I heard this joke on the radio…and thought it was hilarious. Here’s my attempt at the joke…after a couple glasses of wine. LOL
What joke makes you crack up – but no one else seems to get it???
I heard this joke on the radio…and thought it was hilarious. Here’s my attempt at the joke…after a couple glasses of wine. LOL
What joke makes you crack up – but no one else seems to get it???
I’m like a Real Housewife except I don’t want this drama! I’m not on a reality TV show, I’m not rich and I’m just not that exciting.
But drama always seems to fall into my lap. Maybe it’s because I’m sensitive? Or reactive? Or Italian?
Some time ago I took on a writing coach. I wrote briefly about him; how I felt so
professional cool saying “my writing coach”. My relationship with my writing coach was short-lived.
Let me start at the beginning.
I found him on Craig’s List in August. We agreed to meet at Panera Bread. I did check him out and he seemed legit.
He texts he’s running a bit late.
I text: I am here, seated right when u come in, pink laptop [side note: you know I have a pink laptop.]
He comes in a bit flustered and doesn’t look anything like I had imagined, but really how often does that happen where the person looks exactly as you envisioned?
He apologizes for running late. “I wanted to catch a ride with my mom, and I had to wait for her to put her make-up on.”
“Um…OK,” I respond; wondering things like does he have a car? Does he live in his mother’s basement?
My second thought was: I’m pretty sure he’s gay. Which is fine. You know how I love the gays.
We get to work, and I have to say he taught me many great things worthy of my money for that afternoon. By the end I was even fond of him.
At one point his mother came up to our table. She was this adorable tiny older lady. She reminded me of a Golden Girl. She was definitely a Blanche. Her make-up was flawless. Her silver hair was pulled up in a beautiful bun with wispy pieces falling by her eyes. I thought, Wow, this is what I’m going to look like when I’m old! No running around in curlers and robes for me…
He introduces me. Mom and I shake hands and she eyes me telling me its soooo nice to meet me. Emphasizing the so.
“Very nice to meet you, too.”
I wondered what she was thinking. Probably that I’m a nice and pretty girl and she wished her son would take a liking to me. Everyone loves an Italian girl!
We wrap up and agree to meet again.
The next day, Sunday, he texts me: nice meeting you! Did you sign into LinkedIn yet?
Me: You too! No I can’t get anything done at home. Will try to tonite or tomorrow.
WC [Writing Coach]: Ok! Wrote all weekend…tired but in a good way.
Me: Awesome! Good job! I’m jealous.
WC: Need 500 word by tomorrow 9am!! An early morning writing session, I think!
And that’s how it began.
Numerous texts and emails back and forth. I sent WC a couple chapters of my book. He loved what I had but also gave me constructive criticism. I was beyond thrilled. Like the time I was interviewed and suddenly saw myself at the Oscars, my mind again went racing.
He was like the perfect BFF and I’ve always wanted a gay BFF, I mean, all the celebs have one! So I started referring to him as my GBFF. I’d send my girls an email: So GBFF is home watching All My Children right now. Oh my God, he’s soo gay, and I’m soo lucky to have a gay BFF!
The girls were equally excited because when you’re married there is nothing better than a gay BFF. You have someone to shop with, you get a man’s opinion on your shoes/outfit/hair/make-up and yet there is no drama – you don’t have to worry about any sex happening. They are always painfully honest but without getting into trouble. If your husband told you that you should put more Vitamin A on that stretch mark you’d probably break his face. But, if your GBFF tells you – OMG, you better fucking listen!
I mean, it’s seriously perfection.
The texting fun continues – and I love that it’s all so innocent! I mean, he’s my GBFF right?!?
WC: Clearing my desk for labor day weekend—getting up early—coffee, writing, pool and reruns of murder she wrote
WC: Plus shopping!
Me: Sounds perfecto!
WC: Writing now & watching general hospital…jax is back in town!
WC: Ha ha!
[I mean, dude is totally gay right?????]
The girls are pressing me for what GBFF looks like. They are imagining Bethenny’s wedding planner.
This is when shit gets weird.
Me: BTW are you on FB?
WC: No…LinkedIn is enuf!
WC: Do you want me to look you up?
WC: On Fb?
Me: Lol! [FYI, if I ever don’t know how to respond to a text I write LOL, so if you know me and get that text from me….ummm….I don’t know what you’re talking about.]
WC: Naked, drunk or other compromising pics?
WC: Like Prince Harry!!!
[I’m reading the first text, then the smiley face, and thinking wtf, where is he going with this? I’m so confused. Then when he follows up with Prince Harry (who had just had the naked Vegas scandal) so I was like OMG, of course GBFF has seen Harry’s toosh!]
Me: lol lol no! [Still a bit confused]
Me: My friends wanted to see a pic of my “writing coach”.
WC: Check your email
[WC sends me an [financial] article he was interviewed for which included a picture of him.]
Me: great article! Wayyy over my head! Nic pic too!!
WC: Of course I can do the “tee-shirt, jeans and clogs with messy hair and stubble”, if that’s what the “client” wants—what are your girlfriends “into”??
[Ok, What. The. Fuck. I don’t respond because I’m like really confused at this point. My brain is going – wait, is GBFF not gay? I’m really confused right now. 10 minutes later – with no response from me – WC texts.]
WC: Just joking!!!
[Here’s me…Phew…he’s only joking! But still a little like wtf I respond Hahaha instead of my usual LOL for ‘seriously what the fuck are you talking about’.]
WC: If the “client” wants me to look ½ way between a vampire and a fireman, well, I think I can do that too…
[OK what is with all this quoting of “client”….what is going on right now? Now I’m freaking out. I’m perspiring. I don’t think GBFF is gay. I run to the bathroom. I email the girls. We are all in agreement that shit just got weird. Really weird.]
Because I have no idea what to say I finally respond: Did I offend you? I’m confused.
WC: No! I’m joking! I sometimes feel like a male hooker when I tutor—like you…you’re a hot housewife…I come in and you pass me cash…we have our talk…
WC: I move on to the next…I feel like a “high priced call girl” at times. My guy friends are envious of my job.
[If that shit doesn’t have you going wtf….]
WC: Just a joke! Like asking “what’s your genre?”
WC: Some of these ladies are into erotica so then I guess I dress like a fireman or something for them…and I read their “stories”. What a job!
OK, let this “hot” housewife get this off my back. I’m gonna get ghetto here, so imagine me saying this in my black girl voice.
Who in the fuck do you think you are calling me 1. A “hot” housewife like that’s all I am, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I am a full time office manager.
2. I did not write a “story” – I wrote a fucking novel and this fucking novel is going to sell and get turned into a Lifetime movie complete with Rob Lowe playing the antagonist and a “hot” housewife – Katie Holmes anyone? – playing me.
3. I am not sitting in a basement writing some make-believe erotica story because I am some bored housewife looking for attention and desperately craving sex. Further, please repeat #2, I did not write some little fucking story…I wrote a book mother fucker. This book is going to be a best seller. Fucking Oprah is going to be talking about this shit.
4. Dressing up in Batman, fireman costumes and reading these stories, what the fuck are you talking about? This is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard! I’m beyond confused right now and
a little a lot offended.
5. This is serious shit to me. I did not hire you because I was looking for anything other than help with my writing. I never in any way suggested otherwise.
6. Maybe this is a game…to him and his mom….maybe they scour Craig’s List looking for attractive young girls to take advantage of! They wanted to lure me to their home and kill me, Oh my God! Like the Bates Motel!
7. I’ve never felt so demeaned in my whole life….I finally say as I break down in tears.
No more ghetto, I’m actually crying and saying how serious I am about my book, and now I will never know if he even really liked my book or if the whole time he was just trying to get in my pants dressed up as fucking Elmo or some shit.
I traded a few texts with WC after, but knew I could never trust him again. I’ve not searched for another writing coach, and I’ve not worked on my book after that. I know I need to get back to it and not be dramatic and feel sorry for myself, but the whole experience just left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Like who the fuck does this happen to, I don’t even get it?
My friends and I did have a laugh about it while sipping cocktails as my girl said, “When don’t you have drama? That’s crazy!”
I’d like to bring you another fan favorite from back in the good ‘ole days when I was a very crabby pregnant chick.
Beware, this post not only involves this Italian chick’s bad attitude but it also details crapping my pants, losing my panties, and, also a reader favorite, conversations with my stalker….
I can’t even begin to tell you all that had gone down in a 24 hour period, but because I can laugh at myself I will tell you this.
I am pregnant – and how I LOVE being pregnant – NOT – and one of the joys of pregnancy hit me on Sunday afternoon. I pooped my pants.
Seriously. I’m not shitting you – LOL – I pooped my pants. WTF you ask? Well, I went downtown for brunch with my bestie. After brunch we went back to her place and talked in her sitting room for about 30 minutes before I decided to head back to the ‘burbs. I had to go to the bathroom, but her boyfriend was upstairs sick and lying on the couch. I figured I could hold it the 30 minute ride home, no problem.
The ride home wasn’t too bad. I was listening to Lady Gaga and enjoying the sunshine. My window was cracked and I was texting away (naughty, I know.) I exited the highway and was nearing home. As I turned down my street it was as though it hit me like a ton of bricks. ‘Shit, I need to shit. Shit, I need to shit NOW,’ I think.
I put my car in park and ran in the house. Thank God my husband, who had left the house, left the back door unlocked. I raced in the door and my dog was under my feet. I was yelling “Dexter, MOVE!” I’m trying to set my coffee down, my purse, my keys…I’m running towards the bathroom. And then it happened.
Honestly, it was so unbelievable and so funny that I wasn’t even upset about it. In fact, I texted those that I’m close to and said, “OMG, I just pooped my pants! I’m not shitting you, LOL.” I laughed.
I would think that would be my FML (f*ck my life) for the next year….but then I woke up Monday morning. After a restless night of sleep the alarm went off. I felt like I slept a total of 1 hour the entire night. I was exhausted.
I got up and still half-asleep managed to take a shower and get ready for work. I decided to throw on the jeans that I wore the night before. (Don’t worry, I wore different jeans Sunday night then the jeans I pooped in.)
Driving to work all that was on my brain was COFFEE NOW. I pulled into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. I get out of the car to walk inside. There sits my stalker. Side note – let’s discuss my stalker. I have a stalker at Dunkin Donuts who loves to talk to me about my perfume, my black “hooker” boots, my love of the Cubs, and whatever else he can get me to talk about with him in the 4 minute trip to get my morning java.
He seems like a nice enough guy, albeit strange. He once told me that he makes his own coffee at home to save money. WTF? And then you still come to the DD parking lot to sit around? Strange. But, I decided to have him checked out by a cop friend and he came up clean so I just say hello and keep our conversations to a minimum.
So back to the story, I am walking inside DD on this breezy Monday morning. My stalker jumps out of his car and says, “Starting Monday off right, huh?”
I think, ‘If only you knew, Mr. Stalker, what the last 24 hours of my life have entailed. If only….’ But I really smile and say, “Uh-huh,” while I walk in.
I’ve gotta be honest, I was sort of feeling like “the shit” despite my exhaustion that morning. I was sort of feeling like a “hot mess.” I was wearing my tight trendy prego jeans and a cute black maternity top. The maternity top was quite low and when I walked even I was intrigued by my bouncing bosom.
A man and a woman pull up in a Lexus and both give me an odd look. I think to myself, ‘Daaammnnn, I look so good today that this couple is checking me out!’
Yeah – It gets better.
I get my coffee and am walking back to my car. As I walk I look down. I see a pair of black … panties? WTF, is that a black thong in the parking lot? I continue to approach it and see a white tag that says DKNY.
HOLY F*CKING SH*T BALLS, that is my f*cking thong! WHAT THE F*CK!?!?!
On Sunday – after the pants pooping – I showered and dug in my under garments drawer for a pair of panties I hadn’t worn in some time. My hand pulled out the black DKNY thong. ‘Holy sh*t,’ I thought, ‘When was the last time I wore this? I haven’t seen these in forever.’
I was super excited putting them on. My DKNY thong. What a purchase. I remember the day I bought those at Von Maur. But, let’s not get off on a tangent.
As I step over my thong – far too embarrassed to pick it up – I get in the car and grieve for my DKNYs. ‘This is a sad day,’ I think. ‘How could this happen?’
It starts to come full circle. The night before, I came home, ripped my pants off and tossed them on the dining room table. (Again, I can’t get off on another tangent, but my house in under construction and currently my closet = the dining room.)
This morning – when I’m half asleep and dressing – apparently I never pulled the thong out of the pants? Apparently I never felt the thong in my pants? Apparently I never felt the thong fall out of my pants. Truly mortified I sit in the car in disbelief.
I shout out loud, “Is my f*cking life a joke to you, God?”
He doesn’t answer. I probably shouldn’t have said f*ck. Well, so be it. Good-bye DKNYs.
Fast forward to today. I’m pulling into the DD parking lot and am certain that my stalker stole my panties to display on his probable shrine of me in his station wagon. But wait – NO – the DKNYs are there! They lay in the same spot. I contemplate this for a moment. Do I be a pussy and leave this $20 pair of underwear or do I pick them up?
I place my car in park near where the DKNYs sit. I get out of the car, deep in thought. What to do…what to do. As I step out of DD, something comes over me. I decide I’m taking my life back. I’m picking up the DKNYs. I’m just gonna do it!
With my Couch purse on my shoulder and my head held high I walk over to the thong. I look at my stalker who sits in his station wagon watching me. ‘F*ck it,’ I think, ‘I want my f*cking panties back!’
With a shit eating grin I smile and bend over. I pick up the thong and try to stick it in my pocket. Yeah, well, I f*ck that up to. My stupid pocket is buttoned close. I continue to smile and open the door of my Mercedes Benz and sit inside. I feel an overwhelming rush of true happiness. I did it! Holy sh*t, I did it! I picked up my thong underwear!
I put my car in drive, wave at my stalker and pull out of the DD parking lot – while I scream.
Who hasn’t heard of Drew Peterson, the handsome and charming Bolingbrook Police Officer famous for being infamous? Drew Peterson became a household name and media sensation following the disappearance of his fourth wife Stacy Peterson. He is suspected of killing his third wife, Kathleen Savio, as well as Stacy Peterson.
Bolingbrook, a suburb of Chicago, is close to home for me, and I’ve followed this story since Stacy’s mysterious disappearance on October 28, 2007. I’ve had friends who’ve spotted Drew Peterson at local bars and an acquaintance who said that Peterson once was in his home during a drug bust. The word I heard both times was that Peterson was “creepy.”
Funny that’s what I actually thought of the movie, Drew Peterson: Untouchable. The movie – and Rob Lowe – were downright creepy. Rob Lowe was a very believable Drew Peterson, it does help though that Rob Lowe is wayyy hotter than Drew Peterson and I have a penchant for older men with gray hair. Seriously.
According to MyFoxChicago.com, the Lifetime movie network says “the movie is based on a true story and follows the fascinating tale of former Bolingbrook police sergeant Drew Peterson’s fall from grace after the mysterious disappearance of his fourth wife Stay Peterson.”
Drew Peterson’s attorney Joel Brodsky calls the movie “hysterical” “filled with inaccuracies” and “bogus.” I call it hilarity.
And it’s only hilarious to me that A. Fox also reports that Drew Peterson DID watch the movie from Will County Adult Detention Center where he is currently being held while he awaits trial for the murder of Savio. Can you imagine watching yourself in a Lifetime Movie – watching Rob Lowe talk about your supposed big dick and refer to you as “Big Daddy?” Yeah, wtf is right. And B. It’s just sort of funny watching this jerk believe that he is hot shit, the song “Sexy and I Know It” running through my head. Sorry, but any man with a creepy stache is soooo not sexy. Duh!
Rob Lowe did manage to capture Drew Peterson in a chilling and intriguing way which made me wonder if I got pulled over by Sergeant Big Dick would I be flirting with that stache in hopes of getting out of a ticket? Possibly, but I have enough sense not to get charmed by these narcissistic whackos….well….I do sort of get a hard on for Rod Blagojevich. Seriously.
I found the movie to be quite entertaining despite Rob Lowe’s weak Chi-town accident. We don’t sound like that! Especially while saying the coveted phrase: “I’m untouchable, Bitch.”
Sadly, Peterson’s fourth wife, Stacy, is still missing and though I don’t know much about her I found Kaley Cuoco’s portrayal of her only drew me in more, wondering about this innocent young girl who was charmed by a sociopath and thinking things like, what got her there?
You know Lifetime will probably play this movie a thousand times over so I would highly suggest recording this masterpiece to watch on a Sunday afternoon while you’re laying on the couch nursing a hangover. Be careful though, you might vomit from all the references to “Big Daddy’s” member, I know it almost made me lose my dinner a couple times and I watched it sober.
This brings about a great idea to me – how about a drinking game based on the number of times Drew refers to his manliness or sexual prowess in two hours minus commercials? Every time he refers to “Big Daddy” salute ladies, salute.
When finally arrested Drew even tells his former co-workers he knows they just want to get a look at his goods. WOW! While going down he still manages to think his charm, his stache and his dick will get him out of this mess. Just like a true narcissist.
I’ve mentioned before that I work in a fish bowl. What I mean, is I work in a building in which the inside looks like a strip mall – the whole front of my office is a glass window. We all sort of “know” each other just from seeing the same people walking down the hall day in and day out. People walk by and wave and smile at me all day. Some ladies walk by and scowl at me as well. I like to think that’s just because they are jealous of my good looks and charming personality.
Anyways, as much as I do enjoy working despite missing the Chiquita, there are days that are lonnng and boring. Days in which I stare at the clock waiting for 4:30. To get through these days I had to do something.
I developed an office crush.
I used to have a crush on the UPS man, but then he invited me over to his house for beers, and I sort of thought, hmm, this is not going in the right direction. So, now I just smile at him and talk to him about the Cubs (he’s a diehard Sox fan) and he usually tells me how much he likes my boots, my outfit, etc. But, as for the office crush that is now over. Guess he should have played hard to get.
Then I was crush-less for a while. Like for a long while.
Let me take a moment to explain the office crush. Or at least my office crush. Yes, I’m married. I’m not looking to hook up with my office crush, but rather I just like to watch them walk by (is that creepy?) and smile and wave and maybe flirt a little, I’m really good at batting the eyelashes, but other than that NOTHING. Let me be clear. I’m not looking to bag my office crush.
So I was sad and crush-less for a while. Makes work veryyyy boring. And, then…I saw him. No, it didn’t quite go down like that; it wasn’t crush-at-first-sight.
Down the hall from me is a graphic design company. All the people who work there seem very cool and urban, like not your typical office employees. One of the guys, my new crush, is this kind of skinny hipster guy. He has blonde spiky hair and wears tight black skinny jeans (emo pants??) with black lace-up boots. Some days he wears a hat, some days he wears hoodies, but all days he has an aura of “cool” about him.
Today he is wearing his black skinny jeans and a red tee with a scarf; his keys dangling from his hip. He snaps his fingers as he strolls by.
He’s totally not my type.
I don’t go for the rocker, urban, cool kinds of guys. I’m not really sure what my type is. Oh wait, my type is my husband, of course, in case he’s reading this. :)
And then one day over the summer I left work early to go to the bank for my boss. I was shocked when I saw him. I mean, I was taking a different route than I normally do. I was sitting at a red light waiting for the green arrow. This guy rounds the corner on a motorcycle. I did a double take. HOLY CRAP. That was skinny jeans guy! And on a Harley!!
Suddenly his hotness factor went from like a 5 to a 9. I’m pretty sure I started to perspire.
I went to work the next day and told my boss that skinny jeans guy has a Harley. Even my boss thought he was suddenly kind of bad ass. A couple days after that skinny jeans guy was talking to someone outside my office. I overheard him say (no, I wasn’t eavesdropping!) that he was “playing a show” that night.
I started to imagine myself as a groupie. What would I wear to skinny jeans guy’s show tonight, you know if I was single? I decided on my short leather skirt, black boots…but wait, I’m not the groupie type! And then I remembered. I’m a 32-year-old married office manager with a baby. Well, that’s okay, either way, my new crush was formed! Skinny jeans guy is one cool mutha-fucka and yayy now I have someone to crush on again!
At first skinny jeans guy seemed totes into me; like he would walk by and smile and give me the peace sign. Yeah, he’s wayyy too cool to wave. I was like; ohmigosh, I have to be careful here. I don’t need another UPS incident; I’d like to keep my office crush this time. I mean, I can’t help it that I’m so cute and likeable.
I mean, I was pretty sure skinny jeans guy would be asking me to come see a show. Like any day now. And then suddenly skinny jeans guy no longer seemed into me. He would walk by my office uber cool with his spiky hair and his tight emo pants and he didn’t wave at me anymore, and then he didn’t even look at me anymore!
Wtf is happening?
I mean, I tried not to take it personally. I’m sure I’m not skinny jeans guy’s type anyways, as I would imagine he goes for beer swigging hipster-type girls, like Avril Lavigne, who have color streaked hair and shop at The Alley. I’m sure wine-guzzling, Juicy Couture wearing, Giuliana BFF wannabes are sooo not his type.
Still, even though I’m married, my ego was a bit bruised. I told my boss, “Skinny jeans guy doesn’t wave at me anymore.”
He goes, “You reeked of desperation,” and then burst out laughing. I think he was joking.
Then, on Friday, my ego was saved.
Friday afternoon I went on a walkabout to drop some checks in the mailbox. As I walked down the hall I do what everyone else does, and I look in the windows to see what everyone is doing. Attorney lady is typing frantically on the computer, Insurance lady is on the phone talking away, the Narcissist is back in his office talking to a pretty blonde woman….and then I spot it.
Normally the graphics company keeps their shades drawn so you can only see into their office through the two front doors, unlike my company which is just wide open so people can see me pick my teeth and blow my nose. But as I walked by that day I noticed that the shades were wide open. And in the window is a picture of skinny jeans guy. With another dude. Omg, it’s SKINNY JEANS GUY WITH HIS HANDS ON THE SHOULDERS OF ANOTHER DUDE!!!!!!!
I like did a complete double take. Wtf is this?!? Are they gay? And not that there’s anything wrong with that….I just about fell over in shock in front of their office. I tried to get it together and play cool, but my whole walk back to the office I kept repeating to myself, “Is skinny jeans guy gay?”
And then the puzzle pieces started to come together. His man friend recently started to work there. Oh yeah, he started working there right around the time that skinny jeans guy stopped waving at me…
And now I see new dude and skinny jeans guy driving to work together every morning…I mean, I just thought new dude was a nice guy driving skinny jeans guy to work because he like, has a Harley and all, and it’s too cold out to drive now?
And skinny jeans guy does wear really tight pants.
I mean, I suppose he could be gay. Maybe an Adam Levine type???
“You will never believe this!” I shout as I walk inside my office doors.
My boss looked up from his desk and my co-worker peeked her head around the corner.
“I think skinny jeans guy is gay!” I shout.
“Oh yeah, I could have told you that. I mean, it makes sense…” My boss says.
What?!? Why didn’t you tell me this?
“You have to go down there and look at the picture!” I shout. “Someone has to go down there. Am I crazy? It looks like an engagement picture!”
My co-worker walks down to view the alleged engagement photo. She says, “Is it possible they are just posing that way?”
I say to my boss, “You have to go look!”
“Why do I have to go look?” He asks.
“You just do. I just need to know. I need a dude’s opinion. Please go.”
“Will you stop talking about it if I go look at the picture?”
“Yes,” I promised.
He gets up and heads down the hall. I am back sitting at my desk anxiously waiting for the verdict. As he walks down the hall he looks at me through the windows and smiles. He has a huge grin on his face.
He walks in the door, looks at me, and starts cracking up. He shrugs and says, “He’s gay.”
Disbelief sweeps across my face. Immediately I think of the scene from Clueless:
Murray: Your man Christian is a cake boy!
Murray: He’s a disco-dancing, Oscar Wilde-reading, Streisand ticket-holding friend of Dorothy, know what I’m saying?
Cher: Uh-uh, no way, not even!
Murray: Yes, even; he’s gay!
Dionne: He does like to shop, Cher. And the boy can dress.
If it happened to Cher, I guess it can happen to the best of us.
I totally said I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to stoop to that level. I was going to hold my head and move forward.
That lasted one day.
See, I posted a new blog about winning the Versatile Blogger Award. You might have seen it, titled “I Won An Award B*tches!” In that post I had to pass the Versatile Blogger Award onto 12 other blogs. Maybe I’m small minded, but sorry I think winning something as cheesy as a Versatile Blogger Award is pretty darn cool.
I’m just a nice Italian girl who wants my blog to get noticed….I have a lot to say. I’ve also written a pretty b*tchin book that I want to get published (anyone, anyone??). I’ll gladly accept that award, and I’ll gladly pass it on. Let’s share the wealth. Let’s help each other get noticed!
And then this. One of the blogs that I follow, that I posted in the original article (it’s been since deleted), apparently wasn’t too keen on the Versatile Blogger Award. Seems she thought I was some sort of crazy psycho stalker. I mean, I’ve been called crazy and psycho before…oh right, and a stalker. Yes, in “My Sign of the Apocalypse” when I realized that I was actually stalking my stalker.
Hmm…kind of scary I guess. But not Norman Bates scary. I mean, maybe I’m inappropriate at times or I lack boundaries….(remember the “serial killer” comment?) ….
But I have a good heart, and I always mean well despite the “oh no she di’int” moments.
That said I awarded the Versatile Blogger Award to this gal whose blog I had been following. She seems super cute and nice. She always writes really inspirational pieces, and I just find her adorable and love reading about what she’s up to. She lives in Singapore, is probably in her early 20s, goes to school, and models clothing on the side.
Because I subscribe to her blog (or subscribed, now past tense) I got an email the next day that she had a new blog post. Cool, I thought, What’s she been up to? I click on the link and it says: “Password Protected. This post is password protected. Please enter the password to read.”
The blog is now password protected? Is this because of me? Did my cute Singapore friend think I’m weird or creepy or something? Oh my gosh!
So I’m staring at my computer completely stunned. Wow, I must have really offended this girl for her to password protect her blog. I mean, that is the whole point of writing a blog – so people read it. And to go to all that trouble.
So, as much as I kept telling myself, It’s OK, Jen. Let it go. Let it go. You know I’m not good at letting things go. I mean, I did try some deep breathing exercises, but I kept going back to how can this girl do this? I awarded her the Versatile Blogger Award! Of course then I must blame her, as did my friend who said, “Well, she’s just f*cking weird, anyways. Enough said.”
Agreed, but it was still plaguing me.
I just had to email my soul sister, SzaboInSlowMo, who passed the award on to me. Did she get any negative feedback? Am I the only one? OMG, the anxiety over this! Then I thought, Geez, this woman doesn’t know me! There I go again, being all inappropriate.
SzaboInSlowMo’s response was so sweet! She said of one of the bloggers she gave the award to: “she wrote her next blog kind of talking about how silly the award was and how she didn’t think bloggers should promote themselves. blah blah blah. I figured I didn’t really start it, because people are passing those around and it’s rude to criticize people who are bringing traffic to your blog, but I guess some are snobbish about that kind of thing…thinking they’re professional bloggers, haha.”
Then yesterday as I was blog surfing, I mean working, I stumbled upon this blog post Please Stop Just Sayin’ by TamaraOutLoud.
Intrigued by her title I decided to check it out. It’s a very well-written post – even humorous really – but she basically asks people to stop talking in slang…as in just sayin’, whatev, totes, LOL, WTF, OMG…and because that’s basically my speak I was sort of offended by it. I mean, to each their own, but just because I talk stupid doesn’t mean I am stupid.
Of course I commented. I wrote: “Wow, you guys take yourself wayyy too seriously. Chillax losers!!!!”
Inappropriate, I know. Why do I always do that?
And to make it even worse – yeah, I had a typo. I spelled too “to.” OMG.
People seriously need to stop taking themselves so seriously. Seriously, umkay?
Sunday. I’m all excited. I head to Caribou to edit my book, Concrete Boots. I’ve had a dream of doing this. Of Caribou someday being “my office.” I wake up in the morning and instead of going to work I go to Caribou. And I write. For a living.
So even though this is still a dream at this point, and Caribou is not my office, and it is rather Sunday and not Monday, I head to Caribou.
I have my pink Dell laptop, my manuscript, a red pen, and myself; donned in black yoga pants and a grey and white striped V-neck sweater from Express. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and my make-up is done lightly – appropriately – for a weekend at eight in the morning.
I kiss my husband and my baby good-bye, and I head off …. To write…to edit…to be. Ahhhh this is heaven, I think. I feel very Carrie Bradshaw.
I arrive at Caribou and it’s empty, besides two others, and I order a large non-fat mocha. I select my seat and start to take out my writing items. I’m smiling. I’m happy.
Sipping my non-fat mocha I start to read over manuscript notes from my two awesome cousins, Tami and Lucy, as well as my own notes, to put it all together to finally perfect this masterpiece.
I’m on a roll…chapter one down…and into chapter two and making some progress.
And now it’s 10 o’clock. And busy. And loud. And so not peaceful. I’m distracted.
I’m looking around. Where am I sitting? I’m in the bum corner. I’m sitting amongst the bums. They are scruffy and dirty with backpacks. And they stink. And they are loud. How did I not notice this?
Well, I did notice the bum family come inside because they were screaming at each other. A man, a woman and a son, maybe like 20 or 30, who had to have been on something. He looked wasted. The man sits down at a table near me and loudly insists he MUST sit by himself. I’m pretty sure he was looking at porn on his laptop. Yes, I forgot to mention, this bum had a laptop! Crazy world we live in! Maybe he’s a classy bum?
So, the woman (his wife?) sits with me. I was sitting at a large table, just taking up one side, because it was near the outlet. She didn’t bother me much; she just drank her coffee and did her own thing. Every time she’d try to go over by the man he would start screaming at her, and I would look up.
“Get away from me, woman! What are you doing over here?” He yelled. This is why I was pretty sure he was looking at porn. The son, sitting there but not looking at the computer, would laugh with his cashed eyes.
Wtf is with these people? I thought. I felt bad for the lady. I wanted to tell the laptop bum to shut the fuck up and leave her alone. But I tried to mind my own business.
So, I keep getting distracted by said bums, as well as other bums, who must have Caribou in Downers Grove on their list of hang outs on chilly Sunday mornings.
Now, I’m not a snob, well, maybe I am, but I’m sorry, I don’t want to sit and edit my book amongst a bunch of bums – or people really – and here’s why.
I’m sitting at the large table editing, and suddenly I have to poop. SHIT! – quite literally – lol – What am I going to do? I think.
Obviously I would take my Juicy Couture bag into the bathroom, but what do I do with my pink laptop? What do I do with my manuscript? Do I pack everything up and take it in the bathroom with me? Surely someone will take my spot! Oh the dilemma.
Can I possibly ask someone to watch my belongings? I look around. At the bums. They would sell my lap top for a forty of Miller Lite I’m sure. FUCK, I think, I REALLY HAVE TO GO POOP.
Like I can’t even concentrate at this point.
I text my hubby who says, “Don’t you dare leave your stuff.”
Deep breath. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I want to keep working for another hour so I guess I’m going to have to hold it. This sucks. What happened to the days of good and normal people??? People you could trust? Can you trust no one anymore?
Frustrated (and with a tummy ache) I get back to editing. And then another bum comes in.
And you know what – tangent here – don’t anyone comment to me telling me how bums are people, too, and the poor bums, or how the bums need some place to go….I know all this. I empathize with the bums, as I’m just a pink slip away from being a bum. But, if I were a bum, I wouldn’t spend my Sunday sitting at Caribou looking at porn on a laptop while I yell at my (possible) wife! But, that’s just me, what do I know? Further, I would be a classy bum. I’d be the only bum I know carrying a Juicy Couture bag! Hmm…maybe I would sit at Caribou and look at porn? What else is there to do?
But, back to my story. So, this other bum comes in. Caribou is now packed. I’m sure there are non-bums all over, but I like I said, for some reason I sat in the bum section. She stops in front of me and says, “Is someone sitting there?”
Against my better judgment, I say, “Nope, you can sit down.”
Where does she sit? I’m not even joking, right on top of me. She’s literally breathing in my face. Crazy bum lady is wearing orange sweatpants with stains and a blue sweatshirt. She has a black stocking hat on her head. She pulls her hat off and her hair sticks straight up at the ceiling.
Don’t judge others, I think. But, it’s her breathing on me that really bugs me, not how she looks like a crazed maniac.
Then she starts coughing. Repeatedly. ON ME.
What the fuck is with this woman? I think. I really want to beat her ass, and I’m quite sure I can take her. Who does this? Seriously. Who. Does. This? I almost feel like she’s doing this on purpose. She’s trying to drive me away! No way is she driving me out of there! Fuck that crazy bum lady.
But, seriously. Who sits down at a local coffee shop, on top of someone else, breathes all over them, coughs all over them and completely disturbs them by reading their newspaper out loud? She didn’t even order a coffee! You don’t even want to know what happened next.
THE BUM WIFE GOT UP AND WENT TO SIT WITH THE CLASSY LAPTOP BUM HUSBAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m not even joking. My only bum friend left me – alone – with crazy bum lady with her hair sticking up at the ceiling and coughing all over my pink laptop, and even worse, ME.
The bum husband yells at his wife again. “Woman! Get out of here!” (See, he had to be looking at porn, right?)
She yells – seriously yells – “I had to move. That lady over there is coughing all over me.” She points at crazy bum lady.
Crazy bum lady laughs.
The crazy bum lady looks at me. “I like your sweater,” she says.
Am I like on TV? Am I being punked? I wonder.
A minute later she says to me, “I like your ring.”
What is this? Why am I being harassed at Caribou on Sunday morning while I’m trying to live out my Carrie Bradshaw dream? Why God, why?
I finally resign to the fact that I’m being driven out of Caribou by this crazed maniac bum. But, whatever, bums or not bums, they’re people. And damn are people fucking annoying.
Where do I begin? At the beginning I suppose. Back when I was pregs my morning coffee was like a million dollar bill shoved in my rear. If I didn’t have it – look out man. Look out. So, as you know if you’ve been reading my blog, every morning I went to Dunkin Donuts and indulged in an iced coffee. And my kid is fine, so please spare me the comments about drinking caffeine while being pregnant. I did it. So kill me.
I would walk in everyday with my Juicy Couture bag and a big smile. I’d go up to the counter to place my order – usually with the cutest blonde chick ever that I see often and absolutely love. And for the record she makes my iced coffee absolutely perfect. “Good morning!” I’d exclaim. “I’d like a medium iced coffee please!”
Within the snap of a finger she’d have my order, PERFECT! and I’d have the money sitting on the counter – down to the dime – and I’d be yelling “Thanks!” as I was off on my way.
I would then say good-bye to my stalker, hop in my Benz and drive to work.
Side note – I haven’t talked about my stalker in a while. It’s because I hadn’t seen him. I know. This pained me as much as it pains you. But, I did finally see him last week. See I’ve been trying to be more fiscally responsible – LAME! I know – and make my coffee at home. Dunkin Donuts could possibly go out of business because of this. Luckily for them my laziness has come back, and I’ve been back to going to Dunkin’ to get my cup of morning java. That said, I ran into my stalker in the parking lot two weeks ago and was actually excited to see him. (I know, a strange concept really, but do you remember my blog post about my stalker becoming the stalkee????)
Anyways, I said good morning to him and asked him if he got a new car (he did.)
He asked me if I dyed my hair (I did.)
I asked him if he liked my hair better blonde or black (OK, brown, it’s not black). He said he liked it better blonde.
He asked if I had a boy or a girl (A girl.)
That was the jist of our convo and now I went off on a tangent. Back to getting my morning Dunkin’.
So, one day, back when I was pregs, I went in to Dunkin Donuts to get my iced coffee. The gal behind the counter was not my cute blonde friend. She wasn’t really very nice to be honest. I blew it off, was my uber-polite self, and asked for my iced coffee.
Then, I got in my car (coffee in hand) and pulled away. As I’m driving to work I opened my straw and excitedly shoved the straw in the cup, like a junkie needing his fix. I take a big loving sip of my coffee.
What. The. Fuck. Is. This?????????????????????????
THIS IS NOT AN ICED COFFEE.
WHAT THE FUCK????????????????????
I’m already half way to the office. This is fucked up, man, I think. I’m pregnant, and I want my iced coffee NOW. I pull a U-y while phoning my office. It’s 7:59, and I’m gonna be late now, but there is no way in hell I’m sitting through a day at work without my iced coffee. No way.
My boss is like please, for the love of God, get your coffee!
He knows not to mess with a pregnant chick!
I go back to Dunkin Donuts and walk in. OK, I don’t have a shit-eating grin on my face, no, but I’m not rude. I walk in and go up to the counter.
“Hi, I was just here.”
Dunkin Bitch stares at me like I just threw up in her face. She’s just staring at me like I’m speaking another language.
“Hi, I was just here.” I hold up my iced coffee (or not iced coffee). I say, “Yeah, I asked for an iced coffee and this is an iced latte.”
Dunkin Bitch looks at me and says, “No it’s not. I gave you an iced coffee.”
WHOA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What happened to the customer is always right? And further, as if to insult my intelligence, are you really telling me that I don’t know the difference between an iced coffee and an iced latte? Listen, lady, I know coffee like Donald Trump knows hair. Uhh…wait, that didn’t work.
I look at her and smile. I very politely say: “No, it isn’t. It’s an iced latte.”
Dunkin Bitch: “No, I gave you iced coffee.”
OK – now I’m getting pissed off. I look at her – stare at her – and very politely – but very firmly – say, “Listen. Take a sip if you want. I’m not trying to be a bitch. I come in here all the time. All I want is an iced coffee and this isn’t an iced coffee.”
A guy who knows me walks over and says, “What’s wrong?”
I said, “I ordered an iced coffee and this is an iced latte. All I want is an iced coffee please.”
The guy looks at Dunkin Bitch like WTF, just get her an iced coffee and Dunkin Bitch says, “It’s an iced coffee. I made it myself.”
This bitch wanted to get pummeled!
I looked at the man and said (a little more angrily now, cuz I’m getting sick of this shit!) “Take a sip if you want. It’s not iced coffee!”
The man says, “OK! Just get her an iced coffee would ya,” while Dunkin Bitch just stares at me.
I mean, seriously, what the heck. I’m being polite. Even if you are 1,000% positive that you gave me an iced coffee are you really going to sit and argue with a pregnant female at 8 o’clock in the morning who hasn’t had her coffee yet? Why couldn’t she just give me another coffee and be done with me? It’s not like I drank the whole thing and then came back and asked for another coffee. I took one sip! Plus I’m in there all the time!
Dunkin Bitch FINALLY gives me my iced coffee. I look at her. I smile. I say, “Thank you, and have a nice day. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, I just wanted my coffee.”
No smile. No thank you. No apology. Zip.
I leave and think, Well, fuck her. At least I have my iced coffee.
As God is my witness, I’m driving back to work – again – (and it’s now 8:15 a.m. after all this fighting with Dunkin Bitch) and I take a sip of my iced coffee. For the love of God, it’s an iced latte. Again. Is this some kind of a sick joke that I’m the butt of?
At this point I’m like I need to just go to work and drink an iced latte today. But, I’m pissed. Inside I’m like boiling. I wanted an iced coffee, damn it! Here comes “King Baby” – I want iced coffee and I want it NOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!
I get to work and walk in huffing and puffing about the iced latte. My boss stares at me. I can tell he’s scared. He wonders if I’m going to kill him over an iced latte. It was possible at that moment. Seriously.
I sit at my desk. I look up the phone number to Dunkin Donuts. I’ll be damned if these people are going to get the best of me. I call and ask to speak to the manager. Irvin gets on the phone. He’s the manager and he remembers me because he sees me everyday. He knows that I’m polite and nice. He also donated $25 to my fund for the 2009 Alzheimer’s Memory Walk. He is very apologetic. He said that yes, after I left they tasted the “iced coffee” and someone put in the mix for iced lattes. How did this happen, I don’t know the logistics, all I know is that Irvin was so apologetic he offered me a coffee on him tomorrow. Smiling I thanked him, but felt compelled to tell him that his employee Dunkin Bitch was rather argumentative to me. I said I wasn’t trying to cause problems, but simply wanted my iced coffee. He apologized again and told me to come see him in the morning.
The next day I went to Dunkin Donuts. I walked in and my cute blonde friend was at the counter. She said, “Good morning! Iced coffee?”
I said, “Hello. Irvin told me to ask for him this morning.”
She said, “Oh, I know. He told me what happened. Would you like a muffin today, too?”
Fuck yeah I want a muffin! “Yes please!”
I could see Dunkin Bitch staring at me with a scowl on her face. Seriously, get over it. It’s not my fault you guys put latte mix in the iced coffee machine. Jesus! Why are you mad at me about it? I was perfectly polite when I asked you for another iced coffee. Why was she so pissed at me?
Fast forward to the last couple of weeks. Now that I’m back to my daily coffee stops, Dunkin Bitch has moved up on the food chain and has been meaner to me than ever. This chick hates me. She hates me “Sharon the commenter” style who just thinks I’m the biggest asshole on the face of the Earth. I wish there was a stronger word than “hates” because that’s how she feels about me.
I’ve tried to kill her with kindness.
I’ve tried to act nonchalant about the whole thing.
Then today I thought – You know what? It’s time for me to be a bitch to Dunkin Bitch. I’m sick of her attitude!
I actually thought I want it to be my goal in life to get her fired. She has a serious attitude problem. The cute blonde chick is doing other things now, so I’m stuck with Dunkin Bitch almost every day. I’ve seen her several times and had to deal with her pouty face despite my polite “please” and “thank yous” in addition to my “have a good day.” I mean, come on, what does this bitch want from me?
About a week ago when she was rude to me in the drive thru I was pissed. She gave me my receipt which clearly states, “How was your visit today?” I decided when I got to the office that I needed to shove it in her ass. I went on and said that my visit was bad because the female in the drive thru had an attitude problem.
Then this morning, same drill. As I’m handing her my $2.60 I don’t smile. I don’t say good morning. I don’t say please or thank you. I simply hand her my money.
Dunkin Bitch stares at me with her scowled face and goes to grab the bills out of my hand. As she grabs the $2.00 bills she is able to grab the .50 cents, but she drops the dime. I just looked at her. I’m not offering you another dime because you were grabbing the money out of my fingers and dropped the dime. Sorry. I guess your ass is putting in a dime for my coffee today. Thank you, Dunkin Bitch.
Dunkin Bitch looked at me and snapped, “Don’t worry about it!”
Damn straight, I thought.
I grabbed my coffee. Then I sat there and waited for my receipt. She handed me the receipt that said, “How was your visit today?” I snatched it from her hands and pulled away. I decided at that moment that that it WILL be my goal in life to get Dunkin Bitch fired. Is that too harsh? It is the holiday season after all….
Either way I got my receipt so I can tell them all about my visit today….and I decided to with this blog. Thank you Dunkin Bitch for giving me something to bitch about today!
I’m an avid listener of WGN Radio 720 am. I absolutely love the mid-day host, John Williams, and he is the one who truly got me interested in listening to talk radio at the age of 28. One of John Williams’ segments is titled “My Sign of the Apocalypse.” He has listeners call in to divulge their possible “end of the world” experiences, which usually range from silly to funny occurrences in every day life.
I experienced my own sign of the Apocalypse yesterday when I was at Dunkin Donuts getting my coffee. My end of the world revelation came to light when it became obvious to me that my stalker has become the stalkee.
I know you’re thinking WTF is she talking about? In fact, as I write I am thinking that myself.
So, maybe I was over reacting a bit? I do that sometimes. Maybe he’s just an innocent guy who likes to talk to people and doesn’t have much else to do? But, it’s always good to check. You don’t want to be thinking that when you’re stuck in the back of a trunk wondering if you will be raped and murdered.
I would always say hello but kept our conversations to a minimum. I told my friends about “my stalker” and it almost became a joke….”Yes, I have a stalker …” I was proud to say as if I was a celebrity going out for coffee and getting snapped by the paparazzi.
THEN – complete random craziness – my friend K-Woww discovered that MY STALKER LIVES IN THE SAME COMPLEX AS HER BOYFRIEND. WTF? I’m not making this shit up. She figured this out when one day she parked next to an old school wood-paneled shaggin-wagon in the complex. With “The Club” on the steering wheel. She thought how many of these cars actually exist?
She then told her man about it – “Could Jen’s stalker actually LIVE here?” And an even crazier side note – turns out K-Woww’s man accidentally hit one of my stalker’s cars – he has two – which the two did settle amicably. Seriously.
K-Woww’s man thought it was crazy that he knows my stalker! And now K-Woww was intrigued by my stalker. They named him Earl. We don’t refer to my stalker as “my stalker” anymore, he now has a name. Earl.
I see Earl at Dunkin every day and K-Woww sees Earl at home every night. We talk about Earl. We feel like we sort of “know” Earl. We chuckle about things, like “The Club,” saying “Oh, that’s SO Earl!” Every morning when I get out of the car I almost shout, “Good morning, Earl!” before I realize that his name is not actually Earl. Or is it?
This has got to stop. This is insane. Could you imagine if I said “Good morning Earl!” Who would be the crazy one now?
As I’m driving to Dunkin/work one day last week I hit a pot hole in Lisle. My tire was flat. I had to wait for Roadside Assistance to come change my tire and my poor body was having caffeine withdrawal. When I finally made it to Dunkin Earl was gone.
The next day when I pulled in the Dunkin parking lot there sat Earl. His window down, his shades on. I get out of the car.
“Ah man, you got a flat tire?” He stuttered.
“Yeah, I did. That’s why I wasn’t here yesterday. I got it on my way here,” I answered.
“Oh man, that really stinks. How did you get it?” He asked.
“I hit a pot hole on Ogden Ave.,” I said.
“Oh man, do you have the tire? I can take a look at it for you and see if it can be fixed.”
WOW. Who knew Earl was such a compassionate guy?
“My husband has it,” I responded, “But, thank you. He’s going to try to blow it back up today and see if we can fix it.”
Earl nodded. “Oh, OK then. Well, be careful OK.”
I laughed. “OK.”
“Seriously, OK? You don’t want to get another flat while you’re driving with that.” He pointed to my sad “doughnut” spare tire.
“Thank you –“ almost actually came out “Thank you, Earl” but thankfully I stopped myself.
As I walked into Dunkin I couldn’t help but think for a minute. Wow. Nowadays there are no nice people left in the world. People aren’t friendly. They don’t say hello or smile at one another. No one would offer to look at someone’s flat tire? I felt so special. I felt like my stalker actually cared. I drove away thinking that Earl cared more about my tire fiasco then some of my friends did! I mean, I am pregs folks, I could have been murdered on the side of the road waiting for Roadside Assistance!
(OK, OK, maybe a little dramatic. Yes, it was 8 a.m. In DuPage County. But, seriously, what if my water broke?)
Ironically that morning K-Woww saw Earl at Dunkin within seconds of me leaving. We shared some texts back and forth about him. Hmmm….me and K-Woww texting about my stalker? Funny, I don’t picture my stalker texting about me at all? He never did pick up my dropped DKNY panties if you recall from “Someone’s Got a Case of the Monday’s.” WTF, isn’t he supposed to have a shrine of me in his shaggin-wagon?
The next two days were like Groundhog Day. Tire still not fixed –> Earl asks me about tire –> I give him the update, one day we had to try a sealant, the next day we determined it wasn’t fixable and had to order a new tire –> Earl tells me to be careful, drive safe saying, “You don’t want to get another flat!” –> I say thank you and continue to be intrigued by how concerned Earl is.
Do you see where this is going?
Then yesterday, I pull into the parking lot. There sits Earl. He is in his other car, the green SUV with a Blackhawks decal in the back window. He also has a Sox decal, but I don’t judge him for that because he is a Cubs fan, too. Normally I give those people grief (pick ONE!), but I let it slide with Earl. That’s just the type of guy he is. He likes everyone! His window is down. His shades are on. I park next to him and grab my Juicy Couture purse as I get out of the car.
“Morning!” I say with a big smile.
“Uh-good morning. I see you got that tire fixed.”
OMG, he is so perceptive!
I nod. “Yes, my husband fixed it last night.”
“Well, that’s great! Now hopefully you don’t get another one for a while.”
“I know, right? Well…thanks…” I say as I start to walk to the door.
As I’m waiting for my iced coffee I decide that today is the day I will ask Earl his real name. I see him every day. He’s a nice enough guy. He seems legit. Why should I be calling him Earl? I should know his name. But then I start to question whether or not that is weird. I know another gentleman’s name that I see in Dunkin on a daily basis…..so I’m doing it!
I walk back to my car with my iced coffee in hand. “Well, have a great day,” I yell through the window.
“Uh, thanks, uh, you too.”
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Uh, my name? Uh, yeah, my name is Todd. T-O-double D. Todd.”
“OK, Todd, well, nice to meet you. My name is Jen. J-E-N.”
“OK Jen,” he gives a wave.
I get in the car, wave back and drive off. So my stalkers name is Todd.
I pull into my work parking lot and have a text from K-Woww. It reads: OMG, at DD and just saw Earl in the green SUV! Want to say hi.
I text back: OMG, jus left DD and pulled into wk. Jus miss u again. Asked Earl his name. It’s Todd.
K-Woww: LOL, I asked his name yest. when I saw him while walking the dog. He seemed scared of the dog so I talk 2 him 4 a min.
I smiled. And this is when it occurred to me. My sign of the Apocalypse. Holy shit. My stalker has become my stalkee. I have become obsessed with my stalker. Even K-Woww and her man are obsessed with my stalker.
How twisted is this shit? What kind of Lifetime Original Movie would this be?
I guess, in closing, it’s been determined that I no longer have a stalker. I AM the stalker.
They say “everyone loves a pregnant chick.” They say pregnant chicks are cute, adorable, even sexy. Some days I feel cute in my maternity duds with my ‘lil baby bump. But as my bump gets bigger I notice everything is getting bigger. Bigger butt, bigger chipmunk cheeks, bigger boobs – even bigger nipples (gross)!
My doctor told me to watch my weight – and I have been trying – but as I’m nearing the end of my 2nd trimester I’m absolutely ravenous all the time. Be careful if you have a Dairy Queen Blizzard. I may just kill you for it. Each butt cheek is a different Blizzard flavor and my chipmunk cheeks are stuffed full of Sour Patch Kids (the bambino’s fave).
So with the belly – and everything else – getting bigger I’m starting to feel a little less cute and a little more fugly.
Yeah, not just ugly – fucking ugly – fugly.
I wake up this morning exhausted. With a red, fat lip (WTH?) and a zit. I never get zits. I look in the mirror and my eyes pop open wide. The inside of my head screams “WTF is this?!?”
Finally I dress. I can no longer fit into any regular clothes at all anymore. It’s all maternity…all the time. I put on elastic belly maternity black pants (so hot).
I get to my Dunkin Donuts – yes, in case you’re wondering, my stalker is there, driving a green SUV today – and I head inside. As the sun glares down on me I lift my shades and peek at my pants. OK, when did my pants get covered with hair and lint? I try to brush it off with no luck. Embarrassed, I suck it up and head inside; my big black shades back on my face and covering my eyes. I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone today.
I get to work and de-lint my pants. At least now I look presentable minus the zit and my red fat lip (again, WTH?), but thank goodness for makeup and sparkly powder.
An hour later it’s time to empty the prego bladder. And how fun that I now pee 24 times in a 24 hour day. Well, maybe that’s excessive…maybe 12-15 times…I’ve always been a bit of an exaggerator.
So I’m in the bathroom, and I put my head down in my hands. Is it 4:30 p.m. yet? I look at my watch. It’s 9:05 a.m. I notice a gleam of light streaming through my black pants. WTF is this? There are not one – but THREE holes in the crotch of my pants. You’ve got to be kidding me. Three holes? Was I even awake this morning when I got dressed? You remember what happened last time I was half asleep and dressing….I lost my DKNYs! In the Dunkin Donuts parking lot! After I pooped my pants!
It’s like I’m in the Twilight Zone. I’ve always been cute and trendy. When did I become frumpy and fugly? I look like someone I would make fun of – flat slip-on shoes, hair tied up in a bun. I look like the girl down the hall who works for one of the many attorneys in my building. Let me tell you, attorneys can’t dress. They only dress like Ally McBeal on TV. Every day she walks by and I think she looks like a librarian. And not a sexy librarian. A frumpy librarian. Like I’m one to talk now. Not that I look like a librarian…I still have my big hoop earrings and my Juicy Couture watch and my Coach handbag. And my slip-ons are sparkly…and Bebe. Maybe I’m starting to look like a MOM?
Or maybe God is trying to humble me. Oh God, please don’t do this to me. Haven’t you messed with me enough lately? I don’t have that great of a personality so you’ve got to give me something! And I refuse to be a Kate Gosselin 5-years-ago mom. I insist on being more the Demi Moore today mom – you know, hot, sophisticated and can still bring those young guys home! Owwwww!!!!!!!!!!
Or maybe it’s my prego brain. I’m just too tired and discombobulated in the morning to “get it together.” Gee, I wonder how I’ll be after I have to get myself – and a bambino – ready and out the door. I fear this is only the beginning of frumpy and fugly mom. Where does it go from here? Sweat pants and scrunchies????
As I wash my hands I stare at myself in the mirror. I want to cry. Where is cute, fun, happy Jen? Who is this biotch staring back at me? Well…I guess cute, fun and happy is kind of stretch there really. I’m more cute, stylish and intense? Or cute, snotty and down right awesome, i.e., self-absorbed but still has a sweet side. Let’s go with that. My blog is titled “If You Think I’m a B*tch So Be It” after all.
I look in the mirror and stare at my zit…and my dull pale skin (L.A. Tan, how I miss you)…and my ginormous breasts…and my fat ass and I think, “Toughen up chick!” Who is this wimp staring back at me in the mirror? Good lord, I could kick that whiney bitch’s ass!
It’s time to give myself a pep talk. I am in SERIOUS need of a pep talk.
I need a time-out. It’s time to toughen up, soldier! I have so much confusion and anxiety about becoming a mother that I don’t even remember who I really am anymore?
The real Jen is no bullshit…the real Jen doesn’t take anyone’s crap….the real Jen is a loud-mouth, drunken Italian bitch who means well yet always manages to get in trouble. The real Jen is quite charming – I have to be to get out of these messes one way or another! – and the real Jen is strong-willed, stubborn and independent. The real Jen doesn’t need anyone on God’s green Earth to survive. The real Jen could say hello or good-bye…
So I ask you…Who is this wimp staring me in the face? Who is this weak and insecure girl? Well this whiney bitch got her ass beat today! And I’m back!
Now…if only I can combat this fugly problem. Then I will be officially back in business. Bear with me Readers…we’ve got 14 weeks to go!
P.S. I did put in pennies for my “F” word slip-ups.