Crotchety McBitchalot

Swappin' spit with mah coworkers.

2010-10-22T17:22:00.003-04:00

I bought a coffee the other day and I only had about 4 sips from it, before it was cold and I went to throw it out. I happened to mention, on the way to the ladies room to dump it, that it was a waste of money but I just couldn't chug it down with the artificial sweetener in it. That's when a coworker spoke up and said that they would totally have taken it and heated it up, if I hadn't mentioned the artificial sweetener part. They just couldn't "do" artificial sweetener.
And I'm sitting here thinking, you could not only drink another person's coffee, back washed with God knows what, but you would heat up that bacteria and drink it....and it's the sweetener that makes you think it's a bad idea? Really?

It's like a warm squish pot of release.

2010-10-19T08:06:00.003-04:00

I don't know what made me click over to this long forgotten blog and start reading, but I'm glad that I did. I forgot how cathartic this place was.
Also, this place is fucking funny when you read it much, much later.
I'm reading these posts thinking, holy shit what a maniac, but there's nothing truer, more real than these words. In this place I don't have to worry about who reads, I don't have to dwell on hurting anyone's feelings, and I don't have to sensor what I say or how I say it. If I want to say fuck, I can say fuck and I don't have to be ashamed that I can, sometimes, be vulgar.
Because really, who isn't at some point in their lives?
I miss this place. It's different than my other blog. This is the place where the cheating husband comes to play, when he tells his wife that he has to go away on business. This is the stage of the college kid who swears she's only grinding this pole to put herself through school, when she secretly likes it and wouldn't give it up for a drive through "respectable" job.
I like it here. Might stay a while.

Why haven't I used this more often?

2009-09-06T12:50:00.002-04:00

I started this blog to post stuff that I didn't feel right posting on my other blog. Stuff that maybe I didn't want my mainstream readers to read.
I started this blog to piss and moan. God knows, I'm good at it.
Honestly, if there's ever been a time that I needed a piss and moan outlet, it's lately. The last 2 months have been utter hell for me.
One, I've been off my meds. Not only have I been off my meds, but I've had to deal some major family tragedies in that time, unassisted by my meds, and it's a wonder I haven't driven myself into a tree. Because, really, I've thought about it.
No, I'm not kidding. And I think the fact that I can admit it is one of the very good reasons that I've never actually done it. Yes, I've thought about it before, too.
I started to write an incredibly depressing post on my other blog, explaining the reason for my almost 2 month hiatus. There was a lot going on around the house at that time, and it was taking me a while to write the post. Of course, it's difficult to write a heartfelt post while balling your eyes out, when your house is full of kids running here and there, and you don't want them to see you cry. My daughter was also looking over my shoulder, a lot, and I didn't want to write too much because I didn't want her reading it. She knows how totally unstable I can get, and I don't like her carrying around that burden.
Anyway, the post never got published. Oddly enough, the post literally disappeared. I can't figure it out. Wordpress "drafts" everything, whether you want them to or not, within a certain time limit.....but this post? No, not this one. Never a stored draft, never a accidental publish, nothing. It was gone. I came back to the computer to continue writing when the chaos around the house died down, and the post had disappeared.
It was as if someone had pushed the delete button. That someone wasn't me.
I didn't have it in my emotional turmoil cavity to attempt to find those words again. I never posted anything explaining my hiatus. I wonder if anyone actually cares one way or the other.
I don't.
Not anymore, actually. It bothered me in the beginning. I wanted that voice out there. I wanted my inner drama to be heard, understood, appreciated, felt sorry for. Then I started going around to some of my favourite blog authors' stomping grounds, and it no longer seemed to matter that everyone knew how much I was hurting, because there were a lot of people in the same boat. It seemed that this was an unforgiving summer for many.

And that's it. That's all I have to say. I just needed to get it out, and now I have, in a very strange and minimalistic way.

And now it's done.

And I'll move on.

Stop hiding behind my set.

2009-04-15T18:24:00.003-04:00

I was told today that I goad. I'm a "goader".
Not only was I told that I goad, when I was told it, they spelled it wrong and told me that I 'gode'.
If you're going to cut me down, at least spell it properly.
I'm no fucking goader. I haven't goaded anyone into doing anything in a very long time. Like since I was a teenager....or maybe a grammar schooler. I don't goad people.
I tell people what to do. I advise people on what I think they should do. I don't have to goad anyone to do anything. I don't get anywhere by being underhanded, I'm up front and honest, and it shows results.
Fucking goad.
If you believe that you are being goaded to do something, then maybe you need to grow a fucking pair.

“Look at that ass!!” That is one friggin’ huge ass.”

2009-03-20T12:32:00.000-04:00

I bought a new pair of jeans last night. This new pair makes five pairs that I own.
I have two pairs that I USED to wear when I was kind of skinny, that no longer fit me, one pair that are just grossly weird and make me look like an elephant, one pair that fit me, but I look homeless when I wear them, and this new pair.
The tag on the brand claims to make you look immediately slimmer. They show a belly bump before and after, and the belly bump is magically flattened in the after shot. I’m glad I don’t have to depend on these jeans to save my life, the way I depended on them to flatten my belly bump. I’d need to hire someone to pretend to like me, and write my eulogy.
That creative advertising gimmick can kiss my big, fat ass.
Literally, because when I went out to the living room this morning and looked in the mirror, this is how the conversation with myself went:
“Look at that ass!!” That is one friggin’ huge ass.”
See, a year ago about this time, I lost 33 pounds. I was so fucking proud of myself. I didn’t look as good as I wanted to, but I looked a hell of a lot better than I do now, I felt a hell of a lot better that I do now, and I was fucking proud of myself.
I have since gained back all but 1.2 pounds of what I lost.
I won’t go into the many excuses that I have for falling off the wagon. Some are valid, some are total bullshit. It’s amazing though, how quickly the fat comes back, and the ways that it comes back. I’m still (technically) lighter than I was before, but I feel a lot fatter. The places that I’m noticing it the most are my face, waistline, and my thighs. Trust me, having fat inner thighs sucks ass.
Anyway, I can’t stand being this way. I don’t feel comfortable in my clothing, I’m out of breath at even the most miniscule forms of exertion, and I’m tired all of the time. The problem is, no matter how much all of this is bothering me, I know that something has to push me over the edge, a straw has to break a camel’s back, my last nerve has to bend or attempting to change this will fail. I KNOW that I have to want it, or I won’t do it, and it’s been a long time coming to want it.
Truthfully, I’ve been fucking miserable lately, and if I couldn’t emotional eat, I’m not sure I’d have been able to maintain even the tiniest bit of sanity. Because that’s what I do. And honestly, I don’t see an end to my miserable set of circumstances, and I don’t know if I can handle coping in misery and exercising self discipline.
When I tried my jeans on last night, the only fitting room available was the wheel chair accessible one. It was a big room, with mirrors on each side. Have you ever seen that “What Not To Wear” show with those two annoying assholes and that 360 degree mirror room? Ya, it was like that. Only when I stood in there it looked like I had eaten the assholes, instead of them hosting the show. And with everything that I’ve been feeling health wise, energy wise, and disgust wise, that could very well have been my push over the edge. My straw. The last nerve.
I guess we’ll see this weekend when I either buy the appropriate groceries to get my life back in order, or I bake a banana coconut cream pie.

I think I might be skitzofrenick. (that IS TOO how you spell it)

2009-03-04T19:25:00.002-05:00

I started the day depressed as fuck. Went to work, somehow got some therapy, and all of a sudden slipped into a healthier attitude.
Wait. "as fuck"? What exactly is depressed as fuck? Sick as fuck. Lame as all get out. Wait, that's something completely different. My personal favourite, ugly as fuck. I'm not sure what as fuck is, but it's major. This I know.
Anyway, like I was saying, I've been up and down all day. I want to be happy. I want to think that the cosmics are going to all align and make me so happy one day that I shoot magical rainbows out of my ass, but man, I just don't know.
And that's really depressing.
And then my pink unicorn personality comes galloping along and stomps hard on the head of my bridge troll ogre personality, and mashes his face into the blue and green sparkle pile that said pink unicorn just shat out it's ass.
I told you, skitzofrenick.

No, I'm not done feeling sorry for myself.

2009-03-02T19:11:00.004-05:00

I'm going to pretend that I'm not this mental. I'm going to pretend that I'm writing the following post because I have my period. Well, I do have my period, but I'm also pretty God damned mental, right now.

I have come to the conclusion that I am one of those people who are destined to never have the life they desire.
Maybe I just don't deserve it. Maybe I'm being punished for things that I did when I was kid. Maybe karma is coming 'round and I'm getting mine. It just doesn't look like the things that I hold dear, the things that I want for my life, surrounding my loved ones, are meant to be.
I'm always supposed to be the one living from paycheck to paycheck.
I'm always supposed to be the one just getting by.
I'm always supposed to sit and wonder how the hell I'm going to put my kids through college.
I'm always the parent who drops her kids off at their friend's houses, the houses that are much bigger and nicer than ours, and secretly crushes a little inside because my kids won't invite their friends over to my house.
I'm always the one who has to borrow from one bill payment to pay another, that is just that much over due.

I'm the highschool girl who gets hit on by the Captain of the football team, only to find out that it was all an elaborate joke, orchestrated by his balloon titted, air headed girlfriend. The same girl who will never know what it's like to be the woman above.

Who me?

2009-03-01T10:02:00.002-05:00

I am a CONTROL FREAK.
I admit this to you as a personality trait, and not a fault.
I don't feel this is one of my faults, at all, because (seriously) if I wasn't the control freak that I am, there are a shitload of things in my life that wouldn't get done or accomplished. Worse yet, not done or accomplished, right.
That old saying, "If you want something done right, do it yourself" ? That's gold right there. Gospel, even.
I fucking hate it when I have to sit back and watch/wait/listen while things beyond my control are dealt with. Especially if those things are dealt with by incompetence. Even patience, pride, understanding, hurt feelings and political correctness drive me batshit insane. When it needs to be done, it needs to be done and sometimes all it takes is a set of balls and some gumption.
Plain and fucking simple.

Summanabitch.

2009-02-28T08:35:00.002-05:00

Damn it. I'm not doing very well, am I? I haven't posted for a few days, so I think I've already broken the rules. Not that there are any rules, but if you've got to break something, it might as well be a rule. I mean, a glass? a plate? You'll be pissed off that you broke those, but who ever got all bent out of shape because they broke a rule? It's not like you can store a delicious drop of chocolate milk in it, or a slice of pie. Rules are dumb.

Anyway, it's not like I haven't had anything to bitch about. Because I HAVE AND DON'T YOU DARE THINK OTHERWISE. Sorry.

I got this email the other day, about medical sales or something. I don't know, they were selling black market viagra or some shit. Anyway, this is how it started:

Hi there!
It has been long time since we did not meet. I hope everything is okay with you.

I'm sorry, whut? If we've never met, wouldn't it have been an infinite time since that didn't happen? And if something didn't happen, then how could you be sorry for it not happening? I think my hair's on fire.

Stupid people are fucking annoying. At least this dumb ass probably has some language barrier or something that they can use as an excuse, but most don't.
And you can't use stupid as an excuse. You can be born stupid, and realize you're stupid and try to compensate for it, and the rest of the world will tolerate you. Some may even accept you.

But you, dummy, the one who is stupid but thinks that they are on the same level of everyone else, and only succeed in alienating people and being mocked behind their back? You, yes. You are a twat. And as soon as there is any way possible that I can be done with you, I will be.

Her name was Tammy, and she hailed Queen of the snot rocket.

2009-02-21T14:45:00.006-05:00

I remember being in math class in grade 8. There were some snide giggles, and I was alerted, or maybe I even started the whole damned thing, I can't remember, to a booger lodged in one of my classmates nostrils. Of course, the civil thing to do, but who's actually civil when you're what? eleven years old? would be to slip her a note and tell her that she has a boug in her nose and let her keep her dignity while she disposed of it. Or sucked it back and got rid of it. Which, of course, in my book would make her super cool.
Also, her name probably still is Tammy, not was Tammy. I'm sure an embarrassing 8th grade boogie incident didn't scar her for life and make her change her name. Although, a trillion years later, I still remember it.
But no, there was no note. In fact, after the giggling got old and the joke was stale, another of my classmates took it upon himself to let her know. Loudly. "Tammy? You have a booger in your nose." And oddly enough, when I think back to the story and the reaction on face before she turned beat red and her eyes welled up, it almost seems like I am the one who told her. Almost. Although, I refuse to believe it was me.
She laughed at first. One of those surprised omfg laughs that come out so quickly, if she had her mouth closed that booger would have shot right out of her nose and hit me smack in the forehead. Then she turned away from us all, and just before her head faced the other direction, I could see the tears. I can't remember what she did with the booger. I know she didn't excuse herself to go to the washroom. Maybe she wiped it on her sleeve? She could have picked it out, I suppose. I mean, how much more embarrassment would that possibly add to the already shitty situation that she was found in?
Looking back, if I were her in that position, and I knew then what I know now? I would have asked which nostril it was in and then I would have plugged the opposite one and blew out a torpedo too fast for anyone close enough for impact to be able to dodge.
But that's just me. Cause I'm cool like that.

I don't think I have any matches.

2009-02-21T14:00:00.003-05:00

Why do I procrastinate so much? I mean, I procrastinate about everything.
We're talking, I won't even go to the bathroom until I can't possibly hold the turtle head in any longer.
What? Too much information for my second only blog post? Dude, it's not like there's anyone reading this. I know, I see the stats. Basically I'm typing as if I'm talking to a reader, but I know that I'm the only one that knows this blog exists. So basically, I'm calling myself dude, and talking to myself.
Anyway...the procrastination. Here's an example.
I love those rectangular wicker storage baskets. I have seventy of them. Alright, maybe not seventy, but I have a few. You know the ones with the pretty white cotton liners in them. Yeah, those. Love those.
Currently, I have three rather large sized ones full of mail. Most of the mail? Not even opened. Which means that I have three large baskets full of old bills. I hardly ever open my bills, unless I get a voice mail telling me that I should be forking out some cash, or living in fear that one of my utilities will be turned off any minute now. Thank God utility companies don't report to the credit bureau. My fucked credit would be holy fucked.
There's good stuff in them, too. Like insurance papers, photos, report cards, dryer lint, hair and paperclips. It's not all nasty old expired bills. Anyway, these baskets need to be cleaned out. My desk area is so freaking cluttered I can barely get my legs under it. Not that that should matter, really, I always sit on my feet anyway. But sooner or later my legs fall asleep and I feel like I'm losing feeling in my lower extremities and I have to put them back under the desk before they turn purple. They need to be cleaned out and sorted and recorded and shredded. It needs to get done so I can take control back from my desk.
It's not a hard task. It's not exerting. It doesn't cost any money. It takes no time at all. You cozy up to the kitchen table, put all the envelopes in piles according to return address, toss what you don't want in a shredding pile, and file the rest away in an accordion. Then you have (at least) two empty cotton lined wicker baskets that you can fill back up with ~~other shit~~ goodness. It's done, you're proud of yourself and the world can continue to spin on it's proper axis.

So why the hell can't I sit down and do it?

Why not blog about it? And by blog, I mean bitch.

2009-02-19T22:20:00.002-05:00

Someone once said it. I agreed with it.
Alright, I said it. And I always agree with me.

This will do nicely.