So, I had a brief pissy snit this weekend and posted this overly dramatic bullshit here, all in italics, because that just seemed to make it sound that much more sincere. And then at the end of it, I mentioned that all of that angst just had to be hormonal. It was up for about five hours and then I dumped it because it was so damned whiny and petulant that I could barely stand it.
Guess what I got today?
Yep, that’s right, a spam mail.
No. Seriously. It’s Happy Hour on Estrogen Martinis at Club Weetabix. All you can drink for five days. Snacks include oreos, pretzels, canned frosting, Taco Bell Chili Cheese Buritos (which I’m pretty sure are made by mixing Horme1 chili and Alpo) and loads of body image issues.
The nice thing about the body issues that surface during Happy Hour is that I’m not wearing white pants because they make my ass look gigantic.
Only the girls got that one. Right? Right? Because if you ever think you might be pregnant and you want Happy Hour to begin… just wear white pants. Cranky Uteruses consider it a challenge.
Although, I do have to admit: I haven’t weighed myself since I had pneumonia (during which time I GAINED a pound… I think it was all phlegm though), but my clothes are all getting baggy. The pants I’m wearing today are old and I KNOW that I shrunk them at one point. They’re hanging low and I can gather material. Also, my very cute tank top with the built in bra is now a little too big, whereas it used to give me some nice cleavage action. Maybe I stretched it out, though. One this is for certain, the pair of shorts I wore at my birthday party last year are now far too loose. And that’s a nice feeling.
Starbucks is now out of the picture, by the way. I went through last night for an Iced Chai and Viggo was there. I had some Weezer blasting and for a moment, it made me verklempt thinking of Starbucks Guy. Viggo tried to smile and banter, but it just wasn’t the same. There will always be only one sexy barista boy in khaki Dockers for me. Sorry, Viggo, but you’re a loser, baby, just give me some iced chai.
Esteban banged up his hand attempting to do the dishes again. Again! This time, he slammed his hand on something. What is more (and he told me that I could tell you all this), it’s his ass wiping hand. He’s a right hander, apparently. See, that counfounds me because I’m all ambidextrous, although when I dislocated my right shoulder, I remember suffering some painful reminders in the middle of the night. So… apparently, he’s learning a new trade… left-handed ass wiping.
More sushi today. Tonight is our anniversary, but I’m so freaking tired that I might just want to go to bed. I’m certain that it will disappoint Esteban to no end. He’s promised to read to me from the Big Ass History Book #452 that he’s reading. I think it’s about Neville Chamberlain or something. Or maybe that guy. You know. That guy who did all the stuff.
Yeah, that’s the guy.
I have to do a training class today for people in my old department. I just got back from the store where I purchased a bunch of lovely snacks. They all get to fill out a training evaluation form, so I’m bribing them with lots of sugar and salty snacks. Brownies, pretzels, trail mix, and a gross of Doritos. Me…. I’m having sushi and hard boiled eggs.
Maybe I’ll do for sushi what Jared did for Subway. And maybe they’ll do a Southpark episode on me. That would be just like the damned coolest thing ever.
But not as cool as going on Jackass and going down that big skateboard ramp into the water while Bam and Johnny Knoxville stand by laughing. Because THAT would kick serious ass. Especially if Johnny was naked.
But not that Chris Pontius, who gets nekkid at the drop of a hat. If I see his junk, without the protective fuzzy censor patch, I may just spontaneously bleed from my eye sockets.
I’m just saying.
Dear Chicken Who Laid My Hardboiled Egg,
Good job on that shell. Even after I cracked it into roughly 784 pieces, it still refused to budge. You should be proud. If you’re not already in a McNuggets six pack.
Yours truly
Weetabix
Dear Belle,
I hope that you’re safe, sweetie. Drive carefully.
Hugs,
Weetabix
Dear Chromey;
You’re one sexy thang. Almost as hot as the Verizon Guy. Grrrooowwll.
Seriously.
Weetabix
