Friday, June 22, 2012

Gymmy Buffet

I've been trying to lose weight. I believe I've mentioned it before. I've gone back and forth with it, losing and regaining the same 10lbs or so for years, but when I realized that I was just weeks away from my 30th birthday, it occurred to me that I couldn't keep fucking around like that.

I gave myself an extremely short-term goal- I wanted to lose 8 pounds in the 3 weeks I had until I turned 30, so I've been going to the gym a lot. Mostly it's been fine, but I almost stabbed some bitches the other day. Let me set the scene for you:

I showed up on my lunch break, like usual. This means I only had 20 or so minutes to work out. Twenty minutes, when you are working with what I've got, really isn't much time to make an impact. It's certainly not enough time to deal with the level of bullshit I dealt with that day.

I was feeling pretty tired, because I had my shot the night before and it's been wiping me out. Still, I felt the need to do at least a little cardio, so I jumped on a treadmill and figured I could spend 10 minutes there and 10 minutes using a few of the weight machines.

While I walked on the treadmill, I noticed a couple of things. First, there was a small group of girls wandering around with one of the trainers. They giggled and chatted and had him take pictures of them while the stood on the windowsill near the treadmills in yoga poses. It was strange, but they were young and bimbo-y enough that I didn't think much of it. I also noticed that all the girls were wearing nametags, but I didn't care enough to actually look and see where they were from. I assumed it was some sort of women's college or something doing a pathetic excuse for a field trip.

The next thing I noticed was much weirder. The layout of my gym... it isn't exactly cramped, but it's certainly not a large space either. Half the space is the mirrored, lady-gym exercise class area and the other half is evenly split between cardio equipment and weight machines.

There was a class going on and I glanced toward the back of the class while I walked. Sometimes I do this. Sometimes I want to see how the other people like me, the ones who hide in the back of the class, are doing. Back when I was young, I was somehow more insecure but simultaneously more game to try out a class. Now? Not so much. I've tried two classes. One was a toning class that I really enjoyed but never went back to because I don't usually have anyone to watch Caitlyn during that time. The other one was a cardio class. I made it less than 10 minutes into that one and gave up (though this was about a week before I went into the hospital in January, so maybe it wasn't just that I couldn't handle it).

And everyone keeps saying to try Zumba. How Zumba is SO. MUCH. FUN. Lady Gym likes to play infomercials for Zumba during the Zumba classes. When I first signed up, I really wanted to check it out. My white girl, rhythm-deficient insecurities, however, would not allow me do it alone. So I recruited Nadine to go to Zumba class with me. Well, true to form, I was running late and showed up 10 minutes into the class. Nadine spotted me from across the room and immediately stopped Zumba-ing and walked over to me. "I'm done, Jaclyn. I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing Zumba". And that was all I needed to hear. No one wanted to see TWO Pillsbury Doughboys embarrassing themselves like that. Zumba was now dead to me.

I'm off track here. Way off track. My point certainly isn't about the Pillsbury Doughboy, though, now that I think of it, this segue is kind of genius (thank you, Nadine). Because at the back of the class area, where there was a class going on at that very moment, were two tables full of catering trays.

Yes. You read that right. At my gym. Where I go to lose weight. Was a fucking BUFFET LINE.

I'm insecure. I have very little willpower. Did there really need to be a buffet at the gym? It was worse, probably, for the girls like me at the back of the class, struggling to keep up while the smell of food wafted up their noses. I don't know. Maybe I was just overreacting because I've been sticking to a fairly strict diet and feeling a little sensitive? Actually, no. No fucking buffet at the gym. That should be a fucking rule. If they want to put up signs about the fact that they will ABSOLUTELY NOT make an exception for you if you forget your card, then I think they should have a no fucking buffet rule.

Anyway. My ten treadmill minutes were up. The treadmills face the window, so I didn't notice the chaos that had filtered in behind me. I stepped off and turned to face 40 nametag clad women just milling around, using the weight machines, the elliptical, the spot on the floor directly in front of the locker room, as their hang out space.

I found a machine that wasn't being used as a chair and sat down. As I worked out, I started feeling really fucking annoyed. Who were these bitches? Didn't anyone teach them any manners? Also, did they know what a bunch of assholes they all looked like, clad in yoga pants and tank tops, lazing around like they were at their high school gym, sitting in the bleachers hoping not to get a 0 for the day because, hey, at least they changed? I was not there because I had to be, and they were fucking up my shit.

Hostility breeds curiosity sometimes for me. The question of "who are these bitches" was getting to me. I imagined then that this MUST be some sort of bullshit college trip, because grown women don't act like they are still in high school.

That's when I noticed it. The nametags. They all had the name of my gym on them. And the name of the person. And their titles. "Manager", "Trainer", etc. These were EMPLOYEES of the gym, sent from other locations, apparently to have some sort of meeting and a fucking buffet lunch.

Dear Lady Gym,
    You are one gentle misstep away from dead-to-me status. Do not pull some shit like that again.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID reach my goal. I'm down 10 pounds in 4 weeks. I mostly attribute it to there not being buffets most days at the gym.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Adventures in Shitting


I live in Northern New Jersey. It is not even remotely an exaggeration to say that I live within 10 miles of at least 4 different malls (and if we were to add another 10 miles, I could probably double the number of malls). I'm not a big fan of malls, generally, but sometimes I have to drag myself to one of them.

Any time I have to make a trip to the mall, I weigh the pros and cons and decide which one will get me in and out the fastest. When you spent 4 years of your life working in a mall, let me assure you that you don't spend a single second longer than absolutely necessary inside one of those motherfuckers. Let me break down the choices:

1. The Closest Mall: Also the rich people mall with the good movie theater that I will only go to on Sundays (when the rest of the mall is closed) because otherwise it takes half an hour to find parking. I generally avoid this mall like the plague, because I can't stand the traffic and the rich-bitch stores.

2. The Second Closest Mall: AKA the mall in the same town as the first mall, like 3 miles down the highway. A nicer mall, with less traffic, easier parking and significantly less hoodrats bussed in from the nearby ghettos. A fat girl store, which is convenient and Old Navy and Children's Place, so I can get inexpensive clothes for Caitlyn, that I will be less annoyed about when she stains them after wearing something for less than 5 minutes. Also, a little carousel that never has a line. This is my mall of preference.

3. The Third Mall in the Same Town: I'm not even kidding: This is an outlet mall with a Target attached. I only ever go here if I need something from Target, but I make an effort to steer clear of it because I don't need fucking discounted, outlet store Nikes, so it's basically a waste of my time.

4. The Mall Where I Used to Work: It's the ghetto mall of the 4, but I know the good spots to park and where all the stores are, so I never have to look for anything. There is also a Dairy (Diarrhea? What?) Queen and the place where I get my hair cut. Pretty much I go here to get my hair cut and never ever set foot in the store where I used to work, lest I have to waste 20 minutes talking to my ex-coworkers and pretending like I care about their lives.

So. I needed to go to the mall last week (At first I wrote "weekend" and then I realized that no, you literally could not pay me to go there on a Saturday). We ended up at mall #1. The snooty douche, traffic clusterfuck mall. I can't remember exactly why I chose that mall on that day, but it was, in fact, a weekday, so it was slightly less enraging than usual.

We did our shopping. I found a really cute dress to wear out for my birthday celebration this weekend. After that, we stopped by the food court and grabbed some dinner. Then I realized that Caitlyn needed a diaper change.

If there is one thing I will absolutely give this mall all the props for, it is that is has the nicest family bathroom I've ever seen. Actually, let me clarify. It's not just a bathroom. It's a family "lounge". There are curtained off areas for breastfeeding, a tv playing cartoons and toys and sinks and counter space galore. It's truly fancy. Adjacent to the family lounge is the actual family bathroom. And even that is cool. There's a regular sized toilet and a toddler sized one. They've truly thought of everything.

Anyway, Caitlyn needed a new diaper. And mommy had to take a shit. Off to the family bathroom we went! The changing tables are in the lounge area, so I decided to go to the actual bathroom first and take care of my needs first, for once. I locked the door behind me and sat down.

After a moment of trying to prematurely flush my toilet, Caitlyn noticed the little kid toilet. She's a pro at taking off her diaper anyway, so obviously she wasn't going to wait for me to be done to try this thing out. So she took off her shorts. And her diaper.

I'm wondering at this point, if I've mentioned Caitlyn's tendency to want to be completely naked while she lounges (please note that I did not say "uses") on her potty? The fact that we were in a public restroom did nothing to stop her determination to get naked for potty time. Once that diaper was off, she pulled off her shirt, then sat down on the floor next to me to pull of her shoes and socks. I mean, who PEES ON THE POTTY while wearing shoes and socks? Me, actually. I pointed this out to her while she stripped down, trying to reason with my 2 year old, who was now sitting bare-assed on the floor of a public fucking restroom. Did I mention that I was taking a shit? Yeah. There was nothing more I could do.

Just then, the door of the bathroom burst open. There I was, sitting on the toilet taking a shit, my naked kid sitting on the floor next to me, presumably contracting Public Restroom Floor Syphilis, in the fancy mall with the snooty people and the broken fucking locks. It was a middle-aged man and his probably 8ish-year-old son. Of course. Neither of them felt the need to close the door after realizing I was in there, in case you were wondering. Nothing makes a trip to the mall complete quite like having to lean over mid-dump to reclose the door of a room that smells like your ass in front of a couple of strangers who have absolutely no courtesy whatsoever.

Anyway. Caitlyn decided after that to spend 5 or so seconds sitting on the kid toilet, very blatantly NOT actually going to the bathroom, before she milled around naked while I finished my shit, and one other person (who DID close the door behind her, at least) walked in on us.

At that point, I wanted nothing more than to get some clothes on my kid and high-tail it the hell out of there. So I grabbed her, COMPLETELY NAKED, and walked into the lounge area with the necessary counter space to get her off the damn floor, trying to explain to the other families, including the second person who walked in on us, that I was not, in fact, a total weirdo who lets her kid wander around mall bathrooms naked.

I think we need to stick to the ghetto mall, where the bathrooms are just bathrooms, and no one is hanging around directly outside the door to witness your naked toddler/taking a shit shame.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

My Vagina Shriveled Up and Died Yesterday. You Know, Probably.

You know that saying about things "getting better with age"? You know, like wine and cheese and Angus fucking beef? In case you are in your early 20s and you actually believe that shit, let me assure you that it is a lie.

I turned 30 yesterday. Remember when birthdays were something you looked forward to? Your special day. Let's break down birthdays, shall we?

Ages 1-4:  You had very little say in these birthdays, and you probably don't even remember them, but let me assure you that they were awesome. Your parents went overboard. There were maybe a dozen people you actually gave a shit about, and the novelty of your birthday had not yet worn off for them, so they always showed up. With awesome presents (because, really, what ISN'T awesome when you are 3? Nothing. There is nothing you wouldn't play with. Your guests could show up with 2 pens in a cardboard box and you would have thought that was the greatest gift ever and spent hours playing with your 2 pens). And there were balloons. And cake. Yeah. These birthdays were pretty fucking sweet.

Ages 5-9: At this point, you probably had a favorite something. TV show, cartoon character, whatever. And so your parents would buy paper plates and cups featuring your favorite thing and bags of shitty little plastic toys because it is easy as fuck to make a 7 year old happy. You would have a little party in your house or backyard and everyone would sing Happy Birthday. Then you would eat your body weight in cake and ice cream and drink a gallon of soda. Because you were the birthday girl and no one was going to tell you that you couldn't. And that was just the weekend celebration. A few days before or a few days after, your mom would bring cupcakes and Capri Sun to your school so EVERYONE would know it was your birthday. Cupcakes and Capri Sun are the shit.

Ages 10-13: You probably didn't get cupcakes and Capri Sun days at school anymore, but you still got a party of your choosing. Instead of cake and balloons with family and friends, you invited a few of your school friends over for a "cool" party. It was probably a slumber party. And even though you had that one friend with the overbearing mom who wouldn't let her sleep over your house even though you knew her for half her life, it was still fun. You would play games and dance and do each other's makeup. Slumber parties were awesome.

Ages 14-17: You officially thought you were "too cool/old" for birthday parties. You insisted that no one throw a party for you, even though you secretly hoped they would. And really, you knew they would never actually not throw a party for you. Even if it was just your immediate family with cake and presents, they still made a big enough deal to make you feel special. Even the "too cool" years were fun!

Age 18: You could now buy porn and cigarettes. Which is okay, I guess, but you probably waxed aloud at least once about the fact that your friends should have taken you on a road trip to Canada where you could now legally drink. Since no one was actually going to take you to Canada, you instead took your first trip to the "porn store", where they surprisingly never asked for your ID even after you and your friends spent way too much time giggling. This is also the day that you learned that fisting is actually a thing that people want to happen to them. Enough people that the porn store has a giant fist dildo that must have been in great enough demand that they actually carry such a thing. Fisting. Your 18th birthday is primarily about Canada and fisting.

Ages 19-20: You wish you were 21 already. Maybe you go to an 18-and-over club because you are not yet old enough to realize how utterly awful they are. 18-and-over clubs are like the fisting of your 19th and 20th birthdays. If you learned your lesson at 19, maybe you got your friend's boyfriend with the beard to make a run to the shady liquor store that everyone (except the cops, apparently) knew would sell to you even if you were underage for your 20th birthday. Ill-gotten booze makes your 20th birthday a triumph. A drunken, maybe-someone-will-puke-in-your-house TRIUMPH.

Age 21: YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK NOW. GO TO A BAR. Oh, by the way, bars are expensive. And more than likely, only about half your friends are actually old enough to go with you. The other half are too broke to go. Remember how your 20th birthday was a triumph? Try to recreate that with a house party. Except now YOU can make the liquor run. 21st birthday? SUCCESS. Maybe not what you expected, but a success none the less.

Age 22-24: Keep trying to plan that bar birthday you were hoping for when you turned 21. All your friends are old enough now, but they are all still too broke to pay $8 a pop for drinks. House party? HOUSE PARTY. Several drinks in, every year, without fail, you will realize you do not have any more fun birthdays on the horizon. You are slowly coasting towards 30, aka, the end of your youth. You will cry about this at least one of these years. The other 2 will be awesome.

Age 25: You realize you are now closer to 30 than 20. Fuck. Your friends could probably afford to go out drinking now, but you don't even want to. You remember the 18-and-over club from your 19th birthday and how shitty it was and how much younger everyone was then. You definitely will not be going to a club. Maybe a bar? I don't know... doesn't it seem like clubs are something young people do and bars are something old people do? I guess you are old now. You will probably end up at Applebees with your best friend, drinking watered down sugary drinks and eating half-priced appetizers. This is the absolute LAST year that this is acceptable.

Ages 26-29: You no longer want to celebrate your birthday at all. You still want presents though. You realize that your mom is the only person who has even thought to give you a present in the last 8 years or so, because everyone else was just pooling their money for alcohol. Now you would like some presents, thank you very much. But maybe give them to me some other day? For some other occasion? You know what? Just forget the presents. No need to mark how close I'm getting to 30.

Age 30: Plan something fun/awesome. You have money to do things now and everyone you know insists on commemorating the slaughter of your youth. Eagerly anticipate fun/awesome, right up until a week or so before your birthday. The thoughts of fun/awesome are then clouded over by the thoughts of what am I doing with my life/IS THAT A FUCKING WRINKLE???? Cry daily. Make major life changes/have third-life crisis (yes. Third. I refuse to call it a mid-life crisis. Fuck that. Mid NOTHING).

I can't say my actual birthday was terribly shitty. I mean, I had to work. Because that's another thing about those 18-25 birthdays (especially summer birthdays like mine): You and your friends will ditch work to do fun shit. But I'm fucking 30 now, and so are most of my friends. Bitch got bills to pay and a kid to diaper. No one was ditching work to dick around all afternoon. But after work, Rodolfo took me to dinner and got me a cake (yeah... it IS kinda weird to have a birthday dinner with my estranged husband. I know.). He also got me a really nice present (because only being nice to your wife after she decides to leave you is not weird at all, apparently). And I guess I only cried a little bit. Next weekend, Nadine is taking me out drinking. To a bar. Like proper adults/old people. Because sometimes you have to push your birthday weekend back a bit because of conflicting plans. That is just what grown-ups do.

Anyway. So here I am. 30. Ick. But I survived it.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

So, You Think You are Having a Heart Attack

I should clarify. I didn't think I was having a heart attack. I thought that my MS meds ate through my aorta and my heart was about to explode. Or something. Anyway. Chest pains.

I know that logically, you should not wait 2 weeks to visit a doctor if you are having chest pains. I also know that my neurologist's office is a fucking pain in the ass to get on the phone. And Dr. Google always has good ideas about what is ailing me.

In any case, if you are wondering what you should do if you believe you are having a heart attack (or a mutilated aorta), I'm going to give you a step-by-step guide based on my experience (I feel the need to apologize in advance to anyone who finds this post through Dr. Google and is looking for actual advice. GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR):

1. Ignore. I mean, you have been working out a lot trying to reach your goal of losing 8lbs by your birthday which is only 2 weeks away. Your muscles are probably just sore from all that activity (I mean, it is kinda weird that the only sore muscle you seem to have is in your upper left chest, but whatever).

2. Skip the gym for a couple of days. This is the gold standard for heart attack diagnosis. If your chest still hurts after skipping the gym, you are obviously dying.

3. Decide you are obviously dying. God, not before the end of the work day though, you lazy bitch. This can clearly wait until after 5:00pm.

4. Send a nonchalant text to your estranged husband on the train ride home. Does he think you should go to the ER for "this chest pain thing"?

5. Make babysitting arrangements. Obviously you aren't dragging a toddler to the ER.

6. Stop at Wendy's on the way to your aforementioned babysitting arrangements. Do you realize how long you will be in the ER? It's dinner time, you are starving and you won't be home until midnight. Also? Do you even understand how shitty that "heart healthy" diet is that they will obviously put you on after your shredded aorta is diagnosed? Priorities, people. This is the most important step. You must stop at Wendy's (McDonalds or Burger King are fine too, as long as you are soaking up as much fat and sodium as possible before your big trip to the ER- you are going to need your energy!).

7. Chat with your brother-in-law for several minutes about his plans for the evening. Your kid LOVES spending time with her cousin and uncle!

8. Finally head over to the ER. Don't be discouraged when the woman behind the reception desk spends 2 full minutes ignoring you while she hole-punches name badges. Chest pain is like an express ticket to PROCEDUREVILLE and you will be on your way any minute!

9. Skip triage. Go directly to the place the paramedics bring their ambulance patients! You are rolling in style now (literally. They won't let you walk, so you have to make the 50 foot journey by wheelchair)!

10. Take off your shirt for that EKG. God, your tits are looking old! It's okay though. The other 3 people in the room don't seem to notice.

11. Your EKG is normal. Time to start waiting! It's been a busy day in the ER, so your gurney is rolled next to the food trays and refrigerator, directly across from the guy who picks his nose continuously, the entire time he is in your sight lines.

12. "Take deep breaths" for at least 5 different people so they can listen to your lungs. Tell the exact same story 5 separate times- did you think people WROTE THINGS DOWN in the ER? You silly girl!

13. It's been 2 hours and your chest is still hurting? Well you are in luck- PERCOCET!

14. Try not to doze off while listening to the woman next to you chatter on the phone about how she has no signal and she had to borrow the hospital's land line and she can only make local calls and the battery is almost dead on this phone, but somehow she has enough power left to make 3 more 20 minute calls after that, where she tells everyone she has ever known (with the exception of her sister and fiance, as she noted to one lucky caller, because she had not been in touch with them yet- WHO THE FUCK WERE YOUR FIRST 4 CALLS TO, YOU DUMB WHORE?) about how she can't BELIEVE her gynocologist missed her internally bleeding ovary-because- ISN'T THAT HER SPECIALTY??? Also wonder why she keeps pointing out that "several friends already offered to come, but I told them not to bother because I'm going to be SUCH bad company!". You know what, lady? Agreed. You are fucking terrible company. Also? I hope no one else in this fucking ER actually needed to call someone besides their top 5 besties- you know, like their husbands or mothers or sisters- because you've been hogging the only land line in this cell reception dead zone for at least 2 hours. Also, you are a cunt, which is probably why your ovary is exploding.

15. Since percocet has done literally nothing for you, and your heart and blood tests have all been normal, your doctor informs you that he suspects acid reflux and will be bringing you something for your stomach to see if that helps. "Is it pills or something nasty I have to drink?", you may decide to ask. At this point he will lie to you and tell you "It's a drink, but it actually tastes really good. I had to drink it once".

16. After another hour of waiting, they finally bring you your "GI Cocktail". The nurse informs you that it contains "Maalox, Lidocaine and... blah blah blah other stomach stuff". This is another lie. Based on color, consistency, volume and taste, I suspect the actual contents are as follows: Horse semen, shampoo, grape flavored Triaminic.

17. Spend 15 minutes trying to choke down your "cocktail". Gag repeatedly. Feel surprised that even after the numbing effects of the horse semen kick in, the taste and texture are still so blatantly revolting that you can barely manage to drink it at all. After making it through 90% or so, declare "fuck this" and refuse to drink anymore.

18. Wait around and find that your chest pain is starting to subside. Feel dumb that you spent the entire night in the ER for what amounts to heartburn and a really big fart.

19. Take your first full dose of MS medication (if you do not have MS, I suggest something equally likely to cause "flu-like symptoms". Maybe go around licking some of the other patients). You don't know this yet, especially since you've mostly handled it really well, but the 5 hours you'll have left to sleep by the time you get home will be considerably disturbed when you wake up shaking with chills from your high fever, and aching from head-to-toe.

20. Get discharged without so much as a prescription for Nexium or a suggestion to take some extra-strength Maalox. "Follow up with your regular doctor" or some shit.

Your heart attack is now complete. Enjoy being tired as fuck at work tomorrow (because really, you can't call out and say "well, I thought I was having a heart attack but apparently I just had a really spicy burrito, so I'm just going to stay home today").

Friday, June 1, 2012

Eleven Things and 100 Posts

I guess I should start by commenting on where I've been. Sleeping. Actually, no. NOT sleeping is much more accurate. Basically I've been buzzing through life like a fucking zombie because I feel like I haven't slept in 10 years.

Caitlyn may or may not be getting her last round of molars. She's been whiny and just EXTRA toddler for the last few weeks. Extra. All the toddler.

The main problem is her sleeping habits. They are fucking awful. I had finally gotten her out of the habit of sleeping in my bed and over the last week or two we just reverted right back. Because she screams and cries and begs until I pick her up. And it used to be that once she was asleep we could put her back in her crib, but not anymore. She wakes up at least 3 times every night crying, and I'm so run-down and exhausted that I just dump her into bed with me so I won't have to get up to comfort her the next time she wakes up.

Sleeping with a toddler is the worst. She's already a restless sleeper and whatever has been bothering her makes her toss and turn all night long. If regularly getting kicked in the face in the middle of the night wasn't bad enough, I've also found that sleeping next to her is a lot like what I imagine it would feel like to sleep pressed up against a space heater. I wake up just about every morning drenched in sweat.

Since I haven't been updating much, I should probably also point out that the sweating at night thing isn't only about Caitlyn. I've been on my MS meds for over a month now. I was really worried about the side effects, and that I would feel like shit all the time, but the sweating has been the only regular side effect I've had. I'm doing really well on them, in fact.

So. Next things... next. I got tagged over at The Last Oyster. I'm new to her blog, but she's cool and funny. You should check her out. Anyway, I have to tell you 11 things about myself, then answer the questions she asked of me. Then I have to tag some of you bitches and create 11 questions for you to answer. Should be way more interesting than the rest of this post:

Eleven things about me:

1. I have a bunch of weird little phrases and words I use that make absolutely no sense in the context in which I use them, or they are completely made up and are only funny to me. Examples? "Dumparoos", "The Brown Cow", "So is your face", "Aces 10 Bojangles", "Everyone hates you", "Facepunch/Mouthfart" and the newly crowned princess of awesomeness "Dirt Floor Whore".

2. Accessories are my own personal nemesis. I have an oddly shaped head (or a gigantic one? Probably a gigantic one) and so hats never fit me right and sunglasses always look weird and I just never wear jewelry. My accessoriless life is sad one.

3. I hate it so much when people combine two different names and give their baby some made-up bullshit name. There are literally THOUSANDS of options. Just pick a normal name. Also? You aren't unique and neither is Jessilynda (Dear Jessilynda, Please don't send me hate mail. My beef is not with you, it's with your mom. Snuggles, Jaclyn).

4. I have an irrational fear of people knowing how tone deaf I am. I have to be really, really (no seriously. REALLY REALLY) drunk to do karaoke.

5. Any time someone asks me what kind of music I like, I tell them I only like shitty music. It's mostly this weird thing of not being able to resist liking something after I've heard it a dozen or so times. Fucking pop music, man.

6. Yesterday, I was cooking dinner and Caitlyn walked up to me and handed me something. It was a piece of poop.

7. I'm a little bit of a science nerd. I find medical stuff and genetics really interesting (not interesting enough, though, to get any sort of degree and put that curiousity to work in a field where I could make a shit-ton of money. Nah. I'd rather just be a receptionist who blogs.).

8. I have a weird sort of... fear, I guess? Of chemicals. If I'm cleaning something with Windex or 409 or anything like that, I hold my breath. The smell of bleach makes me want to scrape out my nostril hairs because I'm convinced they are holding the stank in my nose (when I reread this to edit the post, I added the reason why bleach makes me want to scrape out my nostril hairs, because it occured to me that I maybe sounded like a schizophrenic who was convinced that they were in cahoots with the bleach to poison me). I yell at Rodolfo when he uses air freshener. I'm at work right now and they are doing some sort of "chemical cleaning" of the air conditioning system and I'm 83% sure that I'm developing a tumor as we speak. On the other side of this coin, I also think that hand sanitizer is ruining lives. I'm not evenly remotely weirded out by germs and other naturally occurring stuff that my body has had generations of evolution to learn to fight off. I think people who use hand santizer are underevolved bitch babies. But Pine Sol? It might as well be a bottle of Polio (and I know Nadine is going to say blah blah blah "Method" so I'd like her to know that I recently invested in some Method cleaning supplies and I love them and also they are pretty).

9. Coming up with eleven things is getting kinda tedious.

10. Number 9? Total cop-out.

11. Do you remember that song from that fake band that MTV made up during the boy band craze of the late 90s? U+ME=US. I KNOW MY CALCULUS. Seriously though? That was kinda awesome.

1. Why do you blog? Did you read my "about" page? God, you are such a lazy whore. Ok. But mostly I blog because I have the coolest kid on the planet and as an adult I've always been curious about my own mom's inner monologue from when I was a kid. So I figure this is my monologue for Caitlyn to read when she's old enough to realize I'm not the most uncool person on the entire planet. Or for when she realizes she wants to embrace my uncoolness. Or for when her own toddler is kicking her in the face every fucking night.

2. Dream job: This, I guess? If I could get someone to pay me to write and shit. Obviously I want Caitlyn to see this blog one day, but I could write down all the dumb shit I think in a journal for her or something if I didn't truly enjoy the fact that people like what I have to say and think I'm funny and shit. So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like to get super-Bloggess famous and write a book or something. But like, the kind of famous that only writers can be, where lots of people know your name but you still maintain enough anonymity that you can eat in the mall food court without needing a security detail. Actually, you know what? Fuck it. I want the security detail too. I want to be so famous and so beloved that Born Again Christians think I'm the Antichrist (as they do with everyone cooler then them ::coughbarackobamacough::).

3. Favorite Canadian (this is just a test-the answer is not Celine Dion): Ninja, obviously. But can we talk about Canadians and non-Canadians for a minute here? I like to bust Ninja's balls about the extra U's she puts in words that do not need a U (for example, I had to delete a U from the word favorite when I pasted these questions, because apparently BNo is also Canadian. Stop thinking you are fancy, Canada. We don't want your U's). Anyway, I have this... let's call her an aquaintance on Facebook. We went to high school together. She is very much from the USA. She is also very much too old to be deliberately misspelling words so as to appear a certain way (smarter? I think she thinks it makes her look smarter. Fail, aquaintance. Fail). And so I want to punch her through the medium that is Facebook when she puts U's in words that do not require U's. Wouldn't it be great if instead of "like", you could "punch" someone? My life will be complete when Zuckerberg adds the ability to status punch the assholes I went to high school with.

4. Beer, wine or hard liquor? Hard liquor. And honestly, it's a good thing because beer and wine are disgusting. Seriously, why would I ever want to drink something that is fucking fermented? I do not put fermented anything in my mouth. I certainly would not put a fermented dick in my mouth, so why would I ever drink wine? Also? If we were having a debate about the pros and cons of drinking wine, I just won it. Fermented dick wins all arguments. Also, I feel like someone is going to tell me that all alcohol is fermented, but I don't give enough fucks to even Google it. I still win. I don't care about your "logical argument".

5. Favorite book: This answer is going to make me sound like a moron. Up until a few years ago, I was pretty convinced that I did not have the attention span to read books. I would read lots of magazines and online articles, but until recently, when I realized I do not have the time, money or childcare available to do cool shit outside of my house, I never really read books. I've read a few recently though, my favorite being, typically, The Hunger Games trilogy. If anyone has suggestions, I will happily take them (except for Nicholas Sparks. I will puke in your hair if you recommend Nicholas Sparks).

6. Reality TV as the death of well-written comedy and drama-discuss. Nadine keeps insisting that I watch "Jersey Shore", but I say no way. I don't need to see "The Syphulation" doing body shots out of some skank's belly button. I think it's to a point that you have to pay for good TV. Which is why I abuse Nadine's HBO Go to watch Girls (which is where "dirt floor whore" originates. If that isn't reason enough to watch, nothing is ever going to be good enough for you. I don't think you're cool and your mother is poor) and I pay for Showtime to watch Dexter. Dexter is a fucking amazing show, with the exception of the story arc they set up this past season where he starts fucking his sister (Dear Dexter writers: If you think this is a storyline the fans have been clamoring for, let me clear this up for you. No one wants to see him fuck his sister. No one. Never ever. Thanks! Love, A Devoted, Non-Incest-Loving Fan). While we are on the subject though, I'd like to blame reality TV for the destruction of one of my favorite shows, Lost. I'm pretty sure that during the last two seasons of Lost, the writers simply said "fuck it. You know, we've put a lot of effort into this shit and these idiots are watching The fucking Bachelor. Let's slap our balls together over a dictionary and whatever words the drops of our ballsweat fall on will be the plot line this season.". In case it's unclear, I was dissatisfied with the ending of Lost.

7. What do you talk to your spouse about once there's nothing left to talk about? Yesterday Rodolfo asked me if I was dating someone else. Because apparently the fact that I've left him couldn't possibly be about anything he's done wrong. It's obviously because I'm a whore who is fucking all the dudes (bitterness. You're welcome).

8. Favorite type of book: I haven't decided. I always think I would enjoy a good mystery, but then I'll decide against it because it will probably be all scary and suspenseful and I spend enough of my time worrying about serial killers and not getting enough sleep.

9. First thing you would do if you won the lottery: First thing? I'd buy houses for myself and my family and friends. But the coolest thing I'd like to do? Well, as you may remember, I was really poor as a kid. Projects poor. We lived in the projects for most of my childhood. A lot of people hear the word "projects" and assume that everyone who lives there has a drug problem or some other vice that landed them in the poor house. And that is the case a lot of times. But then there are people like my mom. People who didn't have the opportunity to get a really good job because they lacked a college degree. People with deadbeat baby daddies who don't do a single thing to make sure their kids are fed and clothed and housed. People who deserve for something good to finally happen to them. So if I won the lottery, I would go to the projects where I grew up and find someone like my mom and give them a million dollars.

My questions for you:

1. Who wronged you this week? Go ahead, vent. You know you want to.
2. Top 5 bangable celebrities
3. 5 completely unbangable celebrities (for the record, I don't get the whole Ryan Gosling thing. I guess he's not technically "unbangable", but I wouldn't hit it. At all. Please don't chase me with sticks. It had to be said).
4. Tell me the story of the drunkest you've ever been. If you don't remember all the details, feel free to make some shit up.
5. What did you want to be when you grew up? How is that working out for you? Please tell me why you failed to reach the goals you set for yourself when you were 8.
6. You have to be in a room with Newt Gingrich for an hour. Do you end it all?
7. Song you hate the most and why.
8. First and last name of the first boy you ever had a huge crush on, so when that narcissitic asshole Googles himself, he will know all your private shame.
9. Do you like me? Circle one ----     yes               no             I like you so much I know your social security number
10. Why did the chicken cross the road (I suspect hallucinogens but please tell me your theories)?
11. Hot air balloon or white water raft? (I'm not even going to give you context here. Tell me a good story)

Tagged: Nadine, Ninja, NoaJen, Misty, Gia, Gweenbrick, Johi, Kendall

Last business of the day: THIS IS MY 100th POST. You're welcome! But seriously, thanks to my faithful readers. I love you and all your comments, and even when I don't have the chance to respond to them, please know that I read them all and very much look forward to them.