Office Mourning
Yesterday I wore all black to work. My boss wanted to know if someone died. I told him a little piece of me, every day I come to work.
Happy Fucking Friday!!!
Fat Bottom Girl Said What
When my ass talks, people listen.
Archive for the category “Uncategorized”
You Say It’s Your Birthday?
It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.
I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.
Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.
What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.
The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.
The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.
The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.
The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.
The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.
The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?
Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.
I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.
So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.
And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!
Photo Credit: deviantart.com
Newton’s Law
She knew as the word was forming in her throat, at the exhale of the breath that carried the sound, as it passed her lips, that it was the wrong thing to say. She had said yes.
She had told him yes, and it made her feel just a little bit sick to her stomach. Why had she said yes? She knew she didn’t love him that way; not in the way you should love someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, so why would she tell him yes?
It wasn’t fair to tell him yes and not mean it. It set things in motion. What external forces were going to stop what that word had set in motion?
That yes led to another yes and another and another. Until she no longer knew how to say anything else. It’s not that she didn’t want to. She wanted to scream “NO!” at the top of her lungs and stop the stream, but her throat had grown so accustomed to saying yes, she couldn’t form an “n”.
So she started small. She changed the tone of how she said yes. She changed the inflection of how she said yes. She changed the pitch of how she said yes. And he noticed. And he didn’t like it.
Then she stopped saying it so regularly. One less yes per day and before she knew it, she was down to one final yes. She saved that yes, just in case she needed it some day.
And finally the time came when he said to her, “I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t think you ever really loved me like I loved you. I want to be free to find another who will love me like I deserve to be loved, and you can be free to find that too. Will you give me a divorce?”
And she said yes. And this time, she really meant it.
*This was written in response to a post I read the other day on The Things I See Up Here, regarding The Yes Movement. It got me thinking about all the times I have said yes in my life, and all the things that simple word sets in motion. I wish I could’ve come up with a really uplifting, positive yes story, but the first thing that came to my mind was a time when I had said yes and didn’t really mean yes. Such a double-sided coin is yes, that it reminds of some of my favorite Rush Lyrics, “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice”. In other words, if you don’t say yes, then in essence you are saying no.
Yes can be scary as hell sometimes. Yes means taking a risk and jumping without a safety net. Yes can be exhilarating. You never know how yes is going to wind up, or where yes might take you. Yes may turn out to be a very valuable lesson, or yes may be the love of your life. I am saying yes a lot more these days; yes to my happiness, and yes to knowing I deserve good stuff in my life. What do you want to say yes to? Just say yes, and set some things in motion in your life!
distance
and the shortest distance
between our two points
is my mind
you meet me there
with open arms and a smile
so real at times
I feel your lips brushing my cheek
or feel your hand in mine
or hear your heart beating as I curl against you and lay my head on your chest
Photo Credit: cuddlecomfort.com
BAGGAGE
You didn’t know me before. . .
Before
life seemed to drive me to be jaded, untrusting, wary, fearful
Marked now
with scars and bruises
some evident
others not noticeable to the naked eye
So much history
packed away
stashed
concealed
camouflaged and ensconced
in the baggage I carry
(we all tote something)
suitcase
duffle
backpack
carpet bag
steamer trunk
If you were to say to me,
“Set them down babe,
the burden of what you carry could cause Atlas to collapse from exhaustion,
take each item out when you’re ready,
I’m here to help,
I’m not here to judge”
And if I actually find the courage
to take out the key
and turn that key in the lock
and throw open the lid
would you really stand there
while I release my own type of Pandora’s boxed goods
Because if you did. . . .
I might need you to hold my hand
take my elbow to steady me
on my feet
when my knees threaten to buckle
from the weight
of some of it as I lift it out
I may need you to dry my tears
and pull me close
and tell me you appreciate
all the things I’ve carried
because they’ve made me who I am today
I may need you to crack jokes
so that I may laugh
to purge myself of all the negativity
and misconceptions
I’ve pulled from inside these vessels of wounds
I may need you to love me
Welcome To The Big Top
Desperately, she wanted to know how much he cared, because at times, her insecurities drove her to doubt everything.
Patiently, as always,
He replied thus,
My dear, if the circus came to town, I would don tights and a cape and climb the ladder all the way up to the tiny platform where I would then walk the tightrope without a net just for you.
To which she replied,
My dear, there would be no need to fear a fall, as I would be there to catch you.
He replied thus,
My dear, I would climb inside the cage with a lion and stick my head inside the fierce beast’s jaws whilst holding a greasy double cheeseburger between my teeth!
To which she replied,
My dear, after you removed your head from the lion’s jaws I would wipe the beast’s slobber from your pate, and kiss you on it.
He replied thus,
My dear, I would recite dirty limericks and sing you bawdy love songs whilst riding a unicycle and juggling knives.
To which she replied,
My dear, if you happened to drop a knife and cut yourself after hitting a bump, I would doctor your wounds with Batman band-aids and balance the unicycle while you got back on for another go.
He replied thus,
My dear, as you sit in your special reserved front row seat with the velvet cushion, I would have a corn dog and a funnel cake delivered to you so you could snack on them while watching me put on this show for you, my biggest fan.
To which she replied,
My dear, I would clap and wolf-whistle and cheer loudly, because I will always be the president of your fan club, and will be the first in line to buy a ticket to any of your performances, and always hand you a Route 44 Cherry Limeade when you are done.
He replied thus,
So, my dear, if you don’t now know how much I care, I might as well tear down the big top.
To which she replied,
Don’t you dare! It’s clear you adore me and my quirky ways, as I adore you and your quirky ways, and we have years of performances ahead of us!
Cozies for Nether Regions and an Item Which Makes it Look Like Your Head is Popping Out of One
It’s cold here. Not like “I need a cozy for my cock because I walk out the door and have icicles dangling from my balls and am sure I’ve been teleported to Canada” kind of cold, but fucking cold nonetheless. Which by the way, if you do need a cozy for your cock, may I suggest a hand-knitted delight like this trouser snake special I found over on etsy. Sort of frightening, yet suggestive at the same time.
The seller does note the following in the description: You will receive a random shaft colour combo in the standard 7.5″ unless you specify 2 colours/custom size in your Message To Seller. Do your cock a favor guys, and get out the ruler. Do you really want your meat stick swimming around in this dick scarf because you lied and told the seller it was an 8 incher instead of the 5.25 inches that it is?
I think the cock and ball cozy is an amazing idea. The turtleneck, on the other hand, not so much. Seriously, whose fucking idea was this? Did the fashion designers of the early 20th century get together and say to each other, “It’s Ice Age cold outside. We need to design a shirt that comes all the way up the neck and feels like it’s garroting you. You know, sort of like auto-erotic asphyxiation, but a lot less pleasurable.”
I’m certainly no fashion plate, and tend to stay far away from the catwalk, but I thought these things went out with the”OMG your thighs are going to rub together and start a forest fire” corduroy trousers with bell bottoms and clogs with wooden heels. Which by the way I miss terribly. The clogs, not the corduroy pants.
My suggestion? Try a scarf. Try a snood. Try a micro-fleece neck warmer. Try anything but a turtleneck, because no matter how good you think it looks, it just doesn’t. It makes your head look like it’s popping out of your mother’s vag on your birthday. The last guy that looked good in a turtleneck? Ron Burgundy. And we all know you can’t look better than him, so just give it up.
A Day in the Life of an Office Bitch in Construction
Do you ever have those days at work when you think, “Shit couldn’t possibly get much stupider than it already is”? I have them often. But as luck would have it, I continually get the answer to that rhetorical question, which is an unequivocal “yes”.
As I’ve said before, I work in construction. I don’t wear steel-toed boots to work every day, and I don’t swing a hammer, I am an office manager for a construction company. Basically, I am the “office bitch” for a construction company. I push papers, I copy and scan shit, and I watch the money. Correction; I watch the money go out. Rarely does the money flow back in, and when it does, it’s a trickle. When it goes out, it’s a flow like your first piss when you’ve broke the seal after pounding four beers in an hour’s time.
So this contract I work on, it’s bleeding; bleeding like your ball sack when you nicked it manscaping.
How to fix the problem?
My suggestions would be:
1. Work smarter.
2. Buckle down and get jobs bought out sooner and get your fucking paperwork turned in on time.
3. Stop making excuses and do your job.
I know those are novel ideas, and very easy difficult to implement, but they cost the company no extra money. Wouldn’t you think you’d want to try the no-cost approach first?
Not around here!
My boss just came to me and told me to buy “Moose Knuckle”, our head superintendent, a new white board. Moose Knuckle, known to everyone around here as “Captain Save-A-Ho”, claims this will help him get his shit together and track activity in the field better.
I must point out here that Moose Knuckle doesn’t even carry a notebook with him. He claims he can keep track of everything in his head. Really, the only reason he can keep track of anything, is because he makes it up as he goes along. If he doesn’t know the answer to a question–he will make something up. And that something that he makes up, to cover his failure to jot down a fucking note every once in awhile? It won’t be a simple bullshit excuse like, “Man, I was really fucking busy bailing my drunk girlfriend out of jail today and didn’t make it to that job”. No, it’s fucking elaborate and Ripley’s Believe It or Not kind of shit, like, “Man, I’m not sure what happened, because I got stuck in a 10 car pile-up on the way to the job site, and I had to give 3 people mouth-to-mouth, and one dude an emergency tracheotomy with my ball point pen, and then I had to whip off my too tight moose knuckle Levi’s and use them as a tourniquet to save this chick’s leg, and I just lost track of time and before I knew it was time to come back here for the meeting”.
But. . . .a new, really fucking big white board is going to make all the difference.
Do you have any idea how much those things cost? We’re talking party like a rock star in Vegas with cocaine and hookers, or a Justin Bieber trip to the titty bar expensive.
So I suggest to my boss that Moose Knuckle take the one out of the empty office next door to me. Nope. Not good enough. Moose Knuckle wants the BIG board. I’m guessing to make up for what he is lacking in the moose knuckle department, but mind you, that is merely a guess, except for the fact of just how fucking tight the dude wears his fucking pants. Gross.
I look at my boss like Crazy Eyes from Orange is the New Black. I ask him if he realizes how much it’s going to cost, and remind him that Moose Knuckle didn’t maintain the first white board he had. He says he knows, but tells me to get it anyway. WTF? Just to prove to everyone after dropping a load of money on this thing that the guy couldn’t coordinate s’mores making at a fucking Campfire Girl jamboree??
I know you guys don’t like to listen to me, because I have a VAGINA, but could we just buy the guy a little notebook and tell him that if he can maintain that, you’ll graduate him to the big boy white board??
Saving a few bucks. What a stellar fucking idea.
Fat Bottom Girl Said What 
