Caterwauling

Have spent the better part of the past three hours in the waiting room at the twat doc. Oy vey.

I ended up really enjoying the experience. The doctor, not the “OK, that emerald ring you lost three years ago has gotta be up there SOMEWHERE” part. I tend to prefer male doctors since they know their way around better than anyone, and believe me, if HE couldn’t find my beloved ring, NOBODY can!

I was getting fairly antsy after a while and just wanted somebody — for the love of God, ANYBODY — to examine me. Hey, it was going to be the most activity the ol’ girl has seen in (*mumble mumble*) so yeah, bring it.

Actually, quite honestly, it was the first lunch break I’ve taken in (*mumble mumble*) so I really wasn’t too concerned. After the three-ring circus spectacular (assclowns unite!) that was my morning, it was actually the most pleasant part of my day to have someone impale the honey pot with a metal stirrer. And if THAT doesn’t say something, I really don’t know what would!

Since we’ve bypassed TMI on the coochie superhighway, let’s pull over to the next rest stop and talk about those little wonderful magical pills that those kind of doctors can prescribe to you. I mean, not that I’m planning on falling on someone’s dick accidentally or anything. But, you know. I aim to be more prepared than FEMA in hurricane season.

But the funny part of all this is, shit, I’m 34 years old and have a three-month supply of freedom pills. Do I still hide them from my Extended Houseguest^TM like I had to do when I was half this age?

OK, so there was just this moth flying around in the ladies’ room as I was washing my hands. And I wondered for a second, well gee I know it’s been a while, but do I have moths flyin’ outta my cooch from disuse?

And Lord help us all if that happens when I hit the hoo-ha doc on Wednesday, although spiderwebs are totally in season, and therefore acceptable if that’s what he should find. …

“Have you ever been so lost
Known the way and still so lost?”

– Katy Perry, “Lost“

Man, talk about knowing the way and not knowing WTF to do first. Am buried in what we shall heretofore refer to as “Crap-a-Lanche” (i.e., Crap Avalanche). Apparently we’re reorganizing a tad at work. And apparently that means giving up two projects and gaining 40.

The only other thing I will say about reorganizing, other than I’m grateful to have a job in this clusterfuck we call an economy, is that instead of having one person here and there say, “That’s not my job,” you now get the person who USED to do the task telling you that your request is no longer their job PLUS the extra-added bonus of the new person doing the task saying that it’s not their job yet.

*head —> desk*

I’ve donned what I call the cloak o’ invisibility — that is, I’m pretending to be on vacation so I can give the new projects a full week of love, as opposed to the neglect they were getting otherwise. Well, guess what? That just frees me up from the daily crap to deal with the other crap I never had time for. And have I made a dent in the projects I’m supposed to be working on? Oh HELL no. See “It’s apparently nobody’s job,” above. Since apparently I have to do it if no one else will.

Zoloft, can has?

“Table’s set
The beds are made
Seems I let them slowly fade
Here I am at winter’s birth
Called to from beneath the earth
These frozen songs beneath the street
Buying shoes to bind my feet
Once my face it scrapes the dirt
No one asks if I am hurt
I am hurt.”

– Tara MacLean, “Things Outstanding“

Speaking of vacations, I’ve been looking forward to a combined work/pleasure trip. It’s paid for. It’s all non-refundable.

And then …

I heard a nasty rumor that the trip is canceled.

This came on the day when I got another notice from payroll that I’m no longer accruing vacation days because my bank is full.

I’m hoping I’m allowed to take the trip anyway, since it’s all paid for and stuff. I told folks that I don’t even care if the thing is canceled — just transfer my eight hotel nights to a D.C.-area establishment and don’t tell my Extended Houseguest^TM that I didn’t leave town!

What really irks me is that I could have spent that money on another trip I’m trying to save up for. Just a weekend jaunt to see an old friend from college. And by “just” I’m lying and by “old friend” I mean “I don’t really know what we were, or what we are now, but I am determined to find out.”

“The pain is self inflicted
I know it’s not good for my health
But it’s easier to please the world than it is to please myself
Oh the rest is out of my hands.”

– LeAnn Rimes, “What I Cannot Change“

All right, I feel mildly better that I’ve spilled my pumpkin guts today. And speaking of guts, or losing mine slowly but surely, I am pleased to announce that I no longer have to unbutton/unzip any of my jeans or dress pants to take them off because they are all falling the fuck off. Easy-access clothes, can has!

OK, so my jeans are falling off my hips and my pink-and-black scandalous gutchies are of course on display. So, aha! Belt! Right?

Wrong.

The freaking belt (it’s gold. I’m wearing a Steeler shirt. I MUST MATCH MY BLACK AND GOLD GOD DAMN IT) is too big, even on its smallest hole.

The really cruddy part of this all is that I have been trying on new jeans but I can’t find anything that I like or that doesn’t create a muffin top in a smaller size. Besides, since I have, oh, 30 pairs of jeans in my closet, I’d like to give them a LITTLE more use before I go and donate them.

I know, not the worst problems I’ve ever had. …

So, there were some commercials out earlier this summer for “Keeping up with the Kardashians,” in which Kim was prepping for a calendar shoot and was getting her cellulite massaged or whatever the hell the process is called.

Anyway, she was wearing these awesome leopard-print underwear trimmed in black lace. Dude, I saw those panties in the store that same week and I HAD to have them.

Yes, I know they don’t make my butt look like hers. But I still love them.

So I was wearing them today, and my pants (being just a twee bit too loose at the waist) weren’t always covering them when I was sitting. But I usually pay attention to these things and am quite acclimated with fussing around with my clothes.

Of course, we got hella busy today and by busy I mean “why the fuck did the seven people I am paid to beat into submission crawl out from under their rocks at THE EXACT SAME TIME and send me urgent work that needed to be attended to RIGHT THAT VERY GODDAMNED MINUTE?” I have one lone but glorious staff member, so we divided and conquered and kicked the inbox’s ASS in a half-hour before we were annihilated again shortly thereafter.

Anyway, I was trying very hard to do math once the onslaught abated and it meant staring at lots of flashing, shiny lights and numbers up on my screen as they KEPT FUCKING CHANGING. Oh yeah, good times.

So what I did not realize that my poor boss was standing behind me, waiting to get my attention when I was done doing my little data inputting and percentage-getting and such. And what I realized was a lovely “oh shit” moment as I noticed my undergutchies were quite visible to anyone who might have had a rear view of moi.

Har har har. *headdesk* My apologies for the underskivvy exposure!

I normally wear longer shirts but I fit into one I haven’t worn in a couple of years and wasn’t so concerned when I got dressed this morning. I always forget these days to check my clothes when I’m sitting down in ‘em.

Oh well — I’m wearing a Steeler T-shirt tomorrow ’cause we’re actually allowed to dress like normal human beings (like, with jeans! And favorite-team jerseys!) so I am just gonna hope for the best or, at least, wear undergutchies that sit much lower than the Kim Kardashian-esque ones that I still love so much.

And, actually, belts just don’t help. I was wearing string-bikini-type gutchies on Saturday night, and I accidentally threaded my belt through them. *facepalm* When I went to use the powder room, I couldn’t figure out why my shorts and gutchies were all one unit. Please tell me I’m not the only asshat who’s endured this particular wardrobe malfunction. …