Friday, August 31, 2007

Bachelorette Party.

My sister organized a fabulous river float for my bachelorette party last weekend. We had a fabulous time.

Highlights include:

  • High Pour!!
  • "This is the best 16th birthday party EVER!" - Erin
  • Box wine, sans box...from old men
  • Marriage advice from the old men with the udder of wine
  • Kings Cup - green men, snorting and shimmy!!
  • Flip Cup

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

General Hygiene.

I have to work very closely with a man who will call Jerry. Jerry called me one day to see if he could come up to my desk to work on a project. I said sure. That sounds great. Now, he called during lunchtime, which normally would bother me, but today I was okay with it because I got in late, ate breakfast late and wasn't quite hungry yet. Anyways, I digress. When Jerry gets to my desk, I ask him why he wasn't eating lunch. He says he doesn't normally eat breakfast or lunch, because he has chewing tobacco. I mean, if I had chewing tobacco, I wouldn't eat either. Who needs a hamburger when you have a small tub of ground up filth that you can put in your mouth and will eventually eat YOU?

Nonetheless, I work with Jerry that day. And THAT day, just like all the others, I become nauseous from the smell of his breath. His breath reeks of tobacco and large quantities of coffee. And he spends most of the time we are working together, leaning over my shoulder and reading what I am his fantastic breath is as close my intake valve (nose) as possible. It's wonderful. I spend the full two hours he is there applying and reapplying my scented hand lotion in hopes that his breath won't permanently taint my wonderufl smelling hands. Although, now, I could probably wipe my butt with my hands, just rinse off any chunks and no one would notice.

Disgusting. People are disgusting. Bathe people. It's not hard. While you're in there, clean out underneath your fingernails. Or, even better, just trim them so junk can't live under there. Or, if you INSIST on living in filth, at least respect everyone else enough to purchase one of those bubble outfits so the rest of us don't have to suffer.
Drive-By Titties.

I was innocently enough driving home from work one afternoon. I learned through texting Tommy while driving (I know - I'm terribly unsafe) that he was also on his way home from work and he was only a few exits behind me on the highway. Normal people would have said, "okay great, see you at home", but not us. We kept chatting.

Nonetheless, I take the exit to get home and there is a homeless person (I do not actually know if said person was homeless, but they were very dirty and walking along the higway - I made an assumption) walking along the exit ramp next to my car (and 50,000 others I'm sure). I call this homeless person a "person" instead of a male or female because due to the attire and general appearance of the person, I had absolutely no what gender I was dealing with...

...that is, I had no idea what gender I was dealing with UNTIL the homeless woman decided to lift up her shirt (unprovoked) and flash her big old saggy titties at me (and 50,000 others). Not only did she lift her shirt to show me her big old saggy homeless woman titties, but then she proceeded to fondle them in such a way that made me want to reverse the fortune of my lunch.

In the way that only good fiancee's are, I ceased the texting with Tommy and just called him to let him know that he might score some big old flappers when he exited - he should keep an eye out. She was gone when he got there. He cried.

The part of this story that bothers me the most though, over the fact that a woman flashed me on the highway unprovoked, was the sheer size of her homeless woman titties. Really, she had bigger knockers than me (this is not a hard feat), but she also had bigger pillows than Jessica Simpson (size D according to Dad - gross). How does a homeless woman, who supposedly doesn't eat a square three meals a day, have big old hooters and I have little nubbins? It just doesn't seem right.

Boobies. Knockers. Hooters. Nubbins. Titties. Dirty Pillows.

Monday, August 20, 2007


Thursday was a rough one for me. To be honest, the last month has been rough for me and Thursday was just the icing on the cake....the straw that broke the camel's back...the log that broke the floodgate of my tear ducts.

I'll be honest, I had been in need of a good cry. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. You build up to it for days, weeks, sometimes even months. You can feel it coming on and you know it needs to happen, and sometimes you try to force it (so you don't happen upon it at an inopportune moment), but it doesn't work - a forced cry doesn't satisfy. That shit's gotta be real.

And that brings us to Thursday evening at The Beautique.

Thursday I was supposed to have my practice hair and make up done for our wedding. The purpose being to have the same hair lady and same make-up lady as on my wedding day so that we can figure out what works and what doesn't. I had my makeup done and I'll be honest, I looked pretty good...we decided I needed more lipstick, but I looked pretty fantastic. That is, I looked fantastic until it was running down my face 20 minutes later.

When I go down to get my hair done, the girl asks when my wedding day is, and lo and behold, she will be out of town that day. This basically means that I was getting a really expensive hair-do for absolutely no reason. Awesome. And that's when I turned evil.

No, evil isn't the right word. Pathetic is more appropriate. I cried my little pathetic fully made-up eyes out. Bawled. We are talking "5-year-old-who's-mom-won't-let-her-have-Lucky-Charms-at-the-grocery-store" hysterical. I knew I was being absurd, but I couldn't stop...the floodgates were open.

The problem with being a girl is that once you get those tears flowing all the bad things in the world seem so awful and directed at you. I cried for little children in Africa and for my dead flowers in the yard...they were all obviously torturing ME.

Sooo, after discovering my wedding day makeup will not withstand uncontrollable crying for an hour, I get home...still pathetic (and now very scary looking - puffy eyes, snot, mascara all over my face). Tommy is frightened and doesn't know what to do. As his only form of defense, he turned on Tommy Boy (the movie) in an attempt to stop the snot from ruining his couch...apparently he thinks fat men in little coats cheer me up.

Apparently they do. About the time Chris Farley put on that tiny jacket I was ready to join the human race again.

Being a girl and having PMS may be one of the greatest inventions on earth. I was able to act like a complete psycho and it was totally acceptable for 2 hours on Thursday night. Awesome.