It’s been a rough week for my co-workers


When I have to poo at work I have a really bad habit of waiting until the last possible minute to go to the bathroom.

I’m usually right in the middle of something important, and need to finish my thought before it falls out of my head.  Granted, this usually results in my having to walk very briskly and ignore if someone calls my name while I’m flying by, but so far it’s been a successful option.

But today, I think I waited a smidge too long.  I stood up, took two steps, and then had the five-step-walking-toots.

Every step was a fart.  And they were LOUD.

Have I mentioned that I work for a technology company in an office environment that is SO quiet that they actually added a white noise fan so that it isn’t eerie?

I took an extra long time in the bathroom and a different route back to my cube after that experience, all while hanging my head in shame.

I guess it could be worse.  I could have shit myself.

Wonder burps and pick up lines


I don’t always “get” men. I mean, I’m usually pretty darn good at reading people and tend to have more guy friends than girl friends, but sometimes I’m caught completely off guard.

Last night after a particularly brutal 20 mile ride, hubs and I decided we wanted to go to a local sports bar to watch the Cards game. One, because there is more beer there than I have at my house. But quite honestly it was more because two, if we tried to do it at home I would be passed out on the couch and snoring so loudly he couldn’t hear the tv by 10 p.m.

The ride was done at 7:30 and the game started at 8, so I raced home, took a 2 minute shower in which I literally washed my arm pits and lady bits, and scrubbed the bugs and dirt off my legs. I spent a whopping 5 minutes finishing the job, which including drying time, running a brush through my hair, and pulling on my old comfy jeans and a plan black tank top. I threw on some flip flops and was out the door, meeting my man just in time for the first pitch.

For anyone who doesn’t follow baseball, last night was a pretty important game for the Cards. They needed to win it to advance in the playoffs, and were playing at home after rallying on the road. Having lived in St. Louis for several years and through two World Series wins, these guys are my team.

As we’ve already established, I’m pretty vocal. When watching sports, I’m even more so. I was totally the girl in the bar yelling at the tv, cheering loudly when they got a run and calling the ump some not so amazing names if he made a bad call.

Seriously, if I were the other 20 guys in the bar, I would have been irritated as hell with me. It wasn’t even as if I was hoping that my overwhelming hotness would get me a free pass, I just didn’t give a damn.

So imagine my surprise when hubs excuses himself for a pee break and not one, not two, but THREE different guys approached me to chat me up. One was even blatant enough with his flirting (“uh so, is that guy like, your boyfriend? Does he appreciate you?”) that even I realized what was going on.

Seriously? What. the. hell?

I almost told hubs about it when he came back, but decided I was having a lot of fun and there was no reason for bloodshed in the bar. Besides, I was a big girl and could take care of myself. I shot the sleezy one down so hard that he may have had to go cry in a corner for a moment. Double suck for him because his team, the Pirates, lost.

Today I just sort of find myself flabbergasted. Maybe I should start giving dating advice? Step one, wait until you’re nearly 30 and be sure to be a little overweight. Step two, look like a hot mess. If you’re picking what just might be bugs out of your nose and teeth, all the better. Make up and deodorant are not only not required, but frowned upon. Step three, be as obnoxious as possible. Step four, drink beer. Not only does it aid with step three, but it gives you really impressive wonder burps that you may just earn you a round of applause. Step five, show absolutely no interest in anyone around you.

There ya go. The recipe for success in picking up a man in a sports bar. Or at least, that’s how it worked for me.

Sometimes dudes are just weird, kittens. Just plain weird.

Dreams are so much better when they’re naked


Dreams are funny little buggers.  I really enjoy some of them. Especially the ones where I don’t want to wake up because I’m so SO close to having way too much of a good time.  I guess you could say that I’m lucky that my subconscious is both very creative and very realistic with the stuff it comes up with.

Though when the dreams are NOT so good, that doesn’t exactly work to my advantage.

It’s amazing how our subconscious can remind us of things we don’t want to remember, or bring to life fears we didn’t even realize we have.  I know there are many different theories on dreaming, and after mine of the past new nights, I had to know what the hell is going on in my brain.

Fancy that, in her article published in Psychology Today, Ilana Simons presents five modern theories on why we dream.   The fourth theory relates to dreams being a way of giving ourselves our own personal psychotherapy.  Simons says:

“Ernest Hartmann, a doctor at Tufts, focuses on the emotional learning that happens in dreams. He has developed the theory that dreaming puts our difficult emotions into pictures. In dreams, we deal with emotional content in a safe place, making connections that we would not make if left to our more critical or defensive brains. In this sense, dreaming is like therapy on the couch: We think through emotional stuff in a less rational and defensive frame of mind. Through that process, we come to accept truths we might otherwise repress. Dreams are our nightly psychotherapy.” Source

That’s all fine and well, but then why do I wake up from my dreams and carry their weight with me?  In this case, for days at a time?

Two nights ago I had a dream that reminded me of one of the most traumatic times in my life.  Believe it or not, it was my senior year of high school, and through a series of events I ended up quitting something that was hugely important to me, alienating all of my friends, and nearly losing myself in the process.

In hindsight, I see clearly why things played out the way that they did and understand what lead to these decisions.  I can even accept that, at the time, this was the right decision to be made.  But sure, I still think about the choices I made frequently.  And yeah, I still hate that I quit something that was so incredibly important to me.

I had never quit anything before, and can honestly say that I haven’t given up on anything that important since.  I’m certain that my fear of failure ties directly to this one decision that I made almost 15 years ago, even if I did make it for the right reasons.

So that was Sunday night.  I spent the better part of yesterday hugely introspective and unsettled with nagging feelings of guilt and failure.

When I crawled into bed last night I was at first nervous that I wouldn’t sleep, but I fell asleep easily.  Now I kinda wish I hadn’t.

I only remember slivers of my dream last night, but like most of my others it was realistic as hell.  I was at Crossfit and Coach was yelling at me.  Not “come on you can do it” yelling, but angry yelling.  He was extremely upset with me, but I had no idea why.  I can’t remember anything that was said except “I am so damn disappointed in you.”

I’m not even kidding that I woke up nearly in tears.

I mean come ON subconscious, please don’t take my safe place and someone I know who believes in me and do THAT.  That’s just unfair.

So again today I’m really unsettled.  My failures are weighing on me even though they have no reason to.  I know that I’m a little too far in my headspace and need to just stop, but I’m struggling to do so.

Clearly, subconscious brain didn’t go to shrink school, because man she sucks at this therapy crap.

Why can’t I just have dreams that I’m flying or naked like normal people?

Nuclear containment on the weekends

clean house

I hate it when our drunk friends want to crash at our house on Friday nights.  Not because we don’t have the room, or because I hate drunk people or I’m nervous that I’m going to forget that they’re there and walk out the next morning to make the coffee naked.  No, it’s because by Friday night it looks like a nuclear bomb made up of shoes, underpants and Tupperware containers detonated my home.

You see, we’re not home much during the week and when we are it’s usually just to strip down, put on pjs, eat something and pass out.  We then wake up and do it all again the next day, and are not fabulous about you know, cleaning up after ourselves as we go.

As a result, Saturday is MY personal holy day, the holy day of Clorox.  Every Saturday morning husband wakes up, goes into the office for a few hours, and then proceeds to golf or work or go drinking or whatever to keep himself out of the house during nuclear containment.

Saturday is the day I clean.

If you think I sound crazy now, just you wait.  It gets better.  For one, I freaking enjoy it.

I love having the house to myself to survey, triage, and dive right in.  I’ve been doing this a long time kittens, and have a complete and total method to my madness.  Some weekends the place only needs an 6 effort on a scale to 10 to get it back to being livable.  But some weekends, when I’m down on my hands and knees with scrub brushes attached to various parts of my body stinking of bleach and sweat and god knows what I’m scrubbing off the ground, those weekends I give it a 10.

And then we have a picnic on the floor in the living room.  Because damn it, if the floors are clean enough to eat off of, we might as well.

Hubs has offered no less than 100 times to hire a “cleaning lady” so that I can relax and enjoy myself on the weekends.  The very thought makes my eye twitch.  When I contemplate that someone else might be responsible for using the “magic eraser” on my baseboards or fold my laundry, I break into a cold control freak sweat.

No, cleaning is my job.  It’s my ME time.

I’m not a neat freak at all.  Nor am I a germaphobe.  I guess I just get some sort of sick satisfaction from taking the hot mess that my house becomes by the end of every week and pulling the princess routine on it to get it shiny and new and more fabulous than it ever imagined it could be.

Because my house has an imagination after all.

Now I know what you’re thinking so before you ask, no, I do not want to come over and clean your filthbucket of a home.  My disgusting 5 day old Tupperware and my husband’s dirty socks I can handle.  Yours will likely make me vomit.

And I don’t clean up vomit.

So really, you’ll end up worse off than you started.

See, told ya it gets crazier.

Rub it riiiiigghhhtttt there

foot massage

Moaning loudly while getting a pedicure at a swanky spa is, apparently, frowned upon.

Granted, I know this on some level. I’m not a total idiot.

But after a great week of training that left my calves and ankles feeling like I had auditioned for Swan Lake or something, I absolutely could not control myself when Olga got in there for the massage portion of this weekend’s primping festivities.

I suppose the three mimosas made me a bit more relaxed than usual, but the staff and guests seemed to be in agreement that my reaction was a bit over the top.

I’ll remember that for next time. As for this time, at least I held back from whimpering “don’t stop, don’t stop” right when she got to the good part.

Is the “why” really important?

I carry extra underpants with me at all times just in case.

I told a male friend this today as part of a spare clothes conversation we were having, and he was dumbfounded.

“Just in case of WHAT?!” he asked.

I’m pretty sure every woman reading this blog knows exactly what I’m talking about.  You don’t ever want to have… ahem… unexpected issues with the lady business… and not have a change handy.

Maybe not everyone is as neurotic as me and carries them in their purse, but to each their own.

That said, I have to wonder, what purpose the spare panties would serve other than that in his mind?

And then I realized, he’s a dude.  And heck, with most thought processes, I am too.

I know exactly what he was thinking.


Also, I just dropped pulled pork down my dress into my bra, fished it out, and ate it.  All while at my desk.

Because you know, you needed that extra tid bit to realize that I actually am extraordinarily weird.  The spare underpants in my purse weren’t enough.

The pork was delicious, thanks for asking.

Oh I am TOTALLY a weirdo

I would be embarrassed that “fat kid poop” is now my most popular search term, but let’s be honest here, I’m not the one searching it.

So for the 27 of you who have ended up on my blog because you were interested in “fat kid poop” I would like to say hello.

And remind you that everybody poops.

I guess I’m just the weirdo that decides to write about it.

Welcome to my world.

Random and disturbing…

I just discovered that at least three different visitors have made their way to my blog thru the Google search phrase “fat kid with a boner.”

Given my blog title and my post a few weeks back about “lady boners” this makes sense.

What does not, however, make a whole lot of sense to me is why anyone would search for that particular phrase.

I’ve googled some weird shit, but I can honestly say, that’s new.

Thanks readers for finding me in a variety of ways.  I heart you all, even the weirdos.