Do you have this Freudian Slip in my size?

This weekend, before the aforementioned romp to the shanty shak of ill-repute, my hubby and I stopped by good ol' Mommy and Daddy Dearest's home. We somehow got on to the topic of children. I have always seen our spawn as looking a bit like the Fry Guys from McDonalds, round hairballs with short legs. So I voiced my opinion: "Yeah, our kids are gonna look like hairy balls with short little legs."

I looked at Harry who had this look of utter shock on his face. "They're going to look like hairy balls?"

My dad busted out laughing. My mom was turning blue from effort.

"What?" I said, looking at my parents and husband, in turn, "WHAT?"

"You said our kids are going to be hairy balls." he said, shaking his head.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Well. Huh. Chalk that up to the "con" list of childbirth. Hairy Balls. Huh.

My eyes! MY EYES!

Saturday night, after attending his sister's 13th birthday party, having dinner with his grandmother and visiting with my parents, my hubby suggested a rather interesting way to finish up the evening: "Wanna go to Lion's Den?" Now, for those of you whom have never heard of this particular store, I can assure you that it has nothing to do with Disney's The Lion King (although many products DID have animal names). In fact, The Lion's Den is an adult superstore meaning that, everywhere you look you will see a person's laminated genetalia on the cover of a box.

Not being one to miss out on any blog-worthy fun I covered my mouth and giggled and said "'kay." Then I covered my eyes and giggled and said "No! I can't!" Then, I covered my ears, nodded and said "let's go!" I became the "Speak, see and hear no evil" chick in three seconds flat. I should've kept up my guard.

Upon entering the mirrored ceiling palace of porn we were i.d.'d and sent on our way. I stuck close to my hubby and avoided all eye contact. While he perused the shelf of Jenna Jameson movies, I decided to read the titles- just for fun. There were straightforward titles : "F me." and "F my wife, please, vol. 22" and then those titles that made you wonder: "F me harder, white boy" and my personal fave: "Say Aloha to my A-hola." I laughed out loud when I saw that one, a big no-no on the adult store circuit. Twelve pairs of hollow eyes swung towards me and I dropped four movies. The big meaty man at the front desk looked at my husband and said "Hey, tell her that all the movies she drops -you get to buy!" He chuckled at his own joke and Harry responded with a "No, no - too expensive!" And then gave me a dirty look when I dropped two more.

I left the movie section and ventured on my own -feeling brave. Funny how I can feel okay in the middle of shanty shack of ill-repute - but being in a grocery store alone gives me the willies (ha - get it? Willies! As in - oh - nevermind). I happen to see a large purple stand. It looks very clinical and even has pamphlets! Wow! I think to myself, pamphlets! Turns out there is a whole new line of toys for women, made by women! Home court advantage, I guess! :)

By this time Harry has directed me toward the ginormous wall of "substitute husbands" so to speak.

"Pick one out," he said, gesturing toward the wall filled with odd shapes and attachments. It looked like a Kitchen Aid aisle, only without the low prices. There was one there - "The Beaver" that was $129.95! I could hire a pool boy for that much! And another one - "The dolphin" for $89.95, but the most unusual one was "The Ghekko" um- I guess you could literally get f'd over by Geico....

So, we left a few minutes later. Harry got a few things to keep himself entertained and I got a new toy, a substitute hubby, if you will... So which one did I end up with? Well, you know me - I have expensive taste!!!

The most entertaining part of the experience? When we were leaving, the big burly man at the counter asked us : "Would you like some 'Barely Legal' with that today?"

Um, no... thanks.....

 

The Monktopus did it!

Once again you enter the realm of me and have all of my earthly tidbits to behold - wait - that's weird, right? What I just said - that went werid, right?

Okay - starting over...

Hello dear readers, friends, family and - um - other people. I once again have decided to enlighten you as to the typical morning in the Household of Mine. The alarm goes off at 5:54 a.m. I hit snooze until 6:15 am and then poke Harry, hard, in the shoulder :"Hold me, I don't wanna get up yet." Harry rolls on to his side, faces me and slings an arm in my direction. He then procedes to snore, loudly in my ear until I either must get up or face the very real possibility of going deaf. I roll out and avoid the piles of man shoes, man panties and man shirts that litter the path to the bathroom. While showering I decide that I can either rinse the conditioner from my hair or shave one leg with the hot water that remains. Decide to go au natural for one more day and rinse hair.

Getting out, I yell to Harry to get up.

I dry off, dry hair, fix cereal, fix face, fend Phoebe off, fix hair and then promptly spill cereal all over zillion thread count Tommy Hilfiger sheets.

Greeeeeaaaaaat.

Strip bed, run downstairs to laundry room wearing a short tee and going visibly commando (sorry to any neighbors who had to witness my jiggly ass at 7:52 this morning) to dump sheets. I then got dressed, matched purse, changed sweaters, and struggled to get obviously-shrunken-in-the-wash jeans over top of aforementioned butt cheeks.

Sat down to watch last five minutes of Buffy, realized that jeans were too tight to bend just yet and resorted to standing at end of bed wearing jeans and bra with one hook missing.

Grabbed purse (now it doesn't match! oh no!), sweater, and jacket and bag full of things to "do" at work (Sodoku book, Novel, two magazines and research for friend on a diamond company).

Got to work. Took off seatbelt. Yelped in pain as seatbelt ate hair. Spent several minutes removing hair clumps from the belt's confines.

Got yelled at soon after for not being able to answer all calls that came in at once. They need to fire me and hire a monkey-weilding octopus.

Or a Monktopus.

Mr. Sandman! Bring me a dream!

Why do we let dreams effect us so much? Whether our slumbers leave us trembling from a blender hell-bent on making us into a people-smoothie or onewhere a masked stranger chases us down a dark alley, we still wake up with the same thought: that was too real. I have popped up in bed convinced that a spider was about to feast upon my face. I have flipped on the light at 3am ready to fight off the slimy demon that was trying to eat me like a tasty, meaty treat. But none of these dreams truly scare me like the ones about my family. I have dreamt that my niece was accidentally killed while tumbling down the stairs, I have woken up in a sweaty fit because we had accidentally buried my grandfather even though he wasn't really dead, and I have panicked in the wee hours of morning thinking that the love of my life was a zombie made of disentegrating hamburger.

Last night was the worst dream I've had while being married. Harry was leaving me. He was divorcing me. When I asked him "why?" He simply stated: "I want more than this." And, here's the worst part, I couldn't refute him. I knew he deserved better, so I sat down and cried. And woke up- and plastered myself to his sleeping form. Perhaps not the best idea in hindsight, but I woke him up and asked "are you happy?" He snored, rolled over, drooled a bit and said "yeah."

Good enough for me.

Who You Gonna Call??!!!

Why is it that when a receptionist is on the phone it is deemed "okay" to stand over top of her and listen in on the conversation? In what way is this ever found to be appropriate? I'm on a phone call (yes it was a personal one - but it was about a bill for $80!) when one of my many bosses stands over me. I am trying to finish my conversation up with Ben, the overhelpful insurance guy when a hand is waved in my face "mint, please," he whispers. And as I struggle to accommodate his minty wishes, I can't hear what Ben is saying. "What?!" I say to ben as I rummage through the drawer of goodies "We already paid that claim!" he shouts in my ear. Great, now he thinks I'm dumb and deaf. I pass off the mint and get off the phone. Now, I must call the dentist - to which we also paid $80. This is gonna be fun.

Oh - and here's one to add to my Confounding Conversations - I spent 20 minutes with an Automated Operator last night trying to get to my Insurance info:

"SAY 'MEMBER' IF YOU ARE A MEMBER."

"Member."

"SAY YOUR EIGHT DIGIT GROUP IDENTIFICATION NUMBER, STARTING WITH THE LETTER, OR 'I DON'T KNOW'."

"U1234567"

"SORRY, I DIDN'T GET THAT."

"U1234567!"

"SORRY, PLEASE SAY YOUR EIGHT DIGIT GROUP IDENTIFICATION NUMBER STARTING WITH THE LETTER, OR 'I DON'T KNOW'."

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!!!"

This was when the Automated Operator hung up on me.

So I did what any American would do, I called back.

Finally, I navigated the slippery menu and made it to the end.

"PLEASE SAY 'ASSOCIATE' IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK- "

"Associate!"

"OUR NORMAL BUSINESS HOURS ARE FROM EIGHT AM TO SIX PM. PLEASE CALL BACK. THANK YOU."

Then I got hung up on - again.

 

Welcome to MORE of My Life

Here's some more tid-bits from the life of Holly:

1. I went through the horror, the humiliation, the "holy crap my ass crack is visible to all" of having my annual girlie exam. I wore the paper dress. I sat on a cold metal slab for over an hour waiting to get poked in my privates (and not in a fun way) all the while shredding my gown out of nervousness. So when my dr's office called and said that they needed to repeat the test due to a lack of suffient number of cells collected (in other words - I was fine, but they wanted MORE "fine" cells to prove it) and would NOT pay for the cost of a repeat exam - I laughed. I laughed like a crazy person. Wiping the tears from my reddened eyes, I politely declined their intimate request.

2. I went to a bridal fair on Sunday. I have never so badly wanted to accost someone for their heart "I'm a bride" sticker. I resisted the urge. Being happily married only sucks in that you will never be a fiancee again. At least hopefully not.

3. I sometimes look up people from tv shows I used to watch a long time ago - like "Salute Your Shorts" and "Swanns Crossing." I found that if you can't hack it in Hollywood, you end up in a Garage Band. The horrors. The horrors.

4. I keep Shout Wipes in my drawer at work for post-lunch emergencies. It's sad that I have to keep a bib in my car. And it's even more sad that it's in the laundry today and I'm wearing a white blouse.

5. I watched some of "Chaotic" with Britney Spears and Kevin F-word. The horrors. The horrors.

6. I bitched, moaned, complained and whined like a two-year old without a McDonald's fix when I had to get up early on Saturday morning so that Harry could get the new Nike 360's. He tried them on, loved them, bought them without even looking at the $160.00 price tag. As we were leaving with him happily swinging his Finish Line bag to and from, I spot the women's version. A gorgeous combo of turquoise, silver and hot pink. What would it hurt to try them on? We walk out of the store with me happily swinging my bag full of expensive running shoes and Harry mourning his checking account behind me.

Rather aMUSEing - Don'tcha think?

Time:  1:20 p.m.  Date:  Today  

Task:  Perfecting the art of sleeping with eyes open.

Grade:   C- for excessive drool and obvious bed-head.

 

If an Idiot Falls in the Woods....

ME: "Good afternoon! Blah, blah, blah and blah!"

HIM: "Yeah, was you the ones wantin' some trees cut?" Here we go again...

ME: "I'm sorry?"

HIM: "You just called me." Doubt it, and I've got the Freecell score to prove it.

ME: "Someone from this office called you?"

HIM: "Who is this?" Hey mister, YOU called ME?!

ME: "We're a law firm"

HIM: "What do ya do there?" Get people to sell their souls to us - oops I mean -

ME: "We, uh, practice law."

HIM: "Well, you was on my answering machine." Pretty sure I wasn't.

ME: "Did someone leave their name on your machine?"

HIM: "Someone called me from there." We've established that, dumbass.

ME: "Was this your answering machine or your caller ID?"

HIM: "Caller ID." Bingo! Dumbass! The one that talks is the ANSWERING machine, the one with the numbers on it is CALLER ID!

ME: "Well, I'm sure if it was important enough, they'll call back." They don't pay me enough for this shit...

HIM: "Okay."

In Addition...

I was given an Algebra problem yesterday by a coworker. "Solve for x," she said, "I tried and couldn't get it to work out." Wanting to help her out and, because I was bored and this problem sounded more intellectually stimulating than what I was doing (perfecting the art of code: writing backwards), I obliged.

Five minutes later and some double-checking, I emerged victorious. I showed it to her and was rewarded with a look of puzzlement. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"How did you get 17?" she cocked her head.

I was befuddled!  I knew I was right! It was a simple Algebra problem! Solve for x! Not that hard! I heaved a big sigh and began to point out the obvious to her.

"See - right here - you add 12x to 15x to get 17x. Because obviously in my world 12 plus 15 clearly adds up to 17, NOT 27." I added. I was amazed at my obliviousness. I checked the darn thing three times!!! Oh well.

The answer still came out right.

So, in my world - even if things don't add up - it'll still make sense to me!

Yes, but do you NEED it?

Things I always wanted:

1. I always wanted to marry a man who would stroke my fingers when we held hands. Unconsciously he would rub his manly fingers on my skin, like he couldn't get enough of me, or was still elated that I was his.

2. I always wanted to have a car with shiny paint. And a clear title. And a warranty. And four tires that didn't come from "Po' Boys Used Tires."

3. I always wanted to have my own office. A place where I could do what I want, write what I want and draw what I want with no one there to tell me I was "wasting my time."

4. I always wanted a nice handbag. 'Nuff said.

5. I always wanted to marry a man with a legacy. A good one. A man with numbers behind his name as if to suggest that regalness can be brought about by birth and time rather than wealth itself.

6. I always wanted to be successful.

 

Give me time - I'm still working on the last one...

Welcome, Welcome! To Another Year of Dorkiness!

Here's the thing : I'm a big dork. Now, I know you are sitting in your comfy computer chair, mouth agape, and completely shocked by this, but, it's true.

Case in point: Back in September the-leaky-cauldron.org asked people to send in entries for a t-shirt contest for Banned Books Week. Well, I was bored at work (surprised? didn't think so) so I slapped a design on paper and then mailed it off and forgot about it.

Yesterday, while perusing the site I noticed that they finally announced the winners - well - okay - I'll see what won - and - it was MEEEEEEEE! I was one of the three "chosen ones" that will be made into a tee for Ms. JK Rowling herself! Okay - so there is my dorkiness for all to see and poke fun at.

Please feel free to start doodling your own dandy and dangling "kick me" sign now....

Oh - and here's the link, if you're interested:

http://www.the-leaky-cauldron.org/pottercast/index.php?mode=bbts

Writing Exercise aka Boredom Made me Do it.

"Describe the doorway to the room."

Two big brown windowpane doors loom open, gaping wide as if to swallow those who get too close. They are dark, either oak or mahogany or some sort of wood that I'm not familiar with. There is an inset of wood trim around each tall window pane in the gaping doors. The trim is the exact same decoration that was on the coffee table that claimed the life of my lower lip when I was four. Pretending to be Casper with an opaque blanket is never a good idea, tables get in the way and lips get critically injured. They sewed it back on. A miracle of medicine and a faint scar shows through as a reminder.

Above the doors hang a glorious brass chandelier. At one point, the maintenance man of the building changed all the flame-tipped bulbs to energy-saving halogen ones. The result was a glorious brass chandelier of glowing dildos.

The doors are hinged on opposite sides with a sliding lock at the top. Every morning I have to hop on tiptoes to attempt to unlock these gates of hell. Every morning, people taller than my 5'5" self walk past me and pretend not to notice my ass jiggling with every labored bounce. I finally give up and loop my $500 purse handle around the lock and pull down while simultaneously trying to think of a way to sue my office if my beautiful purse should break.

Beyond the doors is a small entry hall. The walls on either side have generic pictures of horses hung on them. If I would have found these equestrianish pieces of art at a yard sale for $1 each - I would have been aghast. They're not worth more than a nickel. For both.

Beyond the gaping doors of hell, and the penis light and the pictures of fake horses is where my favorite part of the room lies: the elevator. It's my hope, my savior and my grace - I know that, at 5pm, those dirty cream doors will slide open and rescue me from the monotony of the day and the monotony of life. Finally, it will be my choice, "Going down."

Being too Forward and other Atrocities

Warning: This entry is not for the faint of heart, those suffering from heart conditions, those who may be nursing or pregnant or those who are sensitive to the legal industry as a whole.

I'm going to cuss now - and it's going to be bad:

I hate my f'n job with a f'n passion rivaled only by - well -no one - cuz that's how much I hate my f'n job.

Apparently I forgot to forward a call to one of the attorneys who mentioned in passing that if "So-and-so calls - I'd like to talk to him." Well - "so-and-so" called and was in a hurry so I didn't forward the call.

Now, due to my efficientness - I'm in trouble. They would like for that to "not happen again."

Here's my big question - if it was so important for Lawyerman#1 to talk to Lawyerman#2 then why didn't he CALL HIM ON HIS CELL???!!!

I swear - this place is horrible - and I spent all of my 1% raise on a peice of discounted tinsel at Kmart last night. What's a gal to do?

"I'm going to burn this place to the ground." -Milton, Office Space.

 

Don't Forget to Duck...

I got my raise today.

Ooops.

I should have said "I got my 'raise' today."

Quotes, in this case are sorely needed due to the sheer patheticness of my "raise."

Let's put it this way - last years' $.25 looks like a freakin' gold bar compared to this.

They, too, decided to do away with evaluations. The time when you could sit down, one-on-one with the managing partner and listen as they tell you what you were doing right and what you needed improvement upon. I kinda liked it, for what it's worth. It was nice to hear that I was an awesome receptionist (which I'm not - so the sheer stupidity of the statement was enough to make me grin) and that clients liked me (which they do because I share their disdain in most things lawyer-related) and how I needed to stop socializing (yes, I talk too much - to myself! There's no one out here with me! DUH!). But now, they are not even giving us that! No one-on-one time. No "open door policy."

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

 

Hmph.

I have seen the glass ceiling of my office.

I can see my reflection in it if I squint and tilt my head just so.

Their reflection can not be seen; for they have no souls to reflect.

"Welcome to Hell, check your coat, hat and morals at the door. Thank you."

R.I.P.

 I've been chubby for quite some time now. Pretty much all my life, actually. I've never been one to have a toned and sleek, well, anything! I've gotten used to the things that us chubbies (not to be confused with the male affliction - chubby) do to protect ourselves - like not wearing a skirt without pantyhose or biker shorts so as to not ignite the garment into flames as our thighs rub together, or spending oodles on make-up so that others will continue to tell us that we "have a pretty face", and even avoiding certain materials like satin, spandex or anything with a tapered leg. I can do that - easily. I dress to minimize the maximum and maximize the minimums. I have, in the last few years, perfected the art of dressing for impressing - chubbies style.

Which brings me to my point. I don't think I can do it anymore. What brought me to this conclusion? Well, I would say it would have to have been when my gi-normous ass split the back of my pants wide open. Like my backside was struggling to free itself from the constrains of a pair of plus-sized pants. And in there lies the irony.

I could blame the pants. In fact, I noticed as I was putting on my $80 Liz Claiborne Tape Measure Expensive For No Freakin' Apparent Reason Pants that the hem had fallen out of the back of the left cuff after only one washing. So, I could site faulty craftsmanship. Only... this doesn't exactly sit well in my befuddled brain since the other day, in my office restroom, I kept seeing something out of the corner of my eye while washing my hands. Convinced that someone was in there with me, I turned my head ever so slightly and jumped.

I had caught sight of my bobbing ass in the full-length mirror. It was the most frightening thing I've ever seen.

So, I sit in my comfy office chair and decide not to blame the helping of stuffed cheese I had for dinner, and not to place fault with the child laborers of LIz Claiborne, but instead I will place blame where it is just deserved...

With the attorney who insisted that my job as receptionist included STRAIGHTENING THE FREAKIN' RUG!

This picture proves that my maternal genes must have shrunk in the wash - this kid is the cutest thing ever yet my face is completely blank.  Maybe it's not blankness, maybe it's contemplation.  Or maybe this is when he felt the need to release some gas. 

The List

Apparently, there is a book out there that sparked a debate amongst my friends:  Does a man really know within 30 days of the first date whether or not he wants to marry you?

I said "Hell, no.  Boys don't think that far ahead, and if they are planning ahead, it's just to reserve the newest game system, not to make a lifelong commitment."

So I asked my hubby - he's very opinionated and I was pretty sure he'd agree with me, which is always a plus!  So I shoot off an email and here is his response:

I knew I was in love with you b/f I went to texas and that was close to 30 days after we started going out. I also forgot the timeline of anything that happened b/f I proposed, it seems like we have always been either married or engaged :)

Well, huh.  That's a pleasant surprise!  Obviously he got mucho brownie points for being so sweet, however, they were immediately deducted due to him blatantly proving me wrong.  :)  Hee hee

Oh, Bother....

Actual conversation as it occurred just a few moments ago:

"Is Mr. Lawyer in?"

"Yes, May I ask who's calling?"

"Well, don't bother him if he's busy..."

"I don't know if he's busy. May I ask who's calling?"

"You don't know if he's there or not?"

"Yes, he is here, I just don't know what he's doing. Now, what is your name and I'll send you through."

"Well, I hate to bother him."

(You're bothering ME) " Ma'am, what is your name?"

"Annoying Client Lady."

"Okay, Annoying Client Lady, let me send you through to his office."

"Well, I don't want to bother him..."

(Click)

(No answer.)

"Hold on one more second, ma'am - I'll page him for you."

"No, that's alright. I don't want to bother him, I'll just call him later."

(Oh God no. Please God no. Don't let her call back) "Okay. Bye."

 

I loathe my job sometimes...

New Year's Blah

As the New Year has approached, peaked and slid past like Mariah Carey's left boob kept threatening to do on "Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve," it occurs to me that I have no real reason to make Resolutions. Nor will I sit on my spreading bottom and commit to not committing to any Resolutions.

I will, instead, ignore the New Year and keep pretending that it will go 'way and leave me alone. Last year was a bust. I had high hopes for 2005, all of which fizzled and frizzled away like an old Alka Seltzer in a cup of lukewarm water.

Why celebrate? I'm at the same job, with the same chubby encasings and the same laziness enveloping me along with my cozy inner critic to whom I snuggle with on a daily basis when contemplating the "what if's" of life.

What if I finished that book I started a few years back? You'll never be published, they will laugh at you, and probably point, too.

What if I stopped eating past nine pm at night?

Won't matter since you pack your jaws like a squirrel with rice krispie treats and Taco Bell tasties.

What if I actually sat down and took the time to learn to knit?

You will have the ugliest, furriest book marks around, oh yeah, and people will point and laugh.

What if I quit my my job and opened up a bridal business?

No one would buy dresses from someone who gets Muu Muu's for Christmas!

What if I went back to school? Got a Master's?

You'd be the old married lady and they'd all be smarter than you and when you couldn't keep up with their young brains - they'd - point and laugh - while making surreal references that you wouldn't understand.

With an inner critic like that, who needs a mother?!

:)

So here is how my New Year started. My sister (she of the shoe-stringed fingers) and I went to a discount store to check the price of some laminate flooring. She promptly picked up a box and I watched in horror as four slabs of pre-fab wood fell out and - LANDED ON MY F'N FOOT (that's for all you O&A fans out there)!!! She then spotted a glorious heart wreath encrusted with marabou feathers which she declared a "must have"and slid it into the baby carriage. It must have been the pink plastic heart dangling from the center that really tickled her fancy. Anyway, so I spot the deal of the century : $1.49 for a 10oz jar of artichokes - I've been paying $5 or more per can at our local Krogers! So I grab four jars and put them in the top of the carriage. On our way out I notice a Pampered Chef Large Stoneware Baker for $19.99 = DROOL! I snatched it and raced to the checkout aisle. Summer handed me one jar of artichokes while Gillian systematically plucked candy boxes from the counter. I looked up just in time to see the jar fall, slow-mo from Summer's hand and shatter in a fit of artichoke and oil splendor. The women working there couldn't be bothered to clean it - so Summer and I left. It wasn't until we got to the parking lot that we noticed a bit of fur sticking from the bottom of the baby carriage. Summer had inadvertently swiped the heart wreath.

Later that day, when she had broken the seat off of one of her kitchen chairs, she wondered aloud what the rest of 2006 had in store for her.

She called me today to say that her two year old clubbed her in the knees with a meat cleaver. And then laughed.

So, no matter how bad I feel about not having budged from my niche in this world, at least I am not a jar-breaking, foot-squishing, wreath-stealing punching bag for a crazy two-year old.

Life is not so bad....

Oh yeah - and Gillian totally peed on Harry.