miracle diet

no matter how fat you feel, your legs will always look long and amazing and thin with these ralph lauren boots, and they'll look SUPER THIN if you got them on sale.


try not to be jealous.

Taking the meaning of Christmas to a whole other level...

We were in a rush today to get a large chunk of Christmas website copy for PetsFart completed. Said copy was filled with Christmas-related pet puns, such as "Bark the halls" and other such bullshit, and a good part was copy/pasted since we were in such a time crunch.

After I turned in said Christmas PetsFart copy, I realized I wrote "Satan Claws" instead of "Santa Claws" for almost all of it.

I haven't said anything yet.

...Part of me is really hoping they don't catch it and it goes live on their site as is.

WANT

i need more job duties...

how sad is it when the most rewarding/productive thing i did all day is pop a huge pimple that's been bugging me? immensely satisfying, but doesn't look so great on my resume.

Things I am Fucking Pumped For

1. Zombieland comes out on Friday. I am so fucking there after work. Zombies AND Woody Harrelson AND shenanigans?!?! Yes, please.

2. Getting skinny. I joined the gym here where I'm temping (rhymes with "PetsFart Shmedquarters") AND I have a membership to 24 Hour Fitness, so I'm aiming for cardio 2x a day on most weekdays. I'm also trying to eat healthily and anorexic-ish, so hopefully that'll help my fat ass shrink. I have absolutely no excuse at this point. I want my husband to want to fuck me stupid in the years to come, and looking like a Biggest Loser reject is not going to help.

3. Moving. We are working very hard to pay off our debt (re: my credit card bills that I racked up for the wedding) so we can move to a place that is far less sunny and Arizona-like when our lease is up. Don't know if it will happen, but it's good to have goals, right?

4. Reading a shitload. I went crazycakes on Amazon.com Saturday night after a honkin' big mango margarita and ordered a ton of cheap-ass used books. Even with shipping, they're way, way less than what I'd pay if I got them from a regular bookstore. I also swooped in on a used bookstore up the street from me and ravished their lit section.

5. Cooler weather. IT'S ALMOST OCTOBER, PHOENIX. WHERE THE FUCK IS THE 70's AND 80's?!?! ENOUGH WITH THE 103 DEGREE BULLSHIT.

6. Book club. My friend Susie and I started a book club and invited some people she knows to join, and our first meeting is in October at my place. I get to talk about books AND socialize with someone other than Rob and the cats? Fucking sweet.

TMI Thursdays: The Day I Got Laid Off

Welcome to my first-ever TMI Thursday post! I figured what better way to start this section off with the lovely tale of August 14, 2009: The Day I Got Laid Off. You can find all the hairy details about what happened here, but what I didn't talk about was the night of the day I got laid off.

I had spent the day alternating between bawling my eyes out and shitting my guts out, thanks to my awesome case of IBS that flares up under any type of stress (true story: I can simply LOOK at pictures of Rob's ex-wife and get the shits). Also, somewhere in the back of my mind, I figured that if I didn't eat anything, I'd at least be thin while unemployed (be honest, girls, who hasn't done that after a break-up or other life-shattering event?).

My former boss from my first job, the one I VOLUNTARILY LEFT, called me up and suggested a girl's happy hour to take my mind off my troubles. Fan-fucking-tastic! I'd go, nibble on some appetizers, have a glass or two of white wine, and come home sloppy drunk and far happier. So, I got all dolled up, marveling the whole time at how thin I looked (thanks, diarrhea!), pranced down the stairs in my 4-inch heels that I'd broken out of my closet for this very occasion (and if you know me, that's fucking rare), met Heather at the door and went on my merry way.

Fast-froward to 3 hours later, 4 appetizers later (2 of them being RAW AHI TUNA TACOS) and 2 small glasses of wine, a mixed drink and a vodka shot later, and I was in the restaurant bathroom, drunkenly shitting out every inch of intestines I had left. Every. Single. Inch. After I finished, I sat there on the toilet, weaving back and forth and trying to convince myself that I COULD focus, that I wasn't THAT drunk.

And then... it hit me. A wave of nausea so strong and so powerful that it took everything I had to pull up my underwear as I slumped to the floor and projectile vomited those nummy RAW AHI TUNA TACOS and everything else I had consumed into (almost) the toilet.

Now, I'm a healthy-sized girl and can carry my liquor like no one's business; in the real world, I wouldn't have even been phased by what I'd drunk. But after a day of total dehydration, no food and tons of stress, those drinks went all Ike Turner on my ass and beat the everliving shit out of me.

Fast-forward to an hour later, where I'm STILL throwing up with my pants around my ankles and passing out in-between barfing sessions. My boss is tipsily banging on the stall door, demanding that I unlock it (I can barely hold on to my consciousness, let alone open my eyes and move to unlock a goddamn stall door). Things went black for a while, and the next thing I know, they've managed to unlock the stall door and someone is giving me sips of ice water from a glass. Which I then threw up.

The best part of the evening wasn't when Heather's friend/my former coworker, Judie, dropped the glass with ice water behind me and it shattered, and I accidentally rolled on it as I barfed and got glass embedded in my ass.

It wasn't when Heather and Judie tried repeatedly to pick up 185 lbs. of my dead-weight ass and pull up my icy, soaked and glass-laden pants.

It wasn't when other women in the bathroom saw me and went, "EWWWW!" and Heather told them I got laid of and they became immediately sympathetic, cooing "Oh, my God, that's HORRIBLE! I'm so sorry! I'd be trashed, too! I hope she feels better!"

No, the best part of the night was when the manager had to come in, help them lift me up/pull up my pants and put me on a chair, and then slide me (I was passed out cold) AND the chair out of the bathroom, through the restaurant, out the door and to the front of the restaurant, where Rob was waiting for me (thank God, someone had the insight to call him). He tenderly helped pick me up and placed me gently in the front seat, where I immediately woke up, dribble-barfed down the side of my seat and out the door, and passed out again. WINNER.

Needless to say, I woke up the next morning, covered in RAW AHI TUNA TACO vomit with shards of glass drilled into my ass cheeks and all up and down my thighs. More surprisingly, however, was that Rob didn't immediately demand a divorce.

So, there you have it. My first TMI Thursday post.

how i feel about my temp job

(as overheard in a conversation with my friend)

"It just sucks to think that I have this [writing] talent that I've worked VERY HARD to hone over the years, and now I'm writing about fucking cat toys and dog beds...

It's like if you were the best blow job giver EVER and you had to spend your time only blowing bananas."

With apologies to Jen Lancaster

Being unemployed is nothing new. Neither is being fat. Or bitchy. So why are so many people telling me I should write a book about this?

Well, not just this experience.... a book, period. And don't think I'm not tempted by the idea. It's just that, once I try to think about what, exactly, the damn thing would be about, I can't think of anything to set me apart from any of the other, fat, mean, unemployed funny ladies out there. Except maybe my overuse of the word "fuck."

My family would be excellent book fodder, in my opinion. The only problem is, most of them are still alive,and what good is dishing the dirt when there's the potential to get called on it?

Fiction is out, because there's no way I'm going to be the next Devil Wear's Prada, and when you really get down to it, there's not a whole lot of originality in fiction this days, in my very snobby and literate opinion (I do have a degree in English, after all. Nyah).

Maybe I could talk about what it's like to be married to someone almost 20 years my senior. What would be a good title for that? How about He Cums Dust?

At any rate, it's a little idea that keeps bouncing around in my head and there was no way it was going to leave me alone until I put it the fuck out there. GOD. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, BRAIN?!?!

ugh

almost 3 weeks of watching cooking shows on food network has made me more than slightly suicidal.