Overtime and Overdue

A couple weeks ago I got thrown some new business at work. Interesting and fairly exciting stuff offering me a world of opportunity.

Allegedly.

(We throw the word "opportunity" around quite a bit and it mostly means "shining up a turd JUST FOR YOU" so excuse me if I don't leap at all "opportunities.")

And while this meant exposure to be my charming and lovely self to potential clients AND the partners of the agency, it also meant that the 4 days I set aside to move from a large 3 BR home to a much smaller 2 BR town home became about a day and half of sorta-packing-while-checking-email-and-going-to-meetings. I worked through the weekend before the move leaving my husband to take care of the packing. I traveled to the prospects location a few hours away with the "importants" and sat next to my CEO at dinner AND breakfast while the hubs picked up my dad, who flew in to help us pack and move. I planned packing around meetings. I gave up the last two days completely to sit in the office and do NOTHING because they wanted someone "on the ground." Too bad I didn't land any flights that day.

So today I decided..."Fuck it. I am taking two days off." Only I'm now all... *whistle whistle* What should I do?

Right now I am getting my car serviced. Check.

Later I am going to make my own pickles. Check

Before later I am going for a run on my favorite trail. Check.

......

......

Now what? I have thousands of things on the "to do" only I kinda don't want to do them. For instance, my hoarding-lite husband has a garage full of STUFF and I want it gone. We also can't find our wedding albums so...I should probably find those. Our house needs to be cleaned. Clearly I don't feel like doing that. Sigh.

OK... impromptu list of random stuff:

1) People have stupid ring tones. Also, they ring forever and ever before the owner notices it's their phone.

2) I get really excited when I see people reading the crappy novel series that I love. I immediately want to walk over and totally ruin the whole series for them by telling them what happens. I manage to suppress the urge.

3) Do people still watch soap operas? Because just hearing the dialogue kills me.

4) Why is blogger telling me that "dialogue" isn't a word? Stupid blogger.

5) Ooooh mojitos would be good right now.

If it isn't mean, it isn't funny

True Story.

I am mean today. Every joke, every thought, every sentence. MEAN. And my mean can't just be snarktastic, it has to be funny. Extra cutting so as to make OTHER people laugh at you while I laugh at you. Laughing at you isn't enough. I need OTHERS to find hilarity in your stupidity. Such as the hit-or-miss fashionista sending out an email titled "HOMF 'maternity' leave." She's getting a tea cup Yorkie not an under-fed, impoverished orphan from the Philippines. What are you? The cankled Paris Hilton who lives in a fantasy world of importance? Seriously.

See? Now you're laughing and you don't even know her.

Mean accomplished.

Really Anthropologie? REALLY?

"Cutaway booties give a wink to the ankle boot, a nod to the sandal"

Don't know about you, but if I were an ankle boot or a sandal I would not let this...this THING play in my sandbox. Gosh that came out dirtier than expected didn't it?

It's almost like "Hey I want stumpy legs! What? Anthropologie can sell me ugly shoes for too much money to help with that? SIGN ME THE EFF UP."

Or as my pal Jewel says: "Perfect for those days when you need to make daisy chains and play hopscotch. We always did need high-heeled hula hoop shoes."

Fine. I am a curmudgeon.

At 29+ I find myself, surrounded by people who are fresh-faced, 20-somethings. Life's all bright and shiny and new. The recession, unemployment or HOLY SHIT BILLS have not yet taken a giant poop on their perfectly coiffed (you spent $300 on straightening?!?!) hair. I am not saying their stupid or shallow. Just ... TWENTY-SOMETHING. Most of them work hard, stay late and overindulge without a thought to calories. I did that once. We all did.

God that irks me now. Whatever. I am an Ensure away from calling them whippersnappers and shooing them away from my azaleas.

Occasionally one girl will come into work and my immediate thought is - "PANTS!" WEAR PANTS!" Tights are not pants people. Neither are sheer leggings.

What? I am judgy. The name of the site isn't "constantly joyous."

And why do they always want to go to dinner with 15 people? Seriously.

My max for group eating out is 6. Three facing three allows for good whole-table conversation or simple break out conversations. You only have to bug one person AT MOST to get up to pee. You can split two bottles of wine comfortably without paying through the nose or getting an inch of wine for $18. Bill calculation is far easier. Plus, your server is nicer & more attentive since your bill will be larger but your party is totally manageable. Everyone wins.

Also, there's a good chance that everyone at the table of 6 gets along and generally likes each other. MAYBE you can swing that with 8. But with 15? N-O.

Case in point: the lovely 20-somethings who want to "Do a girls dinner! Friday nite!" When I was approached I thought - why not? As a washed-up wife, hanging out with single girls can be fun. Especially when you come home to your sleeping husband and think I never have to do that dating bullshit again. Don't be fooled people. Marriage is knowing you will have sex even if you haven't shaved your legs in 2 weeks.

Then I got the email of "the plan." Fifteen people on the email (a few of whom I would not choose as a dining partner) for dinner at 8 so as to "not be in da clubs so early."

Sigh.

I declined after 20 more emails went out, one of which mentioned seeing some band at a sticky bar around midnight with some sort of cover charge. Instead, I am going to see a delicious one-year old toddler and her mom for free. Because I will be in bed by midnight or at least in my Target sweats watching What Not to Wear.

Now get away from my azaleas and help me find my glasses. My stories are on.

How Jillian Michaels makes Time Warner worth it

Time Warner Cable unplugged our cable on New Year's Eve for no reason.

Have you ever spent a whole day with no Internet, no TV - just staring at your significant other?

I do not recommend it.

TWC showed up the next day (New Year's Day) and the woman just said - "You're unplugged."

Us: "why?"

TWC: "Dunno. Someone must have called to cancel their cable and they thought it was you."

This means someone walked PAST OUR WINDOWS where the TV was CLEARLY ON and unplugged our cable without: a) asking if we were the right house or b) I don't know .... CHECKING THE ADDRESS ON THEIR STUPID FORM.

Assholes.

So I called and complained, they cut our rate. Blah Blah.

Now you're thinking - no shit, cable companies suck. What does Jillian have to do with this?

WELL...

Exercise on Demand. Channel 557. FREE EXERCISE VIDEOS. FREE JILLIAN.

Jillian who will nurture you and kick your ass at the same time. Jillian = new Marshall Applewhite. She's my Heaven's Gate. Only it more like - FUCK YOU JILLIAN I CAN'T DO MOUNTAIN CLIMBERS FOR TWO MINUTES ... gate. Whatever.

Her fantastic gems* include - "There is no modification for jumping jacks people. If a 400lb fatty can do jumping jacks then you can too. COME ON."

"YOUR SHOULDERS SHOULD BE ON FIRE RIGHT NOW!"

"You want to get shredded in 20 minutes YOU HAVE TO EARN IT. JUST DO IT."

*Paraphrasing was used within these quotes.

And you whimper, wipe snot from your nose and yell back at the TV - JILLIAN I AM ABOUT TO SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST YOU SKINNY BITCH.

Or maybe it's just me.

But then the cool down comes and she tells you how great you are and how she's proud and how you should be proud. And how it will all come together hot body, clear mind and healthy soul.

And even though you can't move, are bathed in sweat and are seriously considering calling into work dead by reason of insanity tomorrow you think - I totally have to do this shit again.

See? The power of Jillian TRUMPS the shittiness of Time Warner.

Working on the couch in the middle of a football storm, I have been sitting cross-legged for roughly 3 hours. As I unfold my 29+ year-old legs, my right knee protests.

I shift, trying to keep my laptop in place without aggravating my bitch-knee and end up in a weirdo position.

The hubs mocks me and I immediately whine "Babe, my knee hurts..."

Eye-rolling response: "Fine, let me rub your boob."

Nice.

a few quick observations

I'm flying back to Fort Lauderdale through Atlanta. For some reason, travelling inspires me to blog remotely. So devoted to you Internet, I whipped out my third-rate Dash and type furiously before the weary flight attendant withers me with her laser stare.

A few things to note-
- Satan laid over in Atlanta before he made it to Hell annoyed, bag-less and at least 6 hours late. God is mean kids, don't you forget it.
-There are enough kids on this flight to render me infertile...by choice.
- When large, overly cellulited women wear short-shorts everyone feels violated.
- Handing me a cup with my credit card after purchasing fast-food leades me to assume the cup is mine, not the person's behind me. Don't be a bitch about it.
- "Have none of you EVER left your homes before?" is the one thought the plagues me no matter where I fly from.