Friday, January 29, 2010

Automatic Flushing Toilets

I have a routine at work each morning.
Come in, sit down, turn on computer.
While my computer gears up, I put my purse bag-o-fun (not to be confused with fun bags) away, and organize my water/gum/chapstick exactly how I want it.
Cuz who wants to be wondering, "Where's the chapstick?" 
Then I get my coffee and settle in for 30 minutes of twitter, facebook, and generally perusing the internet.

I don't feel guilty about this for 2 reasons:
1. If I didn't do it, I couldn't be productive.
I would be sitting in agony, wondering what the hell was going on in that big vast world as the social media realm silently passed me by.
2. They say we need to be here at "8:30" but that is apparently a loose term for 8:45-9:30.
I get it. These "fashionably late" assholes can't get here on time, so you tell EVERYONE to be here at 8:30. Well, thanks, I'm OCD which means I waltz in most mornings at 8:28 and feel guilty when I get here 10 minutes late even though NO ONE IS HERE TO NOTICE.
[Exit angry, bitter Courtney]

So of course I am scrolling through my live feed, determining who is worthy of my comments and I see this:

Katie: I worry that I am getting to used to the automatic flushing toilets at work. I almost didn't flush at home! What if that happened at a restaurant!! I had better to pay more attention! Does this happen to you?

Now, ahem, I am a tad bit embarrassed to admit how absolutely angry I got when I saw this post.
I know what you are thinking: Gah, she gets so ANGRY about everything.
I get angry about things that make my life inconvenient and dirty.
Excluding booty calls.
I'm chuckling pretty hard to myself right now.
Not because that was particularly clever, but because those haven't existed in my life in quite some time an eternity of seven hells.
And clearly, the chuckling was a moment of insanity that turned into heaving silent sobs.

Well. That's depressing. Now I just want jelly beans and vodka at 9 am.
To prevent further judgment and eating my feelings, I'm going to just pretend that didn't happen and keep moving forward.

I. loathe. automatic flushing toilets. 
I mean, really, what is the point?
Is it so that people who "forget to flush" don't cause issues where people start to walk into a stall and then immediately turn around and run to the next stall, thus resulting in bathroom traffic issues?
Omg!! There is pee in the toilet! AND toilet paper!! I can't use that one! Eeeeeew!
Um, hello? You are about to do the exact same thing. Just flush, wait, then squat.
Not hard.
I've also been glared at many a time for walking to the front of the line, asking why someone isn't using the stall, flushing the "out of commission" toilet and cutting 10 lovely (lazy) ladies.
You weren't using it.
This is completely different from when a giant log gets wedged in the toilet and is polluting the toilet water to a mississippi-river like consistency.
Somebody please tell me how a woman can clog an industrial toilet?
Do you know how much horsepower those things have?

Which brings me to my main point.
The automatic toilets never seem to "sense" me when I am done.
I'm lingering there, buttoning my jeans and waiting for the toilet to start flushing, but it never does.
So I wait, and I wait, and I wait.....
Then I flush it myself and wonder why we even have these things.

By the way, for you ruhtards, if you press that little black button, the auto toilet will flush non-automatically, and then you won't have a "used" toilet and cause scenario #1 stated above.

Then I walk out to wash my hands and apparently those automatic soap and water dispensers hate me too, so it takes 5 minutes to wash my hands.
Luckily, the paper towel sensors can always see me.

I think they like me because I am not particularly green and know I could be their saving grace in a world of air dryers.
those really fast hand dryers are so cool though. But at the same time I am kind of scared. It's like my hands are in a stage 10 tornado....or a kid on a roller coaster.

But then every once in awhile, the automatic flushing toilets (to be known as AFTs from here on out) realize that they have been neglecting me and go all gung-ho on my ass....literally.
There is nothing worse than walking into a stall, squatting over the toilet, and relieving your bladder only to find that the AFT wants to anally violate you.
All of the sudden, that bastard flushes and water/urine mix comes shooting upward.
At that point you have two options, you can "go with the flow" or scoot away from the toilet and pee your pants.

Merry Christmas, take your pick!

Thank you, AFT.
And by thank you I mean eff you.
If I wanted a damn bidet, or anal penetration for that matter, I would move to France.
So kindly take your water spraying pipes and suck it.
Of course, to add insult to injury, the toilet won't flush a second time when I am actually done peeing. I have to reach over once again and push that stupid little black button while the red cursor just blinks at me.
It sounds silent, but I know what it's thinking.
"Haha, gotcha good bitch. You like that?" 
Oh yeah, baby, I love being butt-raped in the airport bathroom by an sensor-activated toilet.
Do you call that a sneak attack or pre-ejaculation?
Just my idea of a typical Sunday afternoon.  

This can only lead to 2 conclusions:
1) I will not be advocating any AFTs in the near future.
2) I guess I've been getting more action than I thought.


Thursday, January 28, 2010

Why I think Red Wine and I should get married

I jokingly drunkenly tweeted the other night:
@cstanderfer: I think red wine is becoming my serious boyfriend. I long for it's warm embrace & can easily see myself spending the rest of my life with it.

I meant this as a simple witticism, which I found quite clever after my typical "instant mashed potatoes taste better when buzzed" pre-dinner glass of cab.
But then I started thinking....I really should look into a relationship with red wine.
My top 10 reasons:

10. I could marry Shiraz, Cabernet Sauvignon, or Sangiovese and keep my initials CSS.
This is imperative so I can keep my middle school AIM name of CS974.

9. Technically, if I get sick of one flavor, I can switch to another and still remain "monogamous," as long as it is still within the red wine category.
Wait, that doesn't sound right does it?
I'll just become wine-morman
Then I can get a planet if I'm good. A wine planet.

Moving on..... 

8. I personally feel that wine goes well with chocolate and whipped cream, which will be good for the bedroom.
I'll leave the cheese out of it.

7.  Red wine is friends with white wine. And lucky me, none of my friends are too fond of red, but they LOVE white!
So, yay! my friends will never try to steal my boyfriend, but they love his friends. Especially those cute little *spritzers* in the summa time!

6. When I get sick of Red, I just put a cork in him (preferable the one my granny got me "Alcohol=fun!") and POOF! he is gone!
con: I just "corked" my new bf with something my grandma gave me? errrr. awk.

5.  Red always makes me so much nicer. They always say you should go for someone who makes you a better person.
Unless of course I get a little overzealous. Then I turn into a slurring, nonsense talking, moody mess. Moderation, people, moderation.

4. Dad is a fan.
And I don't like that Gin character, so he is OUT. Except for those delish little cucumber gin martinis that tend to get me in trouble in Austin....

3.  I don't get sick of Red.
red::night as coffee::morning
 The answer:

Needed for survival.

2. But in case I DO get sick of him: his lingering self is always gone by morning.
Unless we get in a really big fight. Then he gets abusive and leaves me writhing in pain the next morning.

And the #1 reason:

He comes in bag form.
And we all know how much I love slapping the bag.

a. one sided sexual encounters
b. I don't think "drinking your bf" is appropriate....or do I?

c. I would have to have vodka as a cabana boy and then I would feel guilty for cheating and then I would have to get a therapist which really counteracts the purpose of having a relationship with cheap red wine.

So F me.
I guess I'm getting cats.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Lifetime Saves my Sundays

My name is Courtney, and I guilty of spending long Sundays on the couch watching Lifetime.
The movies are addicting. And not in a "I just flipped it on and couldn't stop watching" kind of way.
I go to on demand and turn that shit on.
Tory Spelling in white wash jeans? YES.
Evil wife kills husband mistress for cheating? YES.
I have been anticipating the debut for weeks now.
And last night, I giddily hopped into bed at 8pm to settle down for some good old-fashioned lifetime lovin.
The movie started with multiple make out scenes.
loves it.
Apparently these kiddos are quite slutty.
I mean, I wasn't having sex at 14, neither were my friends, and we certainly were not making pacts to have behbehs.
I was busy puking up smirnoff ice for the first time and wearing rubber bands in my braces to fix my cross bite.
But what really bothered me was that no one would really want to have sex with the main character Sarah.

I'm pretty sure when your hair is that red, it is inevitable for the carpet not to match the drapes.
And if someone did sleep with Slutty Sarah, it would most certainly not be Jesse, this handsome young rascal:

Yes, I do realize I am creepy for thinking someone who plays a high school boyfriend is hot.
And I am even creepier for googling him and finding out he was born in 1991, which is the same year as my little brother.
That's a different decade.
He probably doesn't even remember fraggle rock or squeeze its.
I would give him a nice haircut if I could get my hands on him to prevent a full blown douche look like Million Dollar Listing's Chad Rogers:

I think I have been thinking a little too much into this.
But my friend alissa seems to feel the same way (thank God for facebook).

Alissa Parmelee
I was disappointed in how unattractive Sara was... cuz her bf is f'n hot.
Yesterday at 8:44pm ·

So anywho, in comes super reporter Thora Birch.
Hocus Pocus, good movie.
Now and Then, great movie.
And now, Pregnancy Pact.

My favorite quote of the whole movie is when one girl tells her mom she is pregnant and then gets all melodramatic because her mom is not happy:
"Happy! No, I am not happy! No one wants to be a grandmother at 31!"
Time out. She is 15. You are 31. This means you had her at 16.
Well well well, teenage pregnancy at its finest.

Also good:
Thora: Didn't your mom's talk to all of you about the dangers of teenage pregnancy?
Girl 1: My mom, um, like, isn't really, um, my mom's not around much
Due to lack of sensitivity I too cackled busted a gut for a good 5 myself, in bed, watching lifetime.
And gchatting about it with my friends all the while.
My life is really turning out just the way I expected.

I kind of lost track of what happened at the end, but I think they all ended up alone, poor, and continuing in some vicious teenage pregnancy blackhole.
I got busy stalking a real, live girl skank i know who just had a baby.
I dug around for awhile before concluding the exact time she got pregnant and know she was not dating anyone.

I'm not all judgmental about one night stands.
But I don't think I'd be collecting a souvenir for that little adventure.

Then again, maybe it was all part of a PACT.

I love you Lifetime.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Liver Shmiver

It's one of those mornings.
By "one of those" I do mean Friday, which means I feel like death.
It's always nice to start the weekend off by swearing I will 'never drink again' which usually lasts a whopping 24 hours before I'm tempted to start up again at brunch Saturday morning.
Even now, a bloody Mary doesn't sound too bad.
One little burp is all it takes for my body to remind me that it is teetering on the edge of vomit.
So anyway, I awoke at the miserable time of 7:17 which sounds normal, but I didn't have to throw on a pair of jeans and move out to the living room until 10.
At first, I thought it was the immense amount of pain I was in that woke me up.
You know those throbbing headaches where you can feel your heart beat in your brain?
Yeah, take that, and then multiply by ten and throw me in front of a truck and that is how I feel.
Lucky for me, I am used to this sort of self-induced torturous behavior.
So I know that watching Jersey Shore, avoiding vegetables and dairy, and rekindling my love with G2 is the recipe for success.
But then I had a realization.
My pounding cephalalgia was not what caused my untimely wake.
It was the jackass across the hall.
Let me take you on a time traveling journey 2 months ago.
Dick and Harry across the hall had apparently had a super Sunday Funday.
I am usually too hungover to participate in this activity so I was licking my wounds on the couch when Harry came home.
From what I observed, Dave had drunkenly deadbolted the door and passed out in a death-like coma.
Harry decided the solution was to kick the hard as he could......for. an. hour.
He just wouldn't give up.
Personally, I was terrified.
I silently deadbolted my own door and then watched him through the peephole for the first 15 minutes. Then it became less amusing. then not amusing at all. then annoying. then I wanted to kill him.
I don't know what happened to Dave that night. I didn't care enough to figure out if he got in, and there was no way in hell that crazy mofo was going to be invited in to sit on my couch.
If he had acknowledged his little tantrum, I might even like Dave, in fact I have almost kicked in my own door due to deadbolting many a time in college.
But instead, Dave acted like it never happened as we bumped into each other outside our doors the next day.
And that is when I began to loathe Dave.
By the way, his name isn't Dave, and it's not Dick either. Clearly I made that up and then forgot what I named Thing 1 and Thing 2 across the hall.
The whole point of this was that the Door Slammer was back this morning.
It is really fucking necessary to slam the door?
And then forget your pants or phone or annoying juice or whatever the hell you forgot to make you re-enter and exit your apartment by SLAMMING DOORS.
You have neighbors, asshole. hungover neighbors who are trying to sleep.
So I derived a new plan to kill him.
Plain and simple.
I got the idea after I found heels and bleach in the trash chute when I was taking out the garbge earlier this week.

No more door slamming for Dave.

Of course there is another solution, too.
I could just avoid drinking a potent concoction of liquors and wine, thus avoiding the headache and being a generally more pleasant person, but that would involve giving up my liquid fun.
And that's not going to happen.

So F you, Dave.
And your braided belt too.

I'm not really going to kill Dave.
But not because I don't want to.
Because I think I am going to die before he gets home.
It's true. I am dying a slow death.
Somebody hold me.

Here is a haiku to remember me by:
beer, wine, vodka lime
my liver shudders in fear
it was fun. fist pump.

on second thought maybe I won't die so I can do it all over again tonight.....

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

I never claimed to be a good person.....

At least I don't think I ever claimed to be a good person.
I warn people.
I regularly describe myself as a bitch or an asshole.
A charming one at that.
But I don't have a "filter" as some may say.
As soon as my brain develops a thought it's like a lit piece of dynamite just waiting to escape my mouth. No time to think! I will explode if I do not get rid of this juicy morsel of wittiness.
Or at least that's my excuse.
But this, kids, is a little reminder of why you *just might* want to think before you leap.....

I left work last night in one of those teetering moods.
I could either be a good little healthy person and go for a run, or I could curl up with a fat glass of wine on the couch and eat the giant bag of chex mix my brother's girlfriend made him, which he conveniently forgot when he went back to college.
My loving mother donated this bag to me with a loving "I don't want it, I'll just eat it."
Well no shit! Give me that bag! 
Free food is a privilege these days! 

Anyway, I decided to go for a run.
Now here is how I operate.
Running in the morning - good.
Running at lunch - better.
Running at night - I will find any excuse to abandon the workout.
I won't even go up to my apartment. Seriously. I have to go straight to the gym and change there because if my couch intercepts I will never leave.
My ass groove in the couch actually cries out in agony if I try to leave it all by its lonesome between 6 and 10 pm.

Sign #1: I couldn't find a hair tye in my car.
Should have quit right then.
But no.
I found a hideous stretchy headband which I wrapped around my ponytail several times until it would serve as an appropriate hold for my hair.
It looked like a scrunchie.
Fine, whatever. I'm not husband hunting at the gym.

Sign #2 I forgot a towel.
I'm not a pretty work out-er.
I do not wear yoga pants.
I do not look like a fitness ad out of SELF when I'm done.
I sweat.
Like a 500 pound man climbing 100 flights of stairs.
But I decided I would just let the sweat burn my eyes and splatter the treadmill and then clean it with those annoyingly small little sanitary towels they keep around.

Sign #3: 
Get to gym.
Every machine is taken.
Even the bike.
Welp, that's it, I tried, okay SEE YA!
I wish.
For some reason I was just pissed off now.
Some beeyotch was walking at 2.0 on the end just plodding along.
Are you serious lady?
I burn more calories per hour lifting my right arm to bring sweet sweet wine to my lips.

Immediately, I decide to tweet about it:
because clearly, I feel the need to alert everyone of my thoughts and activities at all times.
thank you, constant social media connection. 

@cstanderfer I wonder if people who walk on the treadmill at an ungodly slow pace hate themselves as much as I hate them?

Another girl gets off the treadmill next to Pokey McTortoise-son shortly after that and I hop on.
About 20 minutes later she is finally done.
When she stopped she stood there for a minute and then turned for her walking stick.
Yes, her walking stick.

I mean seriously, I made fun of a blind person for working out.
Of course, she doesn't know, so I can't apologize to make myself feel better.
"Oh, hi. I was giving you evil glares while you were walking. I know you don't know, but I just wanted to tell you so I could apologize to make myself feel better. Okay see ya around, errr I mean, have a g'night KBYE!"

The even worse part is, I feel bad because I know it's wrong to make fun of a blind person.
I do.
But even after I self proclaimed myself an asshole on the blog and on twitter, I couldn't help but think:
She really could have prevented this. I ran inside because it was already dark. She could at least be considerate and walk outside. I mean...It doesn't make a difference right?

And even now, I know I should just highlight and *delete* but I can't.
Because she isn't going to read it.

I know what all of you are thinking.
If I get reincarnated I should come back as a blind person.

But that's not how it works.
It's not really an eye for an eye
(pun not originally intended but upon realizing it, it stays)
It's an eye for irony.

Therefore, my hellish punishment will be to come back with super sight and hearing.
And then I will be strapped to a chair and forced to watch a naked Rosie O'Donnell chatter on and on and on and on.....

All I can really say about all of this is that at least I'm not one of those passive aggressive people who pretend to be nice.
What you see find in front of you is what you get.

That's redeeming, right?
Maybe a little bit?

No? How bout this.
I am a big Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles fan.
And they are blind and black.
2 points.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Foxy Roxxxy

A $7,000-9,000 sexbot.
You heard me. She's made of rubber and is waiting to be doll raped.

Apparently some of the cons are:
She is not a he
But there is a male version named Rocky coming out for the desperate women and homo fellas (although I doubt any gay man would ever dream of resorting to this).

She sounds like a child.
I'm not really seeing the problem here.
I assume pedophiles and games who live in mama's basement are the only ones who would buy this and therefore it is quite appropriate for this bot to sound like a 12 year old girl.
Well, okay. I see the problem, but is it a con for the buyer?

She’ll talk as much as your real girlfriend or wife. 
If you think that lifelike movements are all you’ll be getting, you’re wrong. Peace and quiet are not perks to be had in this relationship. Roxxxy was designed to have a conversation with you. And she likes it mushy: "I love holding hands with you." Even worse, she snores. 
Who would design it to snore? WTF?
Roxxxy also says things like 
"I'm rubber and you're glue, your sperm bounces off of me and sticks to you!"


She's Easy.
Again, I think that's the point for these losers potential buyers.
Pretty sure peewee herman isn't a fan of "the chase"

Let's talk about the actual cons:
1. You are having sex with a rubber doll.
2. You have to clean her.
Well maybe not. Were you one of those kids who had mold growing in their retainer? Yes or no?
3. She has a bra and panties on, and you most likely cannot unhook a bra.
4. Your 75 year old mother probably doesn;t have the disposable income for Roxxxy.
5. Santa will not bring naughty boys toys.
7. She's a little too mainstream for Dungeons and Dragons lovers.
8. You are having sex with a rubber doll.

So, keep playing with your own joystick, gamers.
Foxy Roxxxy is outta your league.

However, for free rides, I recommend visiting the House of Wax.
Public Indecency?
More like Pubic Indulgency!

This is really adding new texture to "wearing a rubber."
Wonder if those wax dolls are ribbed for your pleasure?
Only time will tell!

Monday, January 18, 2010

And then I threw up a little in my mouth

I'm not particularly fond of the golden globes.
I like finding out who wins, but personally, I would say the speeches you have to endure to make it through the awards are comparable to being handcuffed to a chair after drinking 6 cups of coffee. You want to get up, in fact, it is physically painful to sit there, but you just can't move.
My mom and I switched to Desperate Housewives once we could escape the GGs, but that left the 6-8 time slot in which there was nothing else to watch.
At least we could watch the red carpet and admire the dresses, no?
Um, apparently not.
WTF Mo'nique?
Mo'nique needs to get some Mo'Nair

Although the thought of Mo'nique wearing short shorts is not a pretty picture either.
Hate to diss a sista on MLK, Jr. day but good lord.
This is not one of those "sexy European armpit" looks.
These are full blown linebacker legs.
Hey Monique, Brazil called to thank you for regrowing the Amazon rain forest via your appendages.
Excuse my french, but if her legs look like this I can only assume she has a fucking full blown afro bush sprouting from between her hair thighs.

Please note the following comments belong to Monique as proven right hurr.
In a 2006 appearance on US talk show The View she told Barbara Walters "I really think hair on a woman's legs is a black woman's thing".
Ummm. No, Monique I think that's YOUR thing. I wouldn't call myself an African American afficianado or anything, but I know a handful and all of them shave their legs.
"I must show America what a real leg looks like … because it's too much in the morning, every morning, to shave, to cut, you got Band-aids baby."
Yes, God forbid we spend 10 extra minutes in the shower. 
That is, if you shower.

She said she does, however, shave her armpits to avoid "stink".
Phew. Rest easy boys.

So that's it y'all.
Mo'nique is woman, hear her roar.
How "precious."

Now, in order to highlight someone with a real dream.
I just have to tell you that General Larry Platt was on the view today and did "Pantz on da ground" complete with break dancing and splits.

And the recap?
Baba Wawa tried to steal the spotlight by being the first reporter to do a television feature of Larry Platt.
Whoopi Goldberg and Sherri Shepherd were pissed because they claimed LP as "theirs."
Elisabeth Hasselbeck was excited to see a real live "colored person."
And Joy Behar cackled at her own jokes about Larry making an appearance in her "Vagina Monologue."

I really wish Ellen would have snatched him up first so I could see their dance off.
Ellen rocks.

In other news, I am currently typing this post alone in my parents house because I opted out of a nice dinner to drink wine, blog, and watch the bachelor.
Apparently some floozy is pregnant.
Who is the father?
Another "staffer"?
Who are these hoes?
Hey Jake, can't turn a hoe into a housewife, bro.

Tell them bitches to listen to Larry Platt.
Lookin like fools wit their pantz on da ground.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Hat Turned Sidewayz

I usually try to stay away from American Idol in the beginning.
But since nothing else, and I mean NOTHING (besides Home Alone 2: Lost in NY, that I have watched 5 times since Christmas), I decided to turn it on.
And who did I see?
reporting to duty.

1. You knew from the minute he opened those big ole lips and softly said "I...I am want to sang my song about pants on da ground..." That this was going to be GOOD!
2.I don't care if he is over the age limit or not, LPlatt is the best 62 year old break dancer I have ever seen!
3. In the words of @RebeccaHenken, "Who doesn't love a man with buttons?"

Listen Larry, you can loosen up my buttons any day. I'd love me one of those cute little black and white babies with a little fro (hey, they said it one Real World, so it must be PC).

And it goes:
Pants on da ground! Pants on da ground!
Lookin like a FOOL witcha pants on the ground.
Wit da gold in ya mouth, hat turned sideways
Pants hit da ground
Call yoself a Cool Cat, lookin like a fool
Walkin down the sidewalk wit yo pants on da ground!


According to Randy, he is going to "go buy some belts after this so my pants aren't on the ground!"
Well Randy, you probably should buy some belts. Yo-yoing between 30 pounds of weight can make pants buying very difficult.
Personally, I just prefer to wear no pants.
I quite like them on the ground.

Later this year, I will be touring with Larry, opening with my new single "Mom Jeans"

Pants atcha boobs, pants atcha boobs!
Lookin like a MOM witcha pants atcha boobs!
Braided belt in the loops! Pockets on yo back!
Pants hit ya boobs!
Call yoself a Cougar, Lookin like a Crougar!
Whitewashin denim wit ya pants atcha boobs.

I encourage all of you to visit his website where you can email the general!
Hells Yeah!

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

My name is Courtney, and I am a fruit fondler

That's right, kiddos. I'm on the prowl, and I want me some nanners.

It all started today at lunch. Since I was driving to and from the gym and drinking wine  really busy last night, I didn't want get a chance to go to the grocery store. So I moseyed on down to the Swan Cafe to holler at my girl and get a turkey sandwich. While I was waiting for my bird on bread, I saw them.....basking in the fluorescent light next to the older than dust cinnamon rolls....the bananas.

I really like bananas. But I'm OCD. I only like the big bananas that grow on the front of the bunch. I like them to have that angle on them. You know what I'm talking about? I also like them just the slightest bit of green, not the bitter green where you can't even peel the damn thing and then the bitter burn of mush puckers your whole face. Just a little green. Or at least bright yellow. None of those little brown dots. I like my nanners sans acne.

sidenote: co-worker Matt just caught me drawing bananas.
boy is my face red.

Lemme tell ya bought them apples.
I loathe mushy apples.
I like em crispy and crunchy.
Pink Lady apples are good, but the texture is usually all lumpy and weird, which freaks me out, so I go with the best I can find.
Bruises? No siree.
So I fondle the fruit.
I could spend 30 minutes in the fruit section.

Sometimes I even test out the grapes.
Gross, right?
You know how many hands have been on those grapes?
Too bad squishy grapes are grosser.
Are you sensing a pattern here?

I like em firm and big.

Or even small and firm if it's dried fruit.
I love raisins.
And craisins.
And Raisin Bran Crunch.
And ants on a log.
And California Raisins.

And raisin' hell.
Cuz that's fun too.
Is it 5:30 yet?

This post is terrible.
I'm going to go drink some wine, made out of hydrated raisins (grapes) but not the kind I fondle in Kroger.
K love ya, mean it, byeeeeee.

Monday, January 11, 2010

What new year's resolution

Today was a hellishly long day. Not in that "I hate my job and want to kill myself" kind of way, because I actually quite like my job, but rather in the sense that my eyes were burning so bad that I thought they were going to just swell shut and never open again.

I imagine my waking this morning was much like being born. There I was tucked in my warm little cocoon of a comforter happy as a chestnut roasting on an open fire. And then the sun rose.....

We will skip past the part where I slept at my parents' house because I was too lazy to drive home, and how I blew up the air mattress by mouth because I couldn't figure out the pump, and the fact that I even sleep on an air matress on a bare floor with no blinds....oh here we go. Yes, so I don't have blinds. At the exact moment that I roll over I am simultaneously blinded by the wrath of a thousands suns and deafened by the roar of "samba" on my alarm. F U MONDAY! Snooze.....

Then it all happened again 10 minutes later. It actually probably would have been a better experience if someone ha hung me upside down by one leg and slapped my ass until I cried.

I may not have survived without my savior of a mother waking up earlier than necessarry and making coffee. There is a special place in heaven for moms.

And equally a special place in hell for the person who invented the 9-5, which really seems to be more of an 8:30-6:30, which is not pleasant after my intense caffeine crash.

So this brings us to 6:30 when I left. I decided working out was what I should do. I grudgingly drove to the 24 hour downtown, missing two turns in my stupor and making a 5 minute trip closer to 20. I went into the parking garage, wound up 4 floors and maneuvered myself between a BMW and Mercedes who each took up far too much room, and turned of the engine. I sat there long enough to make eye contact with the two guys at the elevator an decided I hated everyone at the gym tonight. I turned the car back on and left.

It ddnt occur to me that 0-30 minutes in the garage still costs $3 until I got to the exit without parking validation. So I lied to the parking attendant. I looked him straight in the eye and sadly told him I forgot my tennis shoes, hoping my sad panda face was distracting him enough to fling those suckers from the passenger seat to the floorboard.

He mumbled something about validating both tickets when I came back but I had no time for that. I escaped the gym FO FREE!!

Now I'm sitting at home watching the bachelor with a fat glass of wine. You're probably thinking, "so what? We've all done it." this would be true. Except that I just got back from an 11 day trip that can only be described as bingefest.

Anywho. I'm just thankful I had wine, because the bachelor is currently reminding me why I pop open a bottle before I watch.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Hey, hey, I'm technical!