points in the entire pan (what the hell? Is that supposed to be good?).

So now I'm back home and back to the grind. I think I hate working. I have so many other things that I could be doing with my time beside staring at a f-ing computer screen. I'll save that rant for another day...

Can't wait to the f-ing holiday season is over! Only one more month and 10 more pounds to go!!

Embarrassing Moment #786

2005-11-17T07:56:00.000-08:00

So....Las Vegas...Viva Las Vegas!!

Last weekend, my husband and I made the journey to Vegas to visit some friends of ours. Since they reside in Vegas and my husband and I live in San Diego, we probably meet up about 3 times a year, which includes an annual camping trip.

I have been contemplating whether or not to write about the unfortunate events that took place on our second evening because, yes, it is that embarrassing (even for me). Let's just start from the beginning...

Tim and Sasha are our friends (or were our friends). The first night did not encompass anything too out of the ordinary. Yes, there was drinking, drunkenness and gambling, but nothing that would leave a permanent emotional scar. The next night, however, is a completely different affair.

So we wake up the next morning (Sasha has to work) and start to contemplate the best ways to occupy our time. We decide to check out the Wynn, which is f-ing amazing. Tim, Donny and myself were feeling the effects of consuming too much alcohol the night before and we needed a pick-me-up (a.k.a. more alcohol).

We ordered a drink from a lounge/bar inside the hotel and afterwards we each had an extra bounce in our step. We made our departure from the hotel to a gas station, where "roadies" sounded pretty damn good.

Side note: Roadies are alcoholic beverages, preferably Miller Lite talls, that are consumed in your vehicle while traveling from one location to the next. The purpose of a roadie is to keep the all important buzz sustained because everyone knows that you can not have fun without alcohol. Roadies can also be used for medicinal purposes. For instance, if you are feeling a little hungover from the night before, you have the option to prolong a pounding headache by consuming a roadie on the way to work.

I'm already feeling a wee bit tipsy from the drink in the bar (probably because I was still drunk when I woke up) and after I choked down the 24 ounces of Miller Lite, I was pretty much shit faced. We haven't even met up with Sasha at this point and it's still daylight. I could have taken the aforementioned as foreshadowing of the events to come, but I didn't care at that point.

After Sasha gets off of work, we all eat some veggies, drink more and head out to Fremont Street. We devour a delicious dinner and I decided that it was appropriate to order a shot of tequila in the middle of it (more foreshadowing anyone???). I'm able to behave myself at dinner except when I tried to get a picture taken of myself and Donny...in an awkward moment. Thank God the camera ran out of batteries.

With our bodies fueled with nutrition, we head off to the slot machines at Mermaids. Mermaids is a wonderful place. It has a sort of cheap disgusting appeal to it. There are many different characters that loiter this particular casino. We find our seats at Tim and Sasha's favorite spot. I asked our cocktail waitress for a shot of tequila, but they don't do shots...so I resort to ordering a tequila and water. When I received the drink, it was very, very dark. I think they forgot about the water. Oh well, more for me!

This is when the events of the evening began to take a turn for the worse.

I end up going to a strip club because I've never been and I wanted to see what was so special about them...besides the obvious. Sasha was so kind as to escort me. Another tequila and water later I'm PLASTERED.

We meet up with the guys. Then something, something, something happened...it's too much of a blur (but I am positive that more drinking was involved). The next thing I remember is we're at another casino and Tim and Donny asking me if Sasha is in the bathroom. So I run into the bathroom and yell for Sasha. She yells back.

I literally jog out to where Donny and Tim are and say, "She's in there." They look at my me like I'm a freakin' retard and then say, "Well, go get her!"

At my level of severe intoxication, these men were being annoying, I just wanted to gamble and win all my money back.

I go back into the bathroom and jog back out. They ask, "Is she in there?" I promptly reply, "Nope!" Of course she was still in the bathroom, but she wasn't coming out anytime soon and I had gambling to do! I punch Donny in the diaphragm in order to gamble away $20, which took all of two minutes. I was sent to the bathroom to retrieve Sasha about five more times before she actually came out of the stall.

It was time to go home.

Then we had to wait for the valet. We had to wait a LONG time for the valet. I vaguely remember Sasha and I dry heaving over the sides of our respective benches we were occupying. I decided that dry heaving wasn't appropriate in public and proceeded to dance...in the street...like Elvis.

At this point, everyone pretended they didn't know who the hell I was. People would walk by and ask, "Is that your friend?" They avoided all eye contact with me and said that I was just some crazy lady.

A cop on a bicycle came by and looked like he wanted to throw me in the clink, but luckily for me, he just kept peddling.

Finally, our chariot arrived and this very long night came to an end.

I have never quite mastered the art of marathon drinking. I've always been a sprinter. For now on, I think I just stick to what I'm good at.

Time Goes By Way To F-ing Fast

2005-11-15T08:12:00.000-08:00

In less than two months I will be celebrating my 26th birthday. Actually, my plan is to stop celebrating birthdays altogether. I'm going to be 25 for the rest of my life. I know I could probably get away with it for the next five years and I don't really ever look further than five years into my future, so I'm good for now.

But I will always know the dark truth...I'm getting (gulp) OLD! I could never understand when 50 year olds would say, "Geez, I still feel like I'm 20." And now I can completely comprehend that. I still don't feel a day over 19 (but thank the good Lord that I am no longer a teenager) and I don't know where the hell the time went!

I remember my freshman year in college at University of Colorado. That was a tough year. I would go for these runs in the beginning of the semester and just pray for the leaves to start turning colors and falling off the trees because then at least I knew the year wasn't going to last forever.

Boy, was that the most idiotic mind set of the century. What in the hell was I thinking by wishing away the "best" years of my life? And make no mistake, college did encompass the best years of my life. It was a time when being poor was actually kind of fun and getting wasted before a final wasn't a huge shocker or when drinking games began at 2:00 in the afternoon and lasted well into the next morning. The best part of all being that this behavior was socially acceptable.

I still get wasted, but instead of being labeled "party animal," (which included wearing all of my drinking mishaps like a badge) I'm now closer to an "alcoholic" (which means I relive my embarrassing moments in a veil of shame...alone).

I guess everyone has to become a mature and well behaved adult at some point and time, but I associate the aforementioned characteristics with an old smelly lady (I'm only one out of those three words and I'm not old or a lady).

Athletes Find a Way

2005-11-03T10:09:00.000-08:00

That's my new motto thanks to my boss. Basically, it's just another way of saying, "don't give me any f-ing excuses and get the job done." I like it and I believe I can apply this clever saying in other areas of my life as well.

Athletes find a way to:

1. Fight off the embarrassment and take that crap in the work lavatory that has been fermenting in your ass for the last 4 hours.

2. Have the courage and come out of the bathroom after you just took the greasiest shit that smells like rotten feet and eggs mixed together.

3. Hold your head high when you notice a coworker waiting to use the only women's bathroom on the floor. And don't beat yourself up for not flushing the toilet twice...she'll probably think you dropped some chocolate in the water.

4. Vomit in a styrofoam cup (and not miss) while their husbands are driving and there's no where to pull over.

5. Have sex at least three times a week.

6. To get home, even if you are stranded, drunk and naked.

7. Hold in explosive diarrhea while jogging until a squatting place can be found. Then, and only then, can you shit battery acid, wipe your ass with stray leaves and continue your run (while you can still feel liquid residue squish between your cheeks).

8. Get wasted, puke, not get any on you, and walk back into the bar like nothing happened.

9. Emit a rancid odor out of your ass and successfully blame it on someone else.

10. Not eat every single piece of Halloween candy in the office, which was actually meant for the customers.

If the above does not describe what an athlete stands for, I don't know what will. Talk about facing adversity and being able to come out on top, standing up to your worst fears and conquering them, and generally becoming the person others aspire to be.

I think I will forward this on to my boss and ask his professional opinion. I'm serious.

Vegas Baby

2005-11-01T07:50:00.000-08:00

Since I work for a bank, I have bull shit bank holidays. For instance, next Friday is Veteran's Day and people who work for banks have the entire day off. I'm not a veteran of any war or social conflict so why should I have the freakin' day off? Makes no sense to me, but that's the last that I'm going to complain about it because it's a paid holiday. I love me some paid holidays.

My husband and I have decided to visit some friends in Las Vegas...yea, that's what I'm talkin' about. I'm so excited to get out of dodge for a couple of days. We're flying out on Thursday at like one o'clock in the afternoon so we can make sure to get in a full day's worth of catching up (or drinking). One of our friends told us that our livers were never going to be the same. Okay, now I'm a little scared.

I have a problem with pacing myself when I begin an all day drinking-athon. Actually, I have a pacing problem if I just go to happy hour. For instance, let's say that I meet up with some coworkers to have "a" beer after work. I have the attention span of a gnat. I'll show up and chit-chat a little with everyone and get bored. I know I can't politely excuse myself after 15 minutes so I start chugging beers. Same thing if I my husband and I get together with a couple of friends to watch Monday Night Football. I can't stand sitting in one place for too long and I end up making the hosts take shots with me (with my husband staring at me disapprovingly from the other side of the room).

The thing that I'm worried about with starting to drink early is wanting to pass out. When I get drunk and want to go to bed, I'll just lay on the street and take a nap. This is something I could get away with while living in Montana, but it's a whole new story in California and I should probably forego passing out on the Vegas Strip.

And I can't recover like I used to. I never thought I would start to feel the effect of aging so soon. It's hard to admit, but I can't handle my liquor like I used to (and for the record, "handling liquor" was never really my strong suit). I can't drink all day and all night and just have one day of recovery. No, those days are long gong. I need multiple recovery days now.

I've thought about kicking booze to the corner... seriously I have, but there's just so many social situations in which drinking is an unwritten rule (at least that's the excuse I'm sticking with). Additionally, and this may sound juvenile, but I like to have a little liquor courage once in a while. Alcohol is a great ice breaker for people who are just beginning to get acquainted with each other. Most of us still have these perceived inadequacies and we want to make the best impression possible. I like to think I make a great impression when I'm shit faced. Slurring, swearing and being generally tactless are all excellent ways to make a good impression on someone...maybe when I was in high school (maybe).

Now I'm 25 (and heading towards 26 at warp speed) and I still party like a rock star. Honestly, I think the only way of veering of the party path is to...have kids. Don't worry, this will be years from now, but honestly I must have way to much time on my hands.

I'm starting school in January. I think working and going to school full time might derail my drinking a little too. That's only two flippin' months away and actually, I'd better get the partying bug out of me because there will be no bs-ing once classes start. I'll have to crack a few beers tonight and think about it.

Roller Skating and Baking...That's What I'm Talking About

2005-10-31T07:27:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, my friend and I decided to make frosted sugar cookies and a brownie graveyard for our peeps in the office. Don't worry, we won't make anyone seriously ill because the cookies were pre-made (just have to cut shapes and throw them in the oven) and the brownies came in a box. Plus, it gave me a reason to drink wine and champagne at 2 o'clock in the afternoon.

Now, I haven't baked in at least 10 years, but believe it or not, back in the day I used to make everything from scratch. Anyways, I must be out of practice (or extremely mentally challenged) because I didn't pay enough attention to the directions for the brownies...okay, so I single-handedly managed to burn two pans of brownies. When the brownies were "baking" I could smell that they were getting fried, but every time I stuck that damn toothpick in the middle, it was completely uncooked! I think I was making my friend nervous too...I kept rotating the brownies in an effort to make them cook evenly, but every time I stuck my hand in the oven, I would end up burning myself. Seriously, I am a f-ing retard.

But I didn't have time to worry about the f-ing brownie graveyard. I had sugar cookies to decorate! Thank God, only one out of three pans of sugar cookies got a little cinged, but of course, we still decorated the burnt ones.

The decorations consisted of miniature marshmellows, red hots, pull n' peel Twizzlers, Starburst jelly beans (the best jelly beans EVER made), pretzels, coconut that was dyed with food coloring and a variety of colored frostings. We made some serious f-ed up cookies. Let's just say that there's a black cookie monster floating around and a cookie with gold capped teeth.

Although I do need to give credit where credit is due. Without my friend, alcohol, none of my creative inspirations would have been realized.

But, as usual, that was only the beginning of the day's adventures. After salvaging the brownie graveyard and putting away our sugar cookie creations, my husband, friend and I thought it would be a great idea if we went...

ROLLER SKATING.

Now, only the part of San Diego County that I live in would there be a roller skating rink. You people don't know what red necks are until you've come to my neck of the woods. It's almost as if someone took the most uneducated, backwards family from Kentucky, put them in the town I live in and told them to procreate only with each other. I'm not kidding.

I remember roller skating back in the 5th grade. I don't remember falling and if I did, I swear it didn't hurt at all. It was like the rink was actually padded or something (or it could have been the fact that I was big boned in those days). Plus, I never went roller skating wasted when I was 10.

In the first hour, I fell at least fifteen times. I'm talking completely losing control and falling ass backwards with only your elbows to break the fall. My face must have felt left out because as soon I as got the hang of not falling on my ass; I began to eat copious amounts of shit falling forward. At the time, it didn't hurt at all. I have absolutely no idea why that is...it must have been adrenaline or something.

Finally, I actually started to get the hang of roller skating again...that and the fact that I quit trying to skate backwards or do anything else remotely difficult. I was flying around the rink like a crazed woman. I couldn't stop to talk to anyone because I would break my concentration and fall. I think I was starting to sober up a bit because I now realized that falling was bad.

We all ended the night in a bar where I was proceeded to dance all night long by myself. Only one problem though, this bar was not equipped with a dance floor. I don't think I will be going back there any time soon.

So now it's Monday and I am f-ing sore. I hurt from the hair on my head right down to the hair on my toes. And let's talk about bruises. I have at least five bruises on my ass, one that covers my entire left knee and another that takes up the majority of my forearm. But I love battle wounds and I can't wait to get back on the rink! As long as I have my friend alcohol, I can conquer anything!

Halloween, Thanksgiving AND Christmas...Oh My!

2005-10-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

The holiday season is a wonderful time of year...if you live through it.

No wonder people off themselves around this time of year. It's one thing to buy presents for your immediate family, but these days we have "blended" families that include step parents and step siblings. My family falls into this category and the family tally moved from 4 people to 6 people a couple of years ago. And my brother just got married, so there's the 7th, plus all the in-laws (and their wives and kids) and that brings me to a total of 14 people. That's an ass load of presents.

Buying presents for the above mentioned "have to's" forces me into a fit, but then there's the dreaded staff. I have to buy a present for my boss, coworkers and basically everyone in the f-ing building (due to our bank being so small). Okay, maybe I don't have to buy presents for them. It's not like anybody's sticking a pink slip to my head. But if I don't, I run the risk of being the office grinch (a.k.a. cheap asshole). I don't want to be the asshole!

Buying presents isn't the only health hazard of the holidays. Let's talk about eatin' turkey, gravy, frosted sugar cookies (my personal favorite), pies, ice cream, brownies and stuffing. And that only accounts for the food at the holiday dinner! Then there's the office parties, happy hours, holiday gatherings and any other reason a person can find to gorge themselves during this time of the year.

I'm feeling bloated already.

I usually go to these functions with the intentions of getting drunk. That's easy enough. It's just that after I'm wasted, I think I have a free pass for the evening. I start by gliding (because I glide when I'm shit faced) over to the eating area and then strategically choose the "bite" of food that I'm going to consume. After about 30 minutes of "bites" I end up with sticky fingers and caramel, chocolate and frosting all over my face. Basically I look like I just won an eating contest. Then I look down at my stomach and I swear to God that I have to be 5 months pregnant, at least that's what it looks like and finally, I waddle over to a chair and get pissed.

I say to myself, "It's okay, I'll just run 10 miles tomorrow." I feel better now that I've rationalized things. The only problem is, I never go running the next day. In fact, I usually end up ordering pizza and eating like shit.

This year I'm contemplating a couple of different approaches. I'm just going to get so wasted at every party that either a) I pass out early in the evening (that way, not too much damage can be done), b) get so drunk that I vomit (this is the least appealing), or c) chain myself to the heaviest piece of furniture or sturdy fixture that's located the farthest away from the food area (but needs to be within reach of the alcohol).

I think option "c" will work best during Halloween. At least this way I can say I'm in costume, but I haven't figured out what I'm going to do for the Thankgiving and Christmas events. It might have to be a combination of all three option unless I can brainstorm another technique.

Anyhow, I think it's necessary to get wasted tonight and start practicing. My best ideas come to me when I'm drunk anyways (I need to start writing them down because I can never remember them).

Money - It's a Crime

2005-10-25T07:10:00.000-07:00

Forgive me for my Pink Floyd reference; however my brother (Chester) has inundated me with Pink Floyd videos, CD's and Live 8 reunion concerts the last couple of times I have been to Colorado. I'm talking hours and hours of brain washing. It's getting to the point where I am ashamed to say that I actually like the Floyd.

But money is a crime.

My husband and I have doubled our salaries (and then some) since we made the move to California...but it's never enough. I get so excited when I get paid and then I realize I have an abnormally high mortgage (cost of living in So Cal), utilities, trash and other expenses to take care of. At least when all the bills are accounted for, I still have a little fun money to go out to a nice dinner with my husband or buy a new pair of black leather calf boots from J. Crew or...well, wait a minute, maybe not.

There are some other expenses that should probably be taken care of. For instance, buying groceries. Now that I think about it, it will be nice to eat. Then there's the f-ing gas. I think I've purposefully blocked that cost out of my mind (it's over 100 bucks for my husband and I...per week). But, I suppose my boss would appreciate my presence at work.

Oh, there's more... the dry cleaning (90 bones easy) and wait, I need makeup and hairspray ($15 for each) and what about my hair?!? I can't let the mullet show it's ugly face again!

AND we save. Both Donny and I invest in our company held 401k's and additionally, we each have an IRA. My sensible side is telling me that I will be happy when I'm 55 and I won't be worrying about how I will support myself until I kick the bucket. Then there's the side who says, "C'mon Tight Ass! Live a little!"

Like some women, I don't have a spending problem...anymore. My husband nipped that habit right in the bud. So, splurging for me now consists of going to a thrift store and purchasing a new outfit for $20-$25 or going out to lunch during the week with my coworkers where the restaurant actually has chairs, table, and wait staff (and there is no sign of Hector's Burritos anywhere).

By the time all f-ing expenses are taken into consideration, I have enough money for quarter beer night or, if I don't feel like having to tip, purchasing Miller Lite "talls" and drinking them at home at my leisure before going out (I'm becoming smart in my old age).

Don't get me wrong, I am by no means poor or deprived in any way, shape or form BUT no matter how much bacon I bring home it's never enough! Can somebody please tell me why that is?

Is my life destined to consist of me digging the proverbial grave with expenses, just trying to keep up with the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed to? Shit, that would suck!

Believe or not, I have seriously considered selling the house and all of our worldly possessions and relocating to a third world country to actually witness what real poverty and strife is, but then I think, "Martha, get serious. How will you take care of Donny or yourself if "something" were to happen?"

So, instead I try to ease my conscience a little by grocery shopping once a week for a 94 year old woman who can no longer drive. In fact, she has outlived her husband and children and has no other relatives within state lines to speak of. Shopping for her has actually turned into the highlight of my week. She also has me look over her mail (she uses prescription glasses and a magnifying glass at the same time, but still has no clue what the printing reads). She also has memory loss and half the time has no clue who I am when I come to the door. It's almost overwhelming to see her confused face (she 4'10" and all of 85 pounds) when she answers the door with her white hair and glossed over eyes.

I'm actually kind of worried that I may find her dead one of these days. Sorry about the morbid thought, but seriously!

I'm wealthy in many other ways besides monetary. I have an awesome immediate as well as extended family, I think of my in-laws as my family and I have a husband who supports and loves me unconditionally.

I would say that I'm the Bill Gates when it comes to wealth that matters. I feel a little better now, but still want those damn J. Crew leather boots!

I Hate "Bikers"

2005-10-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

I hate all people that ride motorcycles or think they are the suburban reincarnation of Lance Armstrong. Let's get going with the motorcycles (I'm not here to f-around today).

First, why in the hell would a person want to race around town with a machine sounding like a elephant with diarrhea? I work on the 2nd floor next to a busy residential street. When a motorcyclist a.k.a. I Have a Penis the Size of a Baby Carrot (that's the Indian name...feather, not dot) decides to rumble by my office, it sounds like a series of small earthquakes happening in succession. If I could get my hands on Carrot, I would seriously like to kick his ass. And why do men have to have something vibrating between their legs anyways?

I once worked with a guy that said he loved how loud the bike sounded between his legs...gross.

And what the hell is so damn special about f-ing choppers that makes people who ride them have a permanent smug smile on their face? Do these leather faced, food-in-the moustache, good-thing-I-have-a-helmet-on-because-I'm-balding retards know something I don't? Maybe they think they're special because they ride up and down the same street 5 hours a day and then return home to their hole in the wall apartment to smoke cigs and drink Shlitz. Now that's hot.

I'm such a bitch...oh well, moving on.

Why do cyclists think they're f-ing automobiles? I could have sworn that the turing lanes in the street were specifically built for cars and not for idiots on bicycles. And why does every Corky who owns a bike have the official race shirt of Lance Armstrong? They have got to be f-ing kidding me.

Bicyclists a.k.a. Vaginas (there's no way a man without one could endure riding on a stick for that long) also think they are pretty hot shit. Believe it or not, I'm actually pretty friendly when I'm on my long runs. The banter that goes on between other runners and myself motivates me to finish strong. Bikers, however, are pieces of shit. It's almost as if they think they're better than runners and driver alike. For some reason, a $5,000 bike, awesome padded spandex, wind resisting sunglasses and 2 ounce helmets makes the middle aged person invincible.

There are two types of cyclists; the first is the middle aged, overweight, trying to find a new hobby person. This type is annoying because they have no f-ing clue what they're doing. They figured because they bought all the expensive shit that they automatically deserve to be in the Tour de France.

The other category of cyclists consists of people who are actually training for a competition. These wise guys are the real ass holes. They are the ones who think that there should be an entire car lane devoted to their cause. When I come across these Vaginas while running, there is not much I can do besides give a dirty look, but things could be much different in my car. I have fantasies of driving by them with a whip cream pie and nailing them in the face while they're waiting for the turn signal (in the turning lane reserved for cars of course).

I've come to the conclusion that living in California is responsible for the above phenomenons. People who reside here are, in one way or another, complete materialistic shit heads. Whether it's showing off a custom built chopper, buying the most technically innovative hybrid or just being normal by spending gobs of money on plastic surgery, people have this overwhelming urge to outdo one another. It's actually kind of hard not to get pulled into this kind of lifestyle. It's like a black hole that you know you need to escape, but the journey into it like a train wreck that you can't seem to turn your head away from.

I apologize if any of you are bikers, either motorcycles or bicycles, but this is truth where I live.

Weddings...Gotta Love 'Em

2005-10-19T08:41:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, my brother got married. I love the bride, loved seeing family and loved meeting new people, but I do not love the scar on my arm from WWF wrestling in the hotel bar/lobby/hallways.

Out of control. That is all I have to say about the events of the wedding weekend. Really, I don't even know where to begin...let's take it from the top.

Thursday, October 13th

This was the big day. All of my family was arriving from Canandaigua, NY to witness the marriage of my brother. For most people, seeing family does not normally cause feelings of social angst, but this is me we're talking about. Plus, the last time I saw one of my uncles he had a burnt sausage on a stick and asked, "What does that remind you of Martha Mary?"

I started out early at the bar with my other brother, Chester, and met up with a couple of his college friends.

These guys are not just friends, they are more like 12, 30 something year old men that have a true affinity for each other. They flew in from Scotland, Canada and all over America to see my brother on his big day (mostly because they all had wagers on whether or not he would actually make it to the alter). I've always been the little sister. One of the Scots told my brother that he couldn't wait till I was 18...I was 11 at the time (is this a compliment?).

Anyway, I knew it was going to be a long day when we started drinking 16 ounce Miller Lites at a sports bar. Surprisingly, I was attempting to hold out until that night, but my husband actually started drinking before me! People, this happens like once every two years. I decided if I couldn't beat him, I may as well join him!

After three 16 ounces later, Chester takes us to the hotel to check in. I was in the drunk phase where I really don't think I'm wasted. I think I can hold a conversation without imperfection. I proceeded to inquire whether or not any of the other Finnick's (my side of the family) had checked in. The nice gentlemen at the front desk told me the room numbers and after we dropped off the luggage in our room, I practically kicked in all the doors of my family member's rooms.

My uncle David was rearing to go. It was like he had been saving up his drinking tokens for months to spend them on this trip. He set a reservation for all of us to eat at Outback Steak House. Thank goodness we got there in time for a few happy hour drinks. There were eight of us, including my 16 year old cousin, Ryan, who was a little kid the last time I saw him.

What is it with kids these days? The only thing my cousin could do for the first five hours was text page on his phone, which pretty much pissed me off. The only reason he stopped was because I wouldn't stop giving him shit... and I physically separated the phone from his hands.

I assumed that he was feeling a little overwhelmed being thrown into a situation like this.

And, class, what do I do when I feel overwhelmed? DRINK!!

I yelled at his dad across the table, "Hey, Uncle Steve, can I get Ryan shit faced?" The reaction from everyone was like the proverbial record player coming to a screeching halt. Everyone at the table looked to my uncle for his reaction. He said very cautiously, "I want Ryan to have a good time."

Great! Green light and full steam ahead!

Ryan refused to drink in front of his dad, so I waited until we got to back to the hotel, stole a key from my dad (who always has an ample supply of Stoli's vodka) and made him take about three shots (or double shots?...I can't recall). By the end of the night, he was ordering from the bar and drinking side by side with his dad.

I'm so glad I can bring family together.

Also that night, my husband did something completely uncharacteristic...he got wasted. I'm talking droopy eyed, slurring words and kissing uncles on the cheeks. He even went so far as to discover a "secret" ballroom by the hotel bar and started to do back flips. He's really athletic sober, even mildly drunk. But shit faced is another story. On one of his back flip attempts, he misjudged his footing and landed right on his face. At the time, I was busy WWF-ing and only recall noticing him laying on the floor.

The next morning, however, was a different story. He awoke with his head hurting and rightly so because his forehead was completely covered with a gigantic rug burn. I don't even know if I could manage to do that.

I awoke with soreness covering my entire body. I discovered a multitude of bruises, bumps and rug burns... and I didn't even get laid.

It's Hard to Admit Things

2005-10-07T07:55:00.000-07:00

For instance, it's hard for me to admit that, for the past two weeks, instead of working I should have been sending in my application for the Mullet Hall of Fame. I tried to cut this dead animal off of my head a couple of weeks ago, but my stylist couldn't fit me in. What's worse is that my hair has huge patches of platinum blond (trust me, it looks good when kept up), which have not been touched up in so long that I look like Shakira in her former "Whenever, Wherever" days.

I was so desperate in fact to secure an appointment with my hair stylist that last night I sent them a fax which said,

I'm feeling crappy because my hair is nappy. This is an emergency. I have a mullet and I'm not kidding. If you can't fit me in, my mullet and I are coming anyway. P.S. I'll bring the beer.

Thank the good Lord that I am getting rid of this nasty ass weed on top of my head this afternoon. I guess I could have gotten my hair taken care of sooner; however the following reasons are why I will continue to go to my stylist as long as I live in San Diego:

1. I can drink beer... in the chair while she's doing my hair... and while other customers are waiting or getting their hair done. Yep, that's right, I just there shooting the shit and drinking alcoholic beverages.

2. This beauty salon seriously needs a reality show. It's owned by two Latina sisters. Think of the movie "Barber Shop" and insert Mexicans in the place of Ice Cube and company. I've seen everything from scars from a breast augmentation (actually saw both of the ginormous tatas) to hearing about neighbors who try to milk visitors.

3. I can make fun of customers I do not know and the Latina's encourage it. They don't care if you have a trillion dollars to your name. If you walk into their shop, you're fair game.

4. There is always drama! It's like sitting in the middle of a train wreck. One of the Latina's was engaged to a 23 year old (she's 37). Oh man, she was in mad love. She was planning the wedding for Halloween of this year. Until that is, the 23 year old had to move back to Florida where his baby and baby's mama lived to try to get joint custody of his kid. Last I heard they don't know if he's coming back, but she still wears the ring.

5. They charge shit for their services. I can get my hair cut, colored and styled for $65 (not to mention the sheer entertainment that is associated with every visit). To top it off, they actually do an awesome job.

6. I can hang around people that are weirder than I am. I get my hair done, laugh my ass off, catch a buzz and leave with some moola in my pocket all the while feeling like my life ain't so bad.

I am so looking forward to finally getting rid of the bird's nest. I was contemplating cutting it myself, which would ultimately turn out disastrous.

On another note, this weekend Donny and I are going to watch the Yankees with two gay men, which in and of itself is not too exciting. Except for the fact that these guys are both about 6'2" and look like they could kick your ass and then have sex with it. They are a bi-racial gay couple and both are republicans. I think that makes them about 0.0000001% of the population. Anyway, (how can I say this and still sound politically correct?) the black dude and I are long lost soul sisters. That's P.C. right?

My Work Rules

2005-10-05T18:31:00.000-07:00

The bank that I work at is awesome. I don't think that I will ever work at a place where I sincerely enjoy the people and they actually get my tactless sense of humor.

When I first started working for the bank, my boss and I went to lunch with one of our customers. While we were waiting for the other party to arrive, my boss starts busting my balls. He starts lecturing me about this, that and the other. Keep in mind that I haven't built any repoire with the man. After about 5 minutes of constant berating, I take the knife that is part of my place setting, clasp it in my right hand and look at my boss in a threatening manner before saying, "If you don't shut up, I'm going to stab you in the neck with this knife."

This story has become a standing joke between he and I. I usually tell him that I'm going to stab him with the pen that I'm holding at any given time and he tells my coworkers that if anyone finds me bleeding with a knife in my neck, they'll know who did it.

Yea, kind of sounds weird now...I guess you had to be there.

He also likes to bet. My family are Bronco fanatics. We skipped Christmas dinner 3 years ago because there was a John Elway special on ESPN, my dad has season tickets on the 50 yard line, 4 rows up from the Bronco sidelines and while living in California, Donny and I were over at a friend's house to watch last year's Orange Bowl. In the living room was a set of four concrete coasters depicting different scenes of John Elway's pro career with the Broncos. Let's just say that I became teary eyed at the sight. I love John Elway.

Anyway, the Chargers played the Broncos a couple of Sundays ago. If the Chargers won, I had to buy my boss lunch, make a place setting in the lunch room and serve him the food. If the Broncos won, my boss would have to take three shots of tequila...in a row.

Of course, the Broncos came through with Jason Elam kicking a 37 yard field goal in the last seconds of the game. That Monday was the first time I was actually looking forward to work. My boss tried to beg, plead and negotiate his way out of the bet. Actually, I believe his exact words were, "If I take three shots of tequila I will die." I called him a pussy and told him that he shouldn't have made the bet if he couldn't go through with it.

It took a couple of weeks, but finally the right night came along in which to celebrate my victory. My coworkers and I were headed to my boss' house to celebrate his birthday. It was a Thursday night, which all of us working joe's know is the best time to party during the week. My coworker, husband, boss and I walked to a bar that is literally 25 yards away from our bank (awesome location I must say).

This bar is the weirdest dive bar I have ever seen. Our usual waiter looks like Cheech minus 50 pounds and 6 inches, but with the exact same accent. He always tries to get us to come on the weekends so, "we can really party." The cook also works at the Jack in the Box right next door to the bar (anyone remember the salmonella scandal?) and he always comes out of the kitchen sweating and talking in Mexican. And the bar hosts karoke every Tuesday night.

Well, maybe not karoke. There is a piano behind the bar with a 90 year old lady sitting playing the keys. All these interesting old people come on Tuesday nights to sing songs that were popular in the 1940's. They just sit around the bar, pass the mircrophone and drink. The first time I was exposed to this ritual, I couldn't move. I wanted to leave, but the sensory overload was too much for my motor skills to handle.

So, the stage was set for my boss to kill three shots of tequila. The bartender filled each shot to the brim. We all decided that it was fair if we took a shot of tequila with him. The first went down pretty smoothly. My boss made the tequila face, but nothing unusual. The second was a little rough. His eyes started turning red and watering and he started making this noise. It sounded like he was choking or something. I started to feel sorry for him and told him that he didn't need to take the third.

He flipped me off and proceeded to take the last shot.

He downed three shots in ten seconds and managed to still keep his cookies.

As usual, that was just beginning. After arriving at my boss' house, one of my coworkers and I start to chug wine...out of the bottle. I got so wasted that I thought it was a good idea to moon people through the window. I actually think it was a full moon or something because all of us thought it was a good idea to go swimming in the community pool. My boss was the only one with a bathing suit. I was soaking wet from head to shoe. Of course, my husband was thoroughly impressed.

I don't remember anything I did on the way home, except that I jumped out a moving car in order to puke in the neighbor's bushes.

The next morning I had to wake up early because (being the drunkard that I am), I has to ride with the hubby home the previous night. He dropped me off at work where I left my car around 7:30 a.m. I walked into work and realize that I'm not feeling so hot (huge surprise). I go back to my car, crawl inside and pass out for an hour. I wake up to my boss and coworker taping on the window telling me it's time to get up. This is around 9:00 a.m.

I think I've learned my lesson from chugging wine out of a bottle, but I'll probably need to remind myself why it's not a good idea sometime in the future.

2005-10-03T16:09:00.000-07:00

Yuck... it's Monday. I hate Mondays. I woke up today in a beachfront condo that my husband and I were housesitting for the weekend. I peered out the window, well actually it was a four panel sliding glass door overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and decided that I was going to call in sick, but instead I slam some Advil (thanks to the double shot of Absolute and 6 beers the night before, I have a headache) and force myself to shower, put makeup on and dress in some sort of work attire.

I always have a facination with calling in sick. At least one day a week, I want to throw the f-ing alarm clock out the window, pull the covers over my head and not live in reality. The thought of somehow cheating my way out of a work day gives me goose pimples. To roll out of bed without being prompted by the screaming box of hell and sit my ass on the couch and watch as much of the "Today" show as I can stand would be a dream come true.

I am a sick, sick person. My biggest fantasy is sitting in my pj's and eating breakfast knowing that everyone else is at work? This is what happens when a person grows up and realizes that their destiny is to live the life of the working schmuck.

By definition of society, I am sucessful. I am married, have a "good" job, own a house and invest in an IRA and 401k, but seriously, is this it?

I know, I can see my writing and I come across as a complete bitch.

There's not enough time in life to do everything! It's so frustrating. I feel like I have to chose between having a family;

or... being selfish by spending time with my husband and backpacking across the world,

or... being recoginzed professionally for my accomplishments,

or... working my ass off and having enough money to retire and really live the "good" life.

I don't want to look back and think, "damn, I should have done (insert anything remotely interesting)." Rather, when I'm so old that I can't remember if I've vacumed the house in the last month, I want to recollect all the adventures in my lifetime, which will bring a wry smile to my otherwise wrinkled face.

Maybe I need to take a deep breath and know that I've come pretty far and experienced many things for being the ripe old age of 25. Or maybe I just need to face the fact that my life is turning out is pretty damn good.

Yea, I think that's a bunch of horse-shit.

Comfort, content, satisfied and happy "where I'm at" are notions that kid a person into believing that nothing better exists for them. I don't ever want to be the 300 pound mom cheering on her kids at a t-ball game between eating 5 hotdogs (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Two Words: Pubic Hair

2005-09-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

I brought upon myself one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. Yes, my friend alcohol was responsible for my demise this particular evening.

It started out like any other Thursday night except the president of the bank that I work at was headlining a Katrina relief stand up comedy show. I thought it would be a nice gesture to show up and give my support being that it was for a good cause and all. Additionally, a couple of my coworkers were going and I thought it would be a nice change up from the same old routine for Donny and I. I was instructed to show up no later than 7:15 p.m. or else they would start giving away our seats (it's weird, you have to call ahead and make reservations) and the show was to commence at 8:00 p.m.

I decided that I should probably go for a run after work (seeing as how I can't seem to get my lazy ass out of bed in the morning anymore). Afterwards, I went to the deli, bought a bottle of wine and some fruit, and then headed to my friend's house to get ready. Donny works in butt fucking Egypt and was planning on meeting us there.

As I walked to my friend's house, I felt an all too familiar sensation...turrets.

Now, every person has their own form of turrets and mostly it can be compared to a wild streak. Although I tend to take my temporary turrets to a whole new level (not only embarrassing myself, but all others who are in my company). My turrets occurs if I do not adequately vent the disturbing parts of my personality on a regular basis. I am usually prone to turrets in crowded areas such as a restaurant, bar or while running (see previous posts) and my friend alcohol always increases the number of uncontrollable outbursts and volume.

This time, however, I do even attempt to subdue the symptoms of turrets, which include salivating while staring at an unopen bottle of wine, thinking about how fast the wine can be consumed and if I have enough money in order to buy more alcohol in the instance that one bottle is not enough for two people. These are all warning signs that I am in for a long night.

My friend and I end up drinking the wine (although prior to the evening we were both bitching about how we drink too much) ... and then we both start taking sake bombs. Thank goodness she had that extra alcohol!

Needless to say, I show up to the club sufficiently wasted. Since I was feeling on the wild side, I told the bartender to surprise me. He comes back with a f-ing apple martini. Although this is not the world's biggest surprise of the century, I would have drank horse piss at this point. Around this time, my husband and coworkers show up. I was spilling on myself, thus deciding that martini glasses were retarded and it was best just to chug the remaining alcohol.

The comedy show hasn't even started yet.

After mingling half slurred sentences and making new friends, we all sit down and wait for the excitement to begin.

I remember an Asian comic...and that's about it. Between talking with my friend, taking shots at the bar (with Mr. President) and getting in trouble for screaming about the 1985 Bears, I didn't really catch much. Then I decided that I was funnier than the stand up comedians I was paying to watch (or get myself drunk?).

This is were turrets makes it's ugly debut.

I have the urge to scream something. I twist around in my chair like four year old that is about to shit themselves before I compulsively scream, "PUBIC HAIR!" Yea, that's definitely not the end though. It turns out that, "PUBIC HAIR" becomes the night's anthem for me. I harass every single remaining comic, even going so far as to run up on stage when dared to by one of the comedians while performing. F-ing pubic hair.

At this point, Mr. President is shaking his finger at me and telling me that I "better show up for work tomorrow." He's a stand up comedian, but there's no joke about this (I could tell after the third time he said it). Additionally, I think the stand up comedians have had about enough of my shit and were planning to jump me after the show. Thank God for Mr. President saying, "It's okay. She works for me."

The next day, I still thought that I was funnier than any of those damn comedians...until that is, when my boss strolls into my office and says, "So tell me about pubic hair."

I Hate Tight Clothes

2005-09-15T14:52:00.000-07:00

Things I hate today:

1. I hate it when my clothes fit me before I go out to eat, but afterwards feel as though the buttons are going to fly off of my skirt. Ahhh, that feels better. I just undid the top button and I'm letting it all hang out!

2. I hate being constipated. This contributes to foul smelling ass and #1.

3. I hate coffee breath. Will somebody please grab my coworker some gum, water, mints, etc. Oh, and please don't forget the air freshener because his whole office smells like bad coffee breath. I'm serious.

4. I hate the temperature in my office. Why do men insist on "room temperature" being equal to that of a frozen tundra? Due to the continuous cold, my hands and lips have a blue tint, I can hardly type and my words come out in slow motion.

5. I hate alcohol. It pretends to be my friend while I'm hanging out with it, but then stabs me in the back in the morning. The stabbing effects can last well into the day when alcohol and I have a particularly late night/early morning.

6. I hate food. Most people love it, but it causes me feelings of angst, anxiety and hypertension. I'm always thinking, "did I eat too much?," "am I still hungry?," or "how many calories and grams of fat does that fried chicken have?" I especially hate food when mixed with #5. I end up ramming whatever's in sight and let's just say that's usually not celery sticks.

7. I hate the price of gas.

8. I hate having to fart while I am at work. Farts are not meant to linger in people's asses. They are meant to be released into the wild. Problem is, I don't want them to make a big introduction, if you know what I mean.

9. I hate Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Seriously girls, put the Marlborough Reds down, take your wardrobe back to the Salvation Army and for the love, please stop wearing sunglasses that are as big as your head! In five years, we will look back on the "bug eyed" trend and cringe as we do now with tapered jeans and jorts (jean shorts).

10. I hate little kids. By the time they reach 10 years of age, they are equipped with cell phones, i-pods and video games that kill police and destroy cities, all in the name of entertainment. Go outside and play catch or something!

I am pessimistic by nature, however I will attempt to conjure up things that I love. Ewe...who says that word?

1. I love my husband! Okay, that one was easy.

2. I love, love, love the drive home from work on Fridays. This is one of the few instances in which I'm actually not in a hurry or driving like a complete psycho. Truth be told, I sing along to Lionel Richie. I'm such a rebel.

3. I love the feeling that I have when I get in a good surf session. There's something about the ocean water that makes my skin tingle and I feel somewhat cleansed after bashing my head into the sand, my board or another surfer.

4. I love to run outside. Talk about clarity. It's completely "me" time. There's no television, radio, computer or any other daily distractions. It's just me and they rhythm of my breathing (unless of course, it's 100 degrees outside and my face feels like it's going to melt off).

5. I love my family. I never realized how hard it would be to live so far away. Although, I do have to admit that when there's crisis going on, I'm glad to be a 1,000 miles out of reach.

6. I love my in-laws. Seriously, I'm not trying to suck up here.

7. I love San Diego! Between surfing, professional advancement, seeing a whole different lifestyle and meeting some great friends, I couldn't ask for more

Okay, I'm disgusted and I can go no further. All this goodwill to mankind shit is making me want to shoot somebody. And my skirt is still too tight to button up completely. I hope everyone having a great weekend and tomorrow is Friday (is it here already or what?).

On second thought, better not.

2005-09-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

I was going to write about the things that drive me absolutely crazy about my husband presently, however I decided that he would not want my family and friends reading about his misgivings and more importantly, I do not like being in the dog house. Besides, I'm certain that there is a mountain of dirt he has on me that I would not like to be printed for anyone to look at. That sucks, because it was going to be a pretty funny entry (those of you who know my husband know it would be too!).

Now, you people will just have to be satisfied with tidbits of what is known as a grown up's life or what I like to refer to as "death after college." Actually, I may not be grown up for much longer because guess what?... I am going back to school!!! I finally have something to look forward to besides spreading f-ing tax returns, financial statements and analyzing the worthiness of a borrower's loan request. I am going to be working towards my (drum roll please) Master's in Psychology Counseling (ta-da)!

That's right! In a few years, I will be a licensed Marriage Family Therapist (a little unsettling isn't it?)

I will be keeping my full time employment while I'm going to school, which should take about 1.5 years if I take consecutive courses. Then I'll quit work and finish off my licensing requirements. My husband was, well let's just say he was not extatic about the notion of me going back to school. In fact, if we were dealing with water temperatures and boiling water was a good reaction and cold water was a bad reaction, I would place his take somewhere in the Artic Ocean. Not that he doesn't actually have legitimate concerns.

Take, for instance, the fact that I have never taken a liking to any profession that I've been in. Despite the fact that my only professional experience has been in banking and higher education, I definitely have not found post graduate life to be rewarding. In fact, most of the time I am completely bored out of my mind (hence, blogging during the work day) and I have a hard time talking myself into a five day work week. If you think about it, the weekend sucks too, because there's always five more days after that and five more days after that. This shit supposedly goes on until a person retires. I don't think so, at least not with my current career path!

His concern is that I will tire of this new found profession and we will have wasted $20 g's on nothing. However, I have told him numerous times (like 40) the following facts:

1. My freshman year in college my major was Psychology, but at the time, I was under the impression that I would be able to make a legitimate living after 12 years of education. There was no way I was going to take out that many freakin' loans, which brings me to the next point...

2. The only reason I was a business major was because I thought it was the the only major in which I could do reasonably well and obtain a fairly good job post graduation. I didn't take to the curriculum and most of time, I had no idea what the professor was talking about. Thank goodness for group projects! Yea baby!

3. I actually had been researching graduate programs in the psychology field for almost a year, but failed to mention this to my husband. Reason being that there was no need to. The programs available each had about 126 prerequisites that I would have to fulfill even before applying for admission. Basically, they all sucked ball sack.

4. I have taken the Meyers-Briggs personality test twice and each time have come back with the same results, which are I (introvert), N (intuitive), T (thinking), P (perceptive). Not all that exciting huh? Well, there is a whoping 2% of the population that have this type of personality. I'm a human anomaly! I have totally been wondering the hell was the matter with me all my life! Now I know that the explanation is that I'm just weird! The stranger part is that my mother is also part of the 2%. Anways, the career paths of other abnormal people like myself center around teaching and counseling (which is scary if you think about it).

Recently, my husband has been warming up to the idea of furthering my education. Well, let's just say the water is luke warm now. Hypothetically, say the worst does happen and I finish school and decide that I don't want to become a counselor. I would still have a freakin' master's degree homie! I just want to tell him that I am not part of some mathmatical formula that fits perfectly into his life. I'm completely me; crazy, confident, insecure, kind, bitchy, sympathetic, overwhelming, pessimistic, a free spirit, impulsive, driven, pyscho and a clean freak. I don't think even Enstein himself could come up with an f-ing formula for me.

In unrelated news, I quite possibly did the worst thing a family member could do that is not illegal, immoral or just plain gross. I forgot to call my own brother on his 35th birthday. Who in the hell does that? There is no defense that I can come up with for this one. And actually, this is the second time it's happend. I deserve to be stoned (with rocks, not with plants)!

Viva La Mexico!

2005-09-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

Over the Labor Day Weekend, Donny and I took off to Yosemite National Park. It was extremely relaxing to get away from the traffic, the people, the rat race and smog among other things, and into nature. It's been over a year since we've made the effort to plan a camping excursion. There are a couple of reasons why we haven't been making too many treks. For instance, San Diego is located in the most southwestern corner of the United States and you almost inevitably have to drive through Hell A (most of you know it as L.A.) to get to the good parts of California. Additionally, in order to beat the traffic you have to leave between the hours noon and 1:30 p.m. or expect to sit in some MAJOR delays (we're talking hours and hours people).

Mexico, on the other hand, is a hop, skip and jump away, but the border wait coming back from T.J. is hellacious. Just picture a mass of people attempting to play to your sympathetic side by a) washing your car with a rag that has clearly not been cleaned since it was dug out of a dumpster, b) holding a "baby" which is actually a bundle of blankets with a brick in the middle or c) selling an assortment of tacos probably made from a stray dog/cat/insert other animal.

When a couple of friends joined us on a surfing/camping trip to La Fonda, Mexico, we watched a particularly disturbing site on the wait to cross back into the States. We had been slowly moving up to the border patrol agents and until that point, had been in the car for about 1.5 hours.

It is hard to describe the "scenery" that one experiences while waiting to cross the border. People sell everything from water and food to giant sized statues of Mary to an assortment of WWE wrestling masks. The closer you get to the crossing, the more concentrated the efforts to make a sale become. There is also no escape from the bombardment of the different array of people and products, which eminently causes sensory overload. Besides the vendors, the sheer mass of cars waiting to cross the border is overwhelming. Crazy Californian drivers do not hold a candle to the chaos of Mexican drivers. Using your blinker is completely useless and you're better off just to crank the wheel and hope that the person in the dented 1980 Pinto doesn't hit you. There is no such thing as "lanes" either. You just have to hope that the line of cars you're following leads to the USA. We didn't help our cause any to due to the fact that our car reeked B.O., camp fire, booze and dirty clothes. Finally, the gates that would lead us out of the circus came into view.

At the same time, another site caught our attention.

There was a man, who I am assuming was mentally challenged. Whether he was born that way, contracted a disease or the resulting impediments were self inflicted is not known. At first, he was looking into the car windows of everyone waiting to get past the border patrol agents and talking some sort of gibberish. He started knocking on windows and really getting up close and personal. As we started creeping closer, the man proceeded onto another task.

He was attempting to unwrap a 20 pack of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum. This, in and of itself, is not a reason to become concerned. Until that is, he spent 20 minutes just wrestling with the packaging. Like a car wreck, we couldn't take our eyes off of him. Every once and a while he would tear off a little piece of wrapping, which would subsequently stick to his fingers. Then he would drop the gum on the street and violently shake his body in an effort to rid the plastic of his fingers. This whole scene replayed itself like a bone crushing hit on Monday Night Football, which the commentators insist on viewing over and over again.

After nearly 2.5 hours of sitting in a rancid smelling automobile and witnessing some more than unique events, everyone in the car was about to start tearing chunks of their hair out from the lack of physical movement and the bizarre environment. And, of course, we picked the f-ing slowest line, with the border patrol agent with the biggest ego.

FINALLY, we made it out of the Twilight Zone.

Hung Over and Over It - The Day After

2005-08-25T14:34:00.000-07:00

The B-Party was something to remember, only I don't remember a damn thing. I'm just glad it's over. If only I could have completely fast forwarded through the next day.

Sunday, August 21st

After the prior night's festivities, I wake up at 9-ish, wondering where the hell I am and why my feet are so dirty (a thought I would later recollect). I surprisingly don't feel like I'm on my death bed... yet.

Just as I'm starting to feel a little queasy, my brother (the groom) comes barreling through the door with McDonald's breakfast. My saving grace! I inhaled three hash browns and two breakfast burritos in an attempt to forego the hangover looming in the background. I know that I have a plane to catch and need to get my ass moving. I shower, pack up my stuff, talk to my dad about seeing the cop that arrested me when I was sixteen, and get ready to go to the airport.

I've always had a thing with motion sickness, like whenever I'm in a car or airplane or carnival ride, basically anything that moves. I once threw up on one of friends when I was in sixth grade at the county fair. It was in the ride that you are completely enclosed with one other person and were turned upside down repeatedly while the body of the machine was moving in a circular motion (I'm making myself nauseous describing it). I threw up water melon in my mouth and I turned to my friend to show her that my mouth was full of barf...opps. I vomited projectile style all over the enclosure and all over both of us.

Anyway, the ride to the airport was nothing special except that I was starting to feel a little sick to my stomach. I thought if I could make it to the airport, everything would be alright (yeah, right). I did make it to the airport and said goodbye to my brother by yelling, "It's okay if you have herpes!" I'm glad I still had my wits about me.

In the airport, I purchased three drinks; a bottled water, Gatorade, and a Diet Mountain Dew. Just in case, I also bought some crackers and cherry Twizzlers. As I waited for my plane to board, I knew I wasn't feeling 100%, but I thought I was getting better. I sufficiently hydrated myself and ate the crackers.

I made a joke on the way to the airport that I would have to sit by a fat person or a screaming kid. Well, it turned out to not be a laughing matter because a woman sat right next to me...with a one year old baby (this was one of those "oh shit" moments). I definitely would have preferred fat at this point.

The plane ride was basically hell. It was so turbulent that I would have bounced out of my seat if not for my safety belt being fastened (how are those supposed to save you in a life or death accident by the way?). The headache started in the frontal portion of my head. I was told that I needed to pass out in order to survive the ride. I did for 20 minutes. I woke up and my head had a heart beat. I think my brain was so swollen that it was becoming too big for my skull.

Then the kid started playing with a little toy... that had a big ole bell on it. Next thing I know she dropped it on the floor and began a full on temper tantrum. Oh my God. Now, not only did my head have a heartbeat, but it was throbbing all the way down to my last vertebrae. I seriously thought my brain was going to implode. Never in my life have I felt such pain.

The captain came on the intercom and informed everyone that we were beginning our decent, "into the San Diego area" and that we would be on land in about 25 minutes. That last twenty five minutes was hell on earth. The plane had to travel through clouds again, which meant the it would virtually be playing bumpy cars with air pockets and I was along to join the fun. I had fought the urge to vomit this far and I was determined to make it until we landed, that was until my body said, "I told you were going to pay bitch!" I grabbed a flight attendant by the arm and asked if I could use the restroom. She replied, "Well, you better not seeing as it's so bumpy." Crap. I told her in not so many words that I was going to puke everywhere. She pointed to the little airplane barf bag.

I had no other choice. I puked in the green plastic bag.

I had to hold onto my own vomit until the plane landed. I wiped my hands and mouth on my jeans and felt like shit. The flight attendant came back with a garbage bag and cold and wet towels. A lot of good that did after I had already wiped the chunks off on my clothes.

Finally, people started unloading the plane. I was in the back and had a little wait time. I thought I started to feel better, but that was just wishful thinking. Involuntarily, I practically ran over the other passengers in the aisle to get to the bathroom. The hash browns, breakfast burritos and cherry Twizzlers didn't look so appetizing the second time around. Again, I felt better and convinced that I wasn't going to throw up anymore.

I stagger off the plane and call my husband, who is waiting for me with his two brothers. Shit, shit, shit. I start feeling a rumble in the jungle and I know I'm in for the long haul. I just hope I can make the 20 minute drive to my house.

We drop one brother off at another terminal and begin the journey home. I have my head out the window like dog trying to fight off the urge to puke... and it's a losing battle. I look around and pick up a styrofoam cup, rip open the lid and hurl (I figured if I could puke in an airplane barf bag, I had pretty good aim). The car reeked and my brother in law started dry heaving in the back seat. At this point, I feel like I had slammed my head into concrete block about a million times.

I puke once more into another styrofoam cup, but this session was different from the others. I had nothing left in my stomach and began a series of noises which must have resembled a dying cow. I'm talking throwing up from the deepest, darkest pits of my stomach.

We pull into the garage and thank God. I know I'm on the downhill side of the worst hangover of my life, but not yet totally out of the woods. I throw up, pass out, wake up, try to eat and throw up again. Enough already!

The hangover lasted a total of two days and inspired me to dive into a "non drinking" phase. Thus the title for these last few entries, "Hung Over and Over It."

Hung Over and Over It - The Big Day

2005-08-24T07:52:00.000-07:00

After sufficiently embarrassing my family the evening before and waking up with a nagging headache, the last thing I want to do is go to a bridal shower. Who in the hell actually likes bridal showers? I push through the awkward socializing and butt kissing like a champ and try to prepare mentally for the B-Party.

Saturday, August 20th

I'm sitting with the bride to be and my brother (the groom to be) at their place shooting the shit. I feel like I'm going to pass out, but I can't and so I chug a Bud Lite and a Red Bull (my body is saying, "You are going to pay for this bitch!").

Since I was a tequila champion the night before, my brother buys the most expensive bottle of tequila he can find for the B-Party. Bad idea.

The party gets started by all the bride to be's friends coming over. There was a gigantic blow up penis, boobie tassels, an enormous penis flashlight (I carried that around all night) and a cake complete with a frosted penis that stood about 6 inches high. Basically, all the things necessary for a B-Party.

I'm feeling slightly out of place and I figure the best solution is to get everybody wasted. Bring on the tequila!

The rest of the evening was basically disastrous. In between shots at the bar, I had a bisexual lady hit on me. She told me, "You're beautiful and I want to make out with you," and when I told her I was married she said, "Well, haven't you ever wondered?"

Umm... NO!

She was a friend of a friend of one of the girls that was there and I spent the rest of the evening avoiding her.

The night was winding down, or maybe that was me falling on the ground repeatedly, but out of my drunken haze I see a police officer. No, I didn't get into any sort of altercation, but why in the hell do I recognize him?

Oh wait, that's right... he was the police man who busted me for shop lifting when I was sixteen (I'm talking a felony charge and spending some time in the clink)! Of course, I cordially introduced myself and thanked him for setting me straight. He looked at me like I was insane, but I'm sure he was thoroughly impressed that I had obviously taken a new direction in life.

The journey home was filled with peeing in the street, talking shit to random guys and basically all the things a belligerent drunk asshole does. I vaguely remember puking my guts out when I got home and eating some cold ass buffalo wings. But I don't remember calling my husband and he still hasn't told me what the hell I said to him!

The full glory didn't start until the next morning though.

Hung Over and Over It - Meet the Focker's

2005-08-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

Well, after my episode of insanity the night before, I managed to pull my shit together for work the next day.

Friday, August 19th

This was the day that I was to fly to Colorado and begin the drunken festivities that are a prerequisite for my family at any social gathering. If I had a problem with hives, I would have an intense breakout every time I thought about my family, let alone have physical contact with them.

My mother and brother, Chester (yes, that is his REAL name... my mom liked the "ch" sound) came to pick me up. As soon as we start walking to the car, Chester gets in my spaghetti by telling me that I look too skinny and that I need to gain about 20 pounds.

Immediately, I want something cold, refreshing and alcoholic in my mouth.

I tell my brother to get off of my nut sack before I drip dirty ball sweat in his mouth. My attempt at shutting his mouth by grossing him out does not deter his efforts.

I also learn in the car that we are going to dinner with my other brother (and groom to be), the bride to be and the Focker's (the in-laws). I guess the Focker's have been waiting to meet me. What the hell does that mean?

We show up at the restaurant where the Focker's, groom and bride to be are already there and are sufficiently wasted (I would be too if I had to endure a shitty Rockies' game at 3:00 p.m.). I order two Miller Lites in a futile attempt to catch up. As usual, I slam the beers, but this time something is different.

I keep trying to get this big burp I have in my throat to come out. I'm sitting in the booth shaking my neck and head like a rooster. Already the Focker's are looking at me like I'm the kid who managed to get out of a locked closet. As it turns out, a burp was not trying to escape my stomach, but a large amount of beer foam.

I proceed to burp foam out my mouth and onto my clothing and the table for a good five seconds. Wow, talk about an awkward moment and who in the hell burps beer foam?!?. I immediately yell at the server and order a shot of tequila for me and my brother, the groom (I'm thinking right about now he needs it). Then I order two more shots for the both of us for good measure.

A little background on my brother, the groom. He is 34 years old, never been married and no kids. He is quite possibly the most tactless person I have ever met (yes, there's somebody worse than me). When I introduced my future husband to my family for the first time, he says, "Hey Martha, how did Donny's dick taste your mouth last night?" Oh, and my dad was in the conversation. This is only ONE instance in which my brother has caused me to feel utter humiliation and there are countless others no less embarrassing. But...pay backs are a bitch!

The dad Focker prods me for a little dirt on my brother, the groom. So, I tell them that my brother's balls are so big that he has a bra for them. Now I'm waiting for my brother's response. It should be something along the lines of, "At least my shit doesn't need padding." I wait and wait...nothing. He just sits there in the corner.

The flood gates proceed to open.

Before I know it, I'm telling my brother's future in-laws the time when he and his friend let me watch soft porn when I was 11 years old while they made a beer pyramid and when, at the urging of my brother, I screamed, "I want to have your baby!" to another one of his friends while he walked to receive his college diploma in front of 5,000 people (I think I was 13?). My poor father.

After taking a breath to reload my air supply, I realize that everyone is starring at me with their mouths wide open. I think Father Focker shit his pants. I hadn't even gotten to the really good stuff. Before I can continue my rant, my mother whispers, "Martha I don't think this is appropriate dinner conversation."

I respond by saying, "Yeah, and it was SO dinner appropriate when my brother (the groom) asked me if I spit or swallowed when I was in college."

I just had to take it to the next level and honestly, I feel no shame. Just to see my brother's face turn from red to purple will put a smile on my face for a long time.

And just think, I still had the bridal shower and B-Party the next day.

Hung Over and Over It

2005-08-22T14:18:00.000-07:00

I made it back from Colorado and the B-Party in one piece, but just barely. I would like to give you a synopsis of last Thursday, Friday and Saturday in three separate entries.

Thursday, August 18th:

Since I was flying to Colorado for the weekend, my husband thought it would be a good idea to invite his two brothers out to San Diego for the weekend. I work literally two minutes from the airport and I picked up Brother #1 at the airport at 2:00pm, but before I did this, I dropped off a friend who was flying to Maryland. I had the brilliant thought that I needed to send her off in style. So I bought three little hotel liquor bottles and a diet 7-up. I peer pressured her into drinking two of the bottles before she got on the plane. Being the good friend I am, I drank one with her.

So, I pick up Brother #1 and proceed to head down to the beach to go surfing. Of course, I need to make a liquor store run before going. I slammed two 16 ounce Miller Lites and hop into the ocean with my surf board. No big deal right?

After 30 minutes or so I get out, drink another beer and decide it's a good idea to go for a run... a 5 mile run. The idea is extremely odd in the first place, but that's not the end of it. In S.D. there is a boardwalk that everybody uses to walk, run, rollerblade, bike, etc., and I went running at the time that every Tom, Dick and Harry are exercising.

Then, I just started screaming at people. I thought I am the cheerleader of the boardwalk. Anybody who looks like they are going to break a sweat, I give them a "Good job!" or "Keep it up!" I even pushed the envelope more by yelling at a black lady, "You go sister! That's what I'm talking about!" Seriously, I yelled some words of encouragement to everybody I saw.

At the halfway mark I needed to hydrate myself. I spotted some guys drinking domestic lite beers. Perfect! I slam a beer like my life depends on it and finish off my run, but don't worry, I still kept screaming at everybody that I went by.

It's not over yet.

Finally, I'm back at the beach and I rip off my sweaty running clothes and change into my swim suit. Like a maniac I down two more Miller Lites and run into the water and swam for an hour.

What's up psycho?

Bachelorette Party

2005-08-17T08:55:00.000-07:00

My brother, who is 34 years old, has finally decided to forego bachelorhood and join the ball and chain club and I have been invited to the all important Bachelorette Party for his fiance. Since I'm the only sister my brother has, I'm a bridesmaid by default and I feel an obligation to go and mingle with all of her friends.

I have this vision of meeting all of these women I don't know and watching them from the corner of my eye give my the "up and down" stare repeatedly. This group of friends is in their late twenties and early thirties, but it doesn't matter what age a woman is because most of us never outgrow our ability to make an outsider feel completely uncomfortable and socially inept.

Normally, I wouldn't have too many reservations about meeting a new group of people, especially when we're all going to be wasted. But I've already been warned by my brother (the groom) that this particular group of friends can be catty, which becomes apparent when a moderately attractive female infiltrates their territory.

I consider myself moderately attractive.

So, I have to go and make nice with all of her friends that I have never met and I don't even know the fiance that well to begin with!

All bitching aside, I'm going to have a great time getting the fiance plastered. Hey, she's marrying my brother and he would consider it an injustice if I didn't make an ass out of her.

Besides, he's going to Vegas for five days for his Bachelor Party. I would give anything to have some cock n' balls so I could be invited to go.

Ouch

2005-08-16T15:13:00.000-07:00

My ass blew up again and again at work today. I feel like battery acid is coming out of my anus. Every time I get the "poopy" cramps, I want to stick a cork up my butt. Instead, I resort to awkwardly excusing myself from whatever meeting I'm in or phone conversation I'm having (because shit can never decide to come at a convenient time) and sit in pain on a piece of uncomfortable porcelain while sweating through my clothes. Not to mention the wide array noises that erupts from my ass. They're kind of like snow flakes...not one of them is the same.

AND I had to scamper into a ditch last night while I was running and crap on in what looked like raw sewage. Oh, and I wiped my ass with some leaves I found. I'm feeling a little itchy-scratchiness going on downtown.

Crapping while running has been my forte since high school. There's not a car I wouldn't squat behind or bathroom toilet I wouldn't stick my ass on. When the Poopy Monster takes over, a person does things he/she normally wouldn't do, unless of course, paid a large sum of money.

Yes, I am obsessed with bowel movements, and it's not just limited to my own.

Basically I can't wait to go running tonight.

Blahhhhhh!

2005-08-16T14:51:00.000-07:00

I hate being grown up.

The only good thing about it is I can eat ice cream for breakfast and stay up late watching all the MTV I stomach any day of the week.

But then if I do chose to eat ice cream, I'll have a sugar rush in the morning and feel like crap the rest of the day at work (and work days last entirely too long already) or I'll just end up joining the overweight and obesity club like the other 2/3 of Americans (not that there's anything wrong with that). Same goes for MTV, if I stay up too late, I'm a pile the next day or I think I need to get plastic surgery to look like Angelina Jolie. Now that I think about it, her lips are WAY to big for my head.

I did have a itsy-bitsy chance to live the life of luxury (not that my life is sooooo horrible now), but I married for love. And when you marry for love, the majority of the time it is to a person in the same social class as you. I'm glad I married for love because the thought of having to see some old, fat, hairy in all the wrong places naked man is not my idea of of a good night.

Back to being a lame grown up. Actually, I would rather be financially supporting myself than living with Dad rent and expense free, thus creating a total waste of space. That doesn't mean I wouldn't want the opportunity for a couple of months!

Kids or no kids?

2005-08-12T09:01:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've been contemplating the prospect of having children, which is not necessarily a good thing. I'm 25 and my biological clock has started.

At first, my clock was saying, "Hmmm... kids are kind of cute, but you do have to wipe their shitty ass."

Then, it was like, "Ahhh!! Will that freakin' kid every stop screaming!?! I'm gonna...wait, look how cute she is! Oh, the scream is like the sound of angels."

Now, that damn clock is telling me, "Kids are the coolest. Don't you want to be a mommy?"

Basically, I'm doomed. I've definitely caught the baby bug. I sometimes get chills at the idea of me being a "Mom." The whole responsibility of being one of the two most influential people in a child's life is overwhelming. On the other hand, it's kind of exciting! I know that my in-laws and my own family would be hysterical at the notion of my husband and I starting our own brood. And I mean "hysterical" in a good way, seriously I promise.

Then there's the other side of having kids. You know, the whole give up your own life to raise your children to be productive members of society. I'm looking forward to the stretch marks and really can't wait for the throw up in my hair and shit all over the room. And I don't believe that whole, if it's your own kids throw up or shit, it's really not that bad. Are you kidding me?!

My husband and I went to NYC for our 2nd wedding anniversary. There happened to be a heat wave while we were there. Walking around in 100 degree weather with 110% humidity is like being in a sauna, except there's no exit. Anyway, we were strolling down Manhattan and we see this kid in a stroller. The mom is near by and there are other small children around. The kid in the stroller starts coughing and coughing. Then, he threw up red stuff all over himself. The mom was like, "Oh" and shrugged her shoulders.

Gross. So maybe I've persuaded my biological clock to shut up (at least for a little while).

Friends

2005-07-26T09:47:00.000-07:00

Discovering friendships after high school or college can be somewhat difficult. At least in high school a person is assigned a group of friends for at least four years, whether or not you actually liked the people is a different story. And in college, I joined a sorority and had instant friendships that lasted until I graduated. After college, Donny and I decided that we wanted to do a little exploration and get out of our respective home states for a while (which are Montana and Colorado). Little did we know that we were moving to a place in which it is virtually impossible to meet people that actually have not bought a part on their body let alone run into anyone down to earth.

So, I have one of my very best friends coming to San Diego all the way from Florida! I'm so excited to see her and really have some good girl time (not porn style or anything). I never realized how important is was that a woman develop good friendships with other women. I miss doing all the things that we used to do...well almost everything.

Our friendship came about when we were in middle school, which was the worst time of my entire life for me. I kept getting taller and taller and basically, I had no boobs, which hasn't changed actually.

Anyway, my friend and I would definitely get into too much trouble together. In high school, when one of our birthdays rolled around we would go to the mall and ask each other what the other wanted. Sounds normal right? Well, then we would shoplift the item and move onto the next store and continue until we were satisfied with our "purchases."

Bad, bad idea. Let's just say I ended up learning my lesson.

I haven't seen her in two years and I have that nervous excitement that has seemed to permanently settle in my stomach and throat. So naturally, when she comes in, we will drink wine and get drunk. Then we won't have to deal with each other being nervous. We can just enjoy our drunkenness...for a whole week.

alleluia, praise the Lord, it's Friday!!!

2005-07-22T09:25:00.000-07:00

Ahhh...yes today is Friday. The only day in an adult's otherwise redundant routine, where a person actually has a reason to be happy. If you detect a hint of pessimism in my writing you're a freakin' genius.

Sundays are depressing because I know that I have to wake up early the next day, dress in business attire and do my hair and make up. Not that I don't enjoy looking nice, it's just the matter of knowing that I have do so. Mondays suck entirely, especially if I decide to drown my sorrows in wine the evening before. Tuesdays feel like the week is lasting forever, but by the time Wednesday rolls around, I start to feel more optimistic about the work week. Thursday is actually a breeze because I'm franticly attempting to get everything done before Friday morning. Then there's Friday. Oh, it is the best day of the week. I woke up this morning knowing that this was the last day of the week in which the blasted alarm would startle me out of my beauty sleep.

Do people actually "work" on Fridays if they can help themselves? By around 2 p.m. I am a complete mongo (retard). My brain turns to mush and all I can think about is the fact that I do not have to go back to work for two whole days! The mongo factor is multiplied during the summer months in San Diego. I work a 2 blocks from the ocean so I'm basically distracted half the time by thoughts of surfing and enjoying an ice cold beer on the beach.

What am I doing this weekend you ask? I have a very fun Saturday planned in which I will run to Nordstrom's with my husband to pick up some shoes he ordered, go grocery shopping and, since I'm feeling particularly wicked, I think I'll even get the oil changed in my car. I'm now going to go throw up and lay in the fetal position in the bathroom until I can go home.

On a brighter note, does anyone watch the T.V. show, "Hooking Up?" It's about singles living in Manhattan and dating via the Internet. It's fucking hilarious and it's on Thursday nights.

Am I crazy?

2005-07-21T17:30:00.000-07:00

I've always considered myself a little eccentric, but never crazy...that is until I decided that I wanted to switch careers and my husband told me I was weird. People graduate from high school and then go to college or receive special training. I understand those stages; however my husband informed me that our next "stage" in life was when we are 60 years old! His belief is that people aren't supposed to thoroughly enjoy their careers because the career provide a mean to do the things that people do like to do. For instance, going to happy hour, on a weekend trip or planning a vacation. I don't buy it.

What kind of people stay in a cubicle for 25 years? Seriously. If you've ever seen the movie, "Office Space," that's the kind of hell that I worked in. I started out in that company as a secretary and what made it worse was I had a boss who was a born again Christian (not that there's anything wrong with that). On a Friday night, he kept me until 6:15 p.m. talking about how Jesus saved his life and how He would save mine too. Can you say human resources issue waiting to happen? I apparently was also his dog. I would be sent to fetch his lunch...from his freakin' car in the parking lot and he would ask it in front of a room full of people. Talk about feeling like a piece of meat. I also had to take lunch when he took lunch so I could be at his disposal. He was a cheap, ignorant asshole.

My point is, why should I have to stay in that particular company, business or industry? Isn't the most important thing that I'm gainfully employed? So, this brings me to my current dilemma. I like where I work and the people that I work with, but I do not want to be a lifetime banker. It is completely fine for those people who have found their niche and what they excel in to stay in the same career. But I don't want to and more importantly, I don't have to! If I want to start taking pictures of snails for a living, I should be able to...without catching any shit!

The way I look at it is, if I'm happy then my husband is happy. If I'm unhappy, my husband wants to kill me. Wouldn't he rather me be happy?

Terrorism...it sucks bad

2005-07-08T12:15:00.000-07:00

Basically, terrorists are the scum of the earth. I have a great idea for all terrorists or people considering becoming terrorists...get a day job! Become a productive member of society! I know it's a crazy idea, but the thought of innocent people being the butt of some religious statement or otherwise makes me positively disgusted. I know that this is a touchy subject, but the more we avoid things that people uncomfortable, the more we sink into the depths of ignorance.

Think I needed to get that off of my chest? Shall we move onto something less political? What do you think about Hillary Clinton (or as I like to call her, Satan)? Satan will be running for office when Bush's term ends in 2008. I realize that there are a lot of Satan lovers out there, but let's face the music people! I am a woman who is independent, gainfully employed and a regular at the voting booths; however this country would be worse off with a woman as President, especially if Satan was to miraculously buy, barter, and/or bed her way into the White House (again!... or was that Bill?).

Once politicians scramble into the realm of a presidential election race, most morals, ethics and consciences disappear like underwear on a prom date. Speaking of underwear coming off, let's talk about Bill Clinton. I don't have a nickname for Bill. I don't think he's inherently evil like his wife. However, it is time for the Democratic Party to find a new poster boy, but are democrats really desperate enough to lay their hopes of the future on Satan? I know John Kerry didn't work out so well, but there's got to be someone else on deck.

I know what to talk about now...the war! Living in San Diego, I have run into many men that have served in the Middle East, but they really don't look like men until they come back from the war. It's amazing to me that 18 and 19 year olds are fighting an enemy they can't see. I've seen them in the airports getting ready to depart for their tour and I've seen others who have just returned. It's amazing how naive and tender they look before they leave and how weary and disillusioned they are when they come back. Just listening to them tell the story of part of their journey warms up the tear ducts. They have given up so much and their reverence and strength make me proud to call myself an American.

Okay, okay. I'm off of my soap box now!

Drinking disasters

2005-06-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

College is the only time in a young person's life where it is socially acceptable to party until 4 in the morning and walk around the entire next day in pajamas. Oh, how I miss those days. The hangovers were a tad less life threatening, there were zero social obligations and responsibilities that I had to attend to and to top it all, my dad was footing the bill. Don't get me wrong, I am one of those spoiled kids who had their college paid for, but I wasn't on the 7 year bachelor's degree plan and I held down a steady job at Arby's (for six months at least).

Nowadays, I'm an average working Jane. About every 6 months, however, I feel the need to remind myself that I am not the drinking champion I once used to be. Case in point: When my husband and I moved to San Diego we did not know a single soul. So what do people normally acclimate to when feeling out of place? You're right, mass amounts of drinking. One Saturday afternoon, we decide to venture out into the public. We end up at a hooka bar in a beach community called Pacific Beach. Let's just say that this town is like a bad 80's hangover complete with leather faced men and women, which of course there's nothing wrong with. A "hooka" bar is where people can smoke nicotine free flavored tobacco out of a device that looks like drug paraphernalia. Okay, whatever, I'll try anything. Four 16 ounce Miller Lites and two Hooka bowls later I'm feeling pretty damn good. I think I'm more attractive as well and therefore, I'm feeling more confident. I begin to dazzle people with my extraordinary wit and humor. My husband and I are walking with more vim and pride. Onto the next bar! We're all smiles and laughter. It doesn't matter that I haven't eaten anything or that I ran 9 miles before I embarked on my journey.

So now we're at a sports bar complete with about 127 plasma t.v.'s and plenty of college football. I think it's a good idea to order more Miller Lites and some nachos. The only problem is that I can't seem to insert the delicious melted cheese and toasted corn chips into my mouth. Oh no, I would rather drink the piss colored concoction. I feel like Homer Simpson at this point and I probably started to resemble him as well. Pretty soon, the beer no longer tastes like beer but water! "Oh, shit" I think to myself in a half conscious fashion. I know now that I have reached the point of no return. Once alcohol begins to taste like the river of life, I am in the for the long haul. I vaguely remember making friends with three Navy Seals and then making a complete ass hole out of myself.

Fast forward to the next memory I retained. I am walking on the sidewalk. Well, I really wouldn't consider it walking looking back. It was more of a death march. It was a struggle to put one foot in front of the other because by this time, all of my motor skills had become mush. But I do know that I thought it was a good idea to stop back at the hooka bar to grab some of delicious tasting tobacco. Well, I end up in the bathroom throwing up. I remember thinking to myself, "Okay Martha, you need to walk out of here and get to the car." That's as far as I got to walking out of there and getting to the car. I passed out in the girls bathroom and my husband had to come and pull me out and practically carry me to the car. Keep in mind that we are completely out of our element, having only lived in San Diego for a month or so. After we safely get to the car, I think I'm out of the woods. Oh, wait, maybe not. I proceed to throw up into my jacket I had brought in the instance I got a little chilly. And then I throw up out the window and all over my arm. Let's just say that I swore off drinking for about a week, which is a long time considering I've been drunk since I was born. This is one of the worst experiences (yes, there's more stories since living here) of my life.

The hangover the next day was not only physical, but emotional. Between dry heaving sessions and cold sweats, I could see my husband out of the corner of my swollen eye. Let's just say the look he gave me wasn't one of admiration and love. No, the look was rather disgust and sheer astonishment. And to think, at this point, we had only been married 2 months.

This is one of those stories that my husband gets embarrassed when I tell it. In fact, he is down right annoyed, but for some reason, I feel liberated when I admit to my public and private humiliation. And 2 years later, we are still happily married, or at least I am.

My butt hurts and other things

2005-06-24T17:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, so I am a 25 year old married woman. I'm basically in the stage of my life where I'm in denial that this is what I was looking forward when I "grew up." Seriously, college plays a cruel joke on people with professors telling them that they can do whatever they want and that a bachelor's degree means a shit. When I graduated, I felt like I was kicked in my ass onto the curb without any clothes on. I know, that can be a raunchy picture, but just go with me for a little while.

So now I live in San Diego where my husband of two years and I have lived since July 2003. Let's just say that married life in San Diego is somewhat strange. Maybe that's because no one else is married and if they are, they're having affairs with anything with two legs and a hole! Okay, okay, not everyone is a sex crazed animal, but more people are open with infidelity. The bar scene is very interesting. There's everyone from 18-55 on a Saturday in any bar in the city. And married folk are pretty sparse unless they are looking to swing and I don't mean dance. The bars are like a primal mating ground where people engage in rituals of some sort of primitive dance. Okay, most of the men have one mission... to get the closest girl next to them completely drunk and hope to get lucky. What a relief it is to know that I have a faithful husband that puts up with all of my crap and ask any member of my family, it's a lot of crap! I'm so relieved that I do not have to try to find "the one" at a stinky, sticky, hole in the wall bar. With my luck, it would be a tattooed man that goes by the name of Little Chuck and the only reason I'm talking to him is because my friends left me when I went to the bathroom! Oh well, Little Chuck is probably pretty interesting.

Oh, so today I come into work and I'm extremely relieved it's Friday. Although I'm late because I had issues this morning with my ass. Serious issues. Let's just say that I crapped a whole five course meal this morning and it wasn't over. Until 3:00 p.m. there was a constant rumble in the jungle. I think I have the "run to the bathroom while undoing my belt" bit down pat. And it's ok when a man does this because they're expected to stink, pick their nose and generally do disgusting things. But I'm supposed to be lady like and not let my ass explode every 1/2 hour. Well, sometimes even a classy woman like myself has to piss out of my ass. At my work we have one men's and one women's bathroom located right next to the lunchroom. Now, I'm just guessing, but that cannot be a very nice odor when walking in to eat lunch. Don't worry, I made an announcement to my coworkers to not enter the women's bathroom for about 45 minutes because "I just tore it up." My husband will be so proud of me when he finds out that I have started my very own blog! Now, people across the world can really see just how disgusting and rancid my mind really is. Ahhh...it feels good to let it all out.