Tuesday, October 26, 2010

The Secret To Getting Your Husband To Vacuum? Cat Poop.

Me: *picks up office phone* Hello?

Him: Open your email.

Me: Ummm, okay…..what did you send me?

Him: Just read it.

Me: *reading* “Your cat is growling in her sleep”. Oh look, a picture!

Him: Its hard to tell, but she’s doing that creepy inner-eylid-half-open-sleeping thing. I hate that thing. And she was growling.

Me: Awwww, sleep growling! Cute!!

Him: Yeah well, you’re cute cat left a skid mark on the living room rug this morning.

Me: It’s not a skid mark, it’s vomit. I heard one of them puking this morning but I couldn’t find it before I left for work.

Him: Oh there was puke. On the right side of the rug. On the left side there's a giant skid mark.

Me: Oooh, that’s not good.

Him: No. No it’s not.

Me: Did you clean it up?

Him: I picked up the clump because I thought it was puke.

Me: And?

Him: It was not puke.

Me: But did you scrub the rug after?

Him: We’re out of carpet cleaner.

Me: So? You don’t need carpet cleaner. Just get one of the old rags wet with hot, soapy water and scrub it.

Him: I said we’re out of carpet cleaner!

Me: You don’t need carpet cleaner!

Him: Yes I do! I can’t use the plastic scrub brush with the long handle if I don’t have carpet cleaner to squirt on the rug.

Me: Oh come on, you big baby.

Him: I am not putting my hands anywhere near a cat poop skid mark!

Me: I don’t understand how you can clean up the kids vomit without gagging once, but you can’t even scrub up a little cat poop.

Him: Because cats are nasty.

Me: You could use gloves. I have those yellow ones in the laundry room.

Him: Not happening.

Me: Well did you at least clean up the hairball?

Him: I picked up most of it but left whatever was soaking into the rug.

Me: Seriously???

Him: What part of “we’re out of carpet cleaner” do you not understand?

Me: So you're telling me you won't scrub the rug for me.

Him: No carpet cleaner, no scrubbing.

Me: Fine. If I clean it up, will you at least vacuum afterwards?

Him: I will vacuum all the rugs every time if it means I never have to clean up cat poop or puke ever again.

....oh how I love cat poop!

Friday, October 22, 2010

Continuing To Make A Great Impression With My Sausage Fingers

How is your job going?

I really hate that question. My parents ask it every time we talk and I hear it at least once a week from either Captain Carl or friends or my sister. I hate that question because I don’t ever know what to say. Sometimes I say “I hate it” but that’s not really true. I don’t hate my job. I don’t anything my job. It’s just there. It’s just my job. It’s what I do during the day to pay the bills each month until I can quit and become a photographer full-time. Okay, some days I really do hate it, but who wants to hear me say that? So I just say “Oh it’s fine” and move on to a different topic.

But there are days at my office that I actually enjoy. Usually it’s the days that we screw around and don’t get any real work done. Someone brings in donuts or candy and it's probably a Friday and we're all happy because we're wearing jeans and things get silly and then someone ends up emailing out a stupid and embarrassing picture of me. Because for some reason when I’m having a good time, I decide someone just has to take my picture. I’m all “Check it out! I’m totally doing this super hilarious thing! Take my picture!” and then we all laugh and I think maybe this job isn’t so bad after all. And then I go home and come back in the morning and see the picture that got emailed around and I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

So this month’s picture?


I thought it was hilarious at the time because hahaa omg this mask is sooo funny!

And then it got emailed to everyone in the office.

And then it went in the monthly newsletter. The newsletter that goes out to not only my office but also the parent company’s office. The parent company, y’all. Thanks to my stupid-ass self getting all hopped up on Halloween candy, me and my sausage fingers are now currently touring the CEO’s computer screen.


At least I’ll have something to tell my parents this weekend in response to their question…

How is your job going?

Great! Last week I ate five mini-Twix bars and then wore a Frankenstein mask around the office and someone took a picture of me making a stupid face with sausage finger claws and they totally put it in the company newsletter!

Is that……good?

I’ll probably get a promotion because of it. Or fired. One of the two.

Oh dear....

Monday, October 18, 2010

Running Towards Something Besides The Buffet

So I’m running now.

I mean, I’m running for reals. For exercise. Not because someone is chasing me with a butcher knife or I’m trying to get to the buffet before that old lady with the walker gets all the red jello.

Okay so technically I’m sprinting. Which I guess is a form of running, but I’m not like, running a marathon or anything. I’m running from the tree on the furthest side of my backyard to the furthest tree on the other side of my backyard. It’s probably 15 yards. But! I’m running there and back. Six times in a row.

I know. I’m pretty amazed myself.

This shit wasn’t my idea though. It was Captain Carl's. On Friday at 4pm he called me at work and was all “Hey, when you get home we’ll kick the soccer ball around for a few minutes and then run sprints and then go for a walk” and I was all “Gah?” and he was all “This is our new exercise program…3 times a week” and I was all “Ummm, okay?” and he was all “Excellent!” and I was all “Well, fuck.”

Yep, all his idea. His brilliant Friday night sprinting idea. My idea was to sit on the couch and watch 5 episodes of Ghost Hunters while eating microwave popcorn and twizzlers. My idea was way more awesome, I think.

So I get home and I’m all “I have a headache” and he was all “Nice try” and I was all “No I really do. In my vagina.” and he was all “Shut up and put your sports bra on and get outside”. So I stomped around my bathroom getting ready for as long as I possibly could because I so did not want to exercise but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to let me do nothing and get fatter. Big jerk.

So we’re in the backyard and mosquitoes are eating me alive and I’m all *kick kick kick* with the soccer ball and he’s all “quit kicking it up towards my face!” and I’m all “It’s called strategy” and he’s all “There is no strategy, we’re just warming up” and I’m all “Oh yeah? Your mom's warming up!” because I'm pretty much the queen of soccer insults.

Then he made me sprint.

A real lot.

So there I am. Running. When I start the first sprint, it’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be. Hey, I’m moving pretty fast…not bad for a fat lady. At the halfway mark, I realize something. I’m running on grass. Ohmygod, what if I twist my ankle? By the time I finish that first sprint, I remember that my sports bra is too small for me. I look down. My left boob has popped out. I have to finish with my hand cupping my chest, much to the delight of my husband. We take a 2 minute rest, as per whatever fitness website he’s been reading that day. The mosquitoes swarm again, but I’m not breathing all that hard. I can do this…five more of these is no problem. By the third sprint, I’m praying for God to hit my husband with a freak bolt of lightning from out of nowhere. I’m panting and probably foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. The Captain has beaten me on every sprint, even with the head start he gives me. “No fair!” I yell every time he passes me. “You don’t have boobs to hold up!” “You have more muscle than me!” “I hate you so hard right now!” And he just laughs and keeps running. At the end of the 5th sprint, my legs are shaking and I’m seriously considering punching him in the face. We are in our 2nd minute of rest before the final sprint when I decide to cheat. I yell “Go!” 30 seconds early and run like a crazy person. The Captain yells after me "It's not a race, moron!" but I don't care. My legs are pumping, my arms are swinging wildly, I’m laughing like a hyena. I’m winning this one! Yes!

And then I stepped in a rabbit hole and fell. I lay there like a slug, flat on my face, waiting for my husband to come pick me up and hold me and tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never ever make me do this ever again and then I'll be all "I could have been seriously injured, but I forgive you. Now go buy me some twizzlers" and he totally would on account of all his exercise guilt.

“Get up!” he yells from a distance. I raise my head and realize he has finished his sprint. “You left me here to die without twizzlers!” I scream at him. “Get up! Now we walk for 30 minutes!” he yells back. I roll over onto my back and stare at the sky. Mosquitoes are flying into my eyeballs. I’m sweating through my shorts and my knees are throbbing. I say nothing. He walks over and stands over me. He’s all “Come on, drama queen” and I’m all “I can’t” and he’s all “Yes you can” and I’m all “No you don’t understand!” and he’s all “I know, you’re tired and sore and don’t feel like it. But you will be so happy that you did.” and I’m all “No, it’s not that. I can’t get my boob back in my bra”.

So there we are, silent and motionless for a few minutes. He is contemplating how to get me up and moving again. I am contemplating how to fashion a shiv from blades of grass and my shoelace so I can take him down and shut him up about this exercise bullshit. He pokes me a couple times with the tip of his shoe. "Come onnnn" he whines. "No" I say and roll over onto my side away from him. He sighs and says "I'll go buy you twizzlers if you walk with me". I look over my shoulder at him and contemplate this offer. "What about my boob?" I ask. “It’s dark, no one will notice” he responds.

And that’s how I ended up walking through my neighborhood at 9pm on a Friday with a limp and my boob hanging out of my bra.

Monday, October 11, 2010

And The Award For Best Actress Eating A Hamburger Goes To…

I just realized this morning it’s been almost two weeks since I’ve posted something here. So sorry, little people, but I’ve been very busy becoming a movie star. After I sent my resume to the production assistant for the movie they are filming here by my office, I figured it wouldn’t be long before I’d find myself on the casting couch. And I wasn’t wrong, although technically I haven’t yet physically sat on the couch. Or met anyone associated with the movie in person. Or ummmm, acted in anything. Yet! Because this? Is totally happening.

See, I got an email response to my resume submittal. From the producer, y’all. Yeah, big time. This lady. Right here.

Producer Email: Received your contact information re: becoming an extra for the movie. Need your availability please.

Response: My availability is limited during the day, but I work right here in the office building you are shooting near so I could do it during lunch breaks or after 5pm. Also, that’s what she said.

Producer Email: I need extras mostly on Saturdays.

Response: I can do Saturdays like nobody’s business. I do Saturdays long time. Speaking of being an extra, some people say that I’m a natural when it comes to standing around in the background. Plus I have a really big head which I’m told translates well on film. Also, I am plus size and I know you want this film to be diverse, so there you go.

Producer Email: I have to ask this so we have complete information – what is your age?

Response: I’m 36, but could probably pass for 35. Oh and I’ve been rehearsing several characters that I think would be great for the movie. My “Lady Eating Hamburger In Crowd” is especially good. “Lady Drinking Something From Taco Bell Cup While Leaning Seductively On Car Hood” is also noteworthy but I'm not quite sure about it. Too Tawny Kitaen perhaps?

Producer Email: Also need your phone number. Keep in mind this is a children's movie.

Response: Gotcha...children's movie. Duly noted. My phone number is 1-800-HOT-CHUB. Heh heh, I kid.

So far I haven’t heard back from him. It’s been a week. I figure he’s busy deciding what role he’s going to give me. Probably the hilarious cougar neighbor lady that always brings burnt stuff to the neighborhood potlucks but hahaaa! who cares because dude, that fat chick is smokin’!

I’m thinking of getting my teeth capped in preparation for my role. And maybe getting my second chin sucked out too. I don’t know. It depends on how much volunteer extras get paid.