Another unsettling realization

Upon making a regular trip to our local job service in my seemingly neverending quest for improved employment, a vague sense of unpleasantness comes over me. It takes about 37 minutes for the vague sense to carmelize into an actual thought (and that carmelization time is an improvement for me, of late). And the actual, concrete thought is:

My job prospects would seemingly be much brighter if I were an OTR truck driver. Seriously, there are tons of motherfucking job opportunities for those lucky sons of bitches. Why in the hell didn't I just save all that college tuition money and buy myself a big rig?

Fuck. I'm always a day late and a dollar short. Or something like that.

Two of hearts

Maybe the man really is my soulmate, is my thinking. No one is more shocked than I am, gentle reader.

Due to recent events, I can't help but feel a wee bit guilty for lo those many times I've called my husband the following (pet) names: jackass, dumb ass, pain in the ass, assclown, and last but not least, asshole.

Because when I emailed my husband this glorious news, he immediately phones me (bookworm, big Harry Potter fan) to say that he (not bookworm, not Harry Potter fan) already heard that little gem on the radio. And also, he says he then immediately thought of me, his beloved. In fact, says this man I married, he has already went to Amazon to pre-order this item, just for me, but alas it's not listed as available yet.

Fuck! I mean really! Can you stand it? Isn't that just the living end? So you see why I'm now thinking that maybe we really are soulmates! Maybe I don't take back my marriage vows!

I haven't been this turned on in weeks. WEEKS! I tell you.

Maybe he will get that blowjob he's been campaigning for, after all. Surely this deserves one, if ever anything did.


And God bless us, every one.

By way of explanation

Today is casual day at work. I love casual day. I try not to do too much actual work on those days, by the way.

However.

If you see me in real life today, you might think, "Hmmm, Laurie, those jeans are just a smidgen snug. That's not your usual." And if you thought that, gentle reader, you would, indeedy, be correct! But do not fear, internet. I have not lost my mind and started wearing my "going out" clothes to work. No, that has not happened. Yet, anyway. The perfectly logical reason that I am wearing jeans-a-smidgen-snug to work is to remind myself to just keep walking just keep walking just keep walking past all the goddamned Christmas candy bounty that has infiltrated our office.

It's my hope that the threat of these jeans surpassing smidgen-snug status and moving into too-fucking-tight status will help keep me on the straight and narrow. Desperate times, and all that, blah, blah, blah.

America's Next Top Couch Potato

I owe some people an apology.

And so begins our tale of how sin creeps in, just like that Baptist minister at youth camp warned me about.

Saturday dawned a dampish gray morning in the Casa de Cystah. The only bright spot was that A and N had went to Nanny & Pop's to help put up their Christmas tree, so thusly C and I were enjoying some lazy time alone. I had grandiose plans to disinfect and sanitize the disaster area formerly known as our master bathroom. But first I slept in. And then C was cranky. And then people wouldn't stop calling me on the phone and asking questions that I couldn't answer. And then I couldn't decide on what to have for lunch. So I turned on the fireplace for some warmth (did I mention it was damp outside?), and then all of a sudden, the bathroom defunk-ifying plans completely fell by wayside. I somehow ended up on the couch wrapped in a blanket, with a full bag of Cheetos by my side, a peacefully sleeping baby on my lap and the remote control in my hand.

I rarely, if ever, have sole custody of the remote control.

Somehow that, in turn, led to VH1 and the America's Next Top Model marathon.

And before I knew what the fuck had happened, it be dark outside, the cheetos bag was empty, and the baby? he be both covered in orange-y cheeto dust and starved, since we'd been all warm and toasty and he'd taken a ginormous nap whilst I had watched the entire goddamned season of America's Next Top Model. It was like crack. Only on TV. And it didn't require smoking. Or a pipe. Or a dealer. And it was so, so good. My God, who knew? Who Knew?

Egads, I shudder to admit that it took me awhile to shake off the stupor and care for my own infant, gentle reader. That demon show had me in its spell, I tell you. Finally, I did manage to pull myself together and had stopped muttering comments like "Fucking know-it-all Yaya, hate her." and "Goddamn you, Ann for mutilating that poor bulimic girl's brownies." before the older two children came home. And I sooooo lied when they asked what happened to the new bag of cheetos (and here I exhibit another shining example of bad motherhood).

And that's not even the worst part!

No!

The worst part is that I don't have UPN! I'm going to miss the season finale! God, please let someone have pity on my poor soul and tell me who the winner is?

So, all you America's Next Top Model fans that I have mocked (both to your face and behind your back) over the past months? I totally take it all back. Totally. You were right, I was wrong.

Now, I've got to go try to salvage some of my dignity by watching I don't know, The History Channel or Discovery Times, or maybe reading the dictionary, or alphabetizing my spices.

Mad About Plaid

So, I have these plaid flannel pants. I think you are probably familiar with the type I'm referring to. Some people might refer to them as "pajama pants", but I find that term severely and unnecessarily limiting. I mean, it clearly excludes both daytime and in-public usage of said pants. Anyway. Mine are blue plaid. I bought them after my gastric bypass, and was v. proud of them as they were one of the first "non-plus-size" items that I own. Still, they are an extra-large (not to be confused with 1X, which is bigger) and they are too big. In addition to being too big, they are also warm, soft, snuggly, non-restrictive, figure-flattering and all around comfortable in general. In fact, if these pants were an actor? they'd win an Oscar. Really. Overall, though their bigness is only surpassed by their comfortableness.

This might illuminate just how big they are:

DH: "I didn't know you still had those pants. I thought you sold all your too big stuff at the yard sale this summer."

Me: "I did sell the big stuff. These are still good."

DH: "Ummmm, but aren't those from before your surgery? They're really old, they've got to be from before your surgery. Aren't they from before your surgery?"

Me: "No." (fat girl on the inside is mentally cringing, cause I was so much bigger before surgery)

DH: "Wasn't the last time I saw you wearing those, ah, weren't you like at least 8 months pregnant? And, they were baggy then."

Me: "I wouldn'tve called them baggy then. When I was pregnant, they didn't have the comfortable roominess that they do now. I mean, really. Besides, they're flannel. Flannel gets gets better with age. You can't just throw that aged flannel goodness away. God, what is your point?"

DH:

Me:

Thus, we are at an impasse.

But still.

There will be no compromise. I flatly refuse to take this kind of talk from a man who happily wears a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and the pocket torn off. That's not even in the same league as roomy pants. Please. At least I have some standards. The pants will stay, I tell you. He will not win this battle, as God is my witness.

In which I don't feel hip, but definitely feel square

So sometimes, like, I have a weensy bit of disbelief that this is, like, my life? I always imagined that somehow I'd maintain my sense of hip & trendy, even though I was a mother. And I have worked at it, man. Hey--I wear low-rise jeans, I'll have you know. And even thong underwear when the situation warrants. My chest is lifted, supported, etc. by the best Victoria's Secret has to offer. Unlike my grandmother (who was permanently bonded to her tube of Revlon's Wine With Roses), I carefully observe and heed trends in lipstick/gloss colors/formulations. And you know I can curse with the best of 'em. See, I sound hip & trendy, don't I? Don't I?

Then yesterday morning, I had me a small bit of a startling realization.

There I was parked in my SUV (the only redeeming qualities of which are the redness and the sunroof, and which is much more "utilitarian" than "sport" in my world) in the Parent Pick-Up Lane (don't know why they call it that 'cause there is no "picking up" going on of children or parents, we are in fact "dropping off" children only). I am, in fact, the only passenger in the front seat of said vehicle, much in same manner of lowly-paid/under-valued chauffeurthe children safely ensconced in their straight-jackets, er, carseats in the back. Having reluctantly relinquished control of CD player to said passengers (and as such am no longer dj even in my own car) and therefore we are currently rocking out to Funkytown as crooned by Lipps Inc. Thankyouverymuch makers of Shrek 2 for reviving that gem.

And that is the where/whyfores of how I reached to the rather belated conclusion that, despite my Best Efforts and Thong Panties (and the best efforts of thong panties), I am hip and trendy no more. So I get to feeling a bit hot and sickish.

In mid won't-you-take-me-to, I ponder how Huey Lewis didn't know what the fuck he was talking about with that whole Hip to be Square propaganda. In fact, I now hypothesize that Huey probably penned those lyrics whilst waiting in his own parent pick-up line, in attempt to make his own self feel better. Whatever. Subsequently, spend small amount of time wondering how I can ever rectify these circumstances. Promptly realize there is no help to be had. Possibly that is first and only efficient move of the day.

And so, decide to accept inevitable fate and begin rocking out with children before Funkytown is over. If you can't beat 'em blah blah blah. Song is nothing if not catchy.

I will now be pulling my jeans all the way up to my waist now, as a symbol that I have finally accepted the reality of my situation. I was always a little edgy about the exact location of my waist band in relation to my ass crack anyway. I may be square, but at least I can have a measure of certainty that my ass crack is safe and secure.

So I guess it's not all bad.

I can kiss away your pain . . . or not

Rest easy, gentle reader, crisis has been averted.

NotSoFavoriteCoWorker and spouse have decided to stay together, when times are good or bad, happy or sad (self could not help channeling Tina Turner for brief moment). Or maybe they're just staying together for the time being. Or, whichever comes first. Definitely something like that. So there will be no messy, bitter divorce and the ensuing dramatic aftermath, and hopefully soon, NSFCW will be again empowered to answer her own goddamned office phone.

You know what that means don't you?

CHRISTMAS HAS BEEN SAVED!

Aaaah . . . Close, but no cookie.

No, really: It means that NSFCW must listen to all Enrique, all the time. Loudly. And longly. And longingly. And singing along with. No, I do not know why this is their "breaking up is hard to do" anthem, but trust me. It. Is. Furthermore, it's harder to cope with all Enrique/all the fucking time if one decides to forgo one's lunch beer. Learn from my mistakes . . .

God, but this is almost as good as junior high, I swear it.

On the bright side, the internet has just notified me that a MOTO RAZR V3 is Mine . . . Free, so long as I Claim It.

Constipation of the Blog, Diarrhea of the IM

God, internet but I've missed you. I have felt so stifled lately. There's nothing can be done for it. 'Tis the Season(al Affective Disorder) and all that.

The following things are happening:

the annual holiday in-law angst. Fuck, but it's a pain in my ass (HEE! that pun wasn't even intended but have decided to leave it). Oh wait, here's an email from my SIL, Katy (or, as I mentally {mostly mentally} refer to her, Catty). I'm going to copy and paste it so I can share it with you here.

Be right back, promise.

Okay, here it is, comments in brackets are mine, as you might've guessed:

Laurie: [note use of colon, hate that]This year, Mom's [this is referring to my MIL, btw] Christmas celebration WILL [precious little dictator, bless her fucking heart]be on Christmas morning. This is when we will ALL be celebrating the holiday together. We expect you to be there bright and early [expecting and getting are two different things]. Thanks, Katy

A little background is: the above is our invitation. The first we've heard. Like we might not have other plans for a major holiday that's occurring in a mere three weeks or anything freaky like that. And dh doesn't want to cause a fuss. So we will most certainly have our holiday plans dictated to us just in this manner. Shit like this? Totally stifles my creativity. I can't even find the humor in it, knowing that I have to endure intensive in-law exposure. Certainly, I've considered coping in the manner of my brother-in-law, who manages to escape most of the pissing match/tomfoolery/dysFUNction by sequestering himself in the guest bedroom, consuming large amounts of homemade noodles, mashed potatoes, and Crown (I know), but there's only one spare bedroom there, and I don't really want to share quality time with him, either.

Plus, (Not-So)Favorite Co-Worker (NSFCW) is currently getting a divorce, definitely, maybe. This requires her (and me, by default) to listen to the blues and old country & western tunes, with an occasional segue to Enrique Eglesias, all at top volume. And singing along with. Like goddamned karaoke without some liquor to take the edge off the awful painfulness and make it fun. The definite potential divorce possibility also renders her incapable of answering her phone, except in cases of personal calls, which are answered immediately. Before you think I'm a total heartless bitch, keep in mind that this is at least the fifth time NSFCW has been "getting divorced" in the 2 years we have worked together. Yeah. One of those kind.

Furthermore, there has been Way Too Much Work come across my desk this holiday season. Much more work than I like to complete Prior To The Holidays. Prior to the holidays, I like to do my Christmas shopping online and address Christmas cards and compose my Christmas list and consume alcoholic beverages to get me in the mood, er, spirit of the season, and eat cheese ball. Simultaneously. In a drunken stupor.

And also, N recently tried to burn our house down using our own personal toaster against by char-toasting the world's smallest piece of bread (decided against auctioning this smallest piece of arson bread on ebay. Sorry). Yes, we try to supervise him. Who knew he'd been carrying that bread around in his pocket like that? WHO KNEW??? Good thing that damn little future felon is so adorable.

There's been much IMing of these events to my friends in the computer, but it's mostly incoherent stuff, filled with outrage, disgust, rampant usage of expletives and lots of feeling sorry for myself. And yeah, sometimes I do use my IM sessions to jumpstart a blog entry, but 2343 IMs that consist of "Fuck, shit, piss, cocksucker!!!! What am I going to do??? Help me! HELP ME GODDAMNIT!!!" ??? I mean, come on--what kind of blog material is that?

Say what?

It's better than my usual blog material??

Oh. Okay, then. (said in small humble voice)