What AN idiot.

I was looking over one of my last posts -  my crazy rant where I come off as a hormonal elitist {See here for a reminder} - when I realized that I forgot to put my favorite part of that blog... the sign I added to the break room at work.

Back story:  I've told you about the Sign Nazi.  Homegirl posts signs about anything and everything that rubs her the wrong way.  Ok - so I work with quite a few people.  I don't know / care to count exactly how many but enough.  Anyway, we all share a break room.  There's a coffee pot, a water jug-thing, tables, a tv and the refrigerator.  The stupid fucking refrigerator.  I wish you could smell it.  Um... scratch that - I don't want anyone to be forced to smell this.  It smells like curdled ass.  People put their lunches in there and leave them for decades.  Other people - me and a girl in my department for instance - use it strictly for the essentials:  cream for my coffee and milk because she was preggo and had heartburn like everyday.

Not two weeks after I brought in some delicious cream {in an absurdly large bottle, mind you} and after one use, it was gone.  As in someone put it back in the fridge empty.  If that wasn't annoying enough, whoever used it didn't ask.  Rude.  I will always say yes.  Just ask.

Cut to a few hours later:  Preggo goes to get the milk because her heartburn was a'kickin and it was gone.  No jug.  Nothing.  Seeing as there is only one Preggo at work, someone knowingly drank a pregnant woman's heartburn salvation.  It was after hearing this little bit of info that I got even more annoyed with my fucking rude inconsiderate co-workers.  I decided the time had come for me to add to the break room signage.

It's still hanging up right where I left it.  I wanted to right "Shaaaaaame" in bright red sharpie but apparently that was too far?  What the fuck ever.  I think I'll laugh at this for several weeks.  I hope I shamed the shit out of whomever was responsible for poor preggo's heartburn.




I love Cee Lo Green.

WTF Wednesday

I am stealing the idea for this "What the fuuuck Wednesday" from one of my favorite blogs.  Seriously, if you haven't read Carrie Bradshaw is full of shit - go read it.  Obviously after you finish mine... I don't want you to do anything crazy.

So... I have a few things I would like to address.  I'm choosing to do so in letter form because um... I can?

What the Fuuuuck

Dear co-workers,

I love you.  Ok so I guess I only stand? tolerate? know most you.  I'm stoked that you have husbands, families the whole she-bang.  For real.  I'm glad you have someone/thing to go home to.  But please, oh please, let me make one thing clear:  I do not care about your marital problems, the problems you have with your in-laws, with your children - I think you get the drift.  I'm going to beg of you that, unless prompted {and trust - you should know when I am willing to listen}, keep your problems at hooome.  Unless your problems give me great joy and involve fun things to which I can relate.

Dearest friends,

I'm obsessed with you as you all know.  Like I would make babies with 99.8342% of you.  SPEAKING OF BABIES, I'm not ready for them.  I'm not ready for you to be having them on purpose.  I'm not ready for any of us to be thinking about getting engaged or getting married.  It scares the hell out of me.  It sends chills throughout my body.  I think I'm mainly feeling pressure {thanks, mom}.  I can barely take care of myself so if you feel like you need to mother something, I'm willing to drink too much and force you to babysit me.  Consider it practice?  On that note, I'm absurdly excited for those of you that ARE having babies and getting married.  Mainly for those that have/are having chillrens.  I'm probably the best aunt ever.  Just ask Ms B.

Dear WordFeud, Angry Birds, HeyTell, Peep, et al,

Thank you for being the best fucking apps on the face of the planet.  I have no idea how I got through the day without you.  Real life.

Dear life,

Get yourself together.  I'm talking to you, hormones.  While I do enjoy my boobies, I'm tired of getting distracted by you {don't judge me}.  Also if you could cut out the crampage in my lady biz, that'd be great.  I know I'm not actually having an alien baby but I also know that I need it to stop.  Stat.  Now your turn, house:  I don't like having to do laundry for hours on end.  I don't like doing it at all, actually.  If you could become robotic {the cool kind - not the creepy kind} and take of that yourself that would be solid.  

Dear jello shots,

Fuck. You.  It's over between us.  I mean it this time?

I want to barf even thinking about last weekend.

Dear Grace Potter and the Nocturnals,

Thank you for being the baddest merfs around.  GP, I have a serious girl crush on you.  Please don't ever sell out.  Oh, and please come back to Memphis.

Boom.

First things first:  Did you go vote today?  If not I surely hope you early voted.  If this is not the case well... I'm shaming you from behind my computer screen.

I just watched The Office Halloween episode last night.  I've come to the conclusion that where I work is so incredibly on par with the happenings on this show it's both hilarious and terrifying at the same time.  Example:  Halloween is big at work.  I'm talking HUGE.  They We waste dedicate quite a bit of time and money on this silly holiday.  This year they decided that a haunted house would be taking place.  {Side note: I work in a bank.}  The ridiculous haunted house took at least four hours for each of the three days prior to the Friday before Halloween.  Masks were purchased for each employee.  Black lights were put up.  {Again, I must emphasize I work in a bank.  Masks don't strike me as a solid idea but whatevs... I'm not in charge.}  Anyway:  the guests of honor {VIPs of the bank} came down for our presentation.  We were told "Places everyone."  Real life.  At this point I could hold my giggles to a minimum.  The people in charge of this colossal waste of time taped in my room {I was supposed to crawl out of a file room - ew.  I did NOT like crawling along the carpet.}  FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER said VIPs had still not walked through and my ADD came out with a vengeance.  I was laughing at everything especially when someone said "Quiet on set."  Shut. The. Fuck. Up.  Somebody's been watching too many episodes of Glee or too many musicals or plays or something.  Finally the people we were all waiting on were outside the door.  Somebody yelled "ACTION."  Real life.  Reeeeaaaaaaaal life.  This did not put me in a creeper mood.  This simply made me laugh.  Uncontrollably.  Needless to say I failed at my mission to scare the piss out of my employers.  I can't say that I'm disappointed.

That's it for right now.  I have got to make my house suitable for my weekend guests.
THREE DAAAAAAAYS!





This song is my new jam. I'm 100% obsessed with this little love bucket.

It's a Britney Spears sex riot.

Glee is hilarious.  I don't watch it a lot but I made sure that I would be home for tonight's episode.  Britney Spears is {and has been since the ...Baby One More Time days} a serious guilty pleasure of mine.  I love everything about her.  I love the fact that she thinks that her ability to "sing"/dance means she can act {see Crossroads}. I love her even more now that I know she is was completely insane.  I knew she was going to make a comeback.  A fierce, no holds barred comeback with a renaissance of pop music as we know it.  She's Britney fucking Spears.  Just wait, people, another ones-a comin'.


This silly tv show was the only good thing about today.  I woke up at 8:14.  And I have to be at work at 8. Whoopsie-daisy.  I got to work in record time... and I looked a hot freaking mess.  Emphasis more on the mess than on the hot.  So I overslept and was late and my hair was a disaster.  Do you ever have one of those days where you aren't 100% sure whether or not you are awake or just dreaming?  I walked around like that all day long.  And if this whole day actually was a dream?  I have something to tell you, subconscious of mine, today was boring.  I'd prefer to have inappropriate sex dreams about co-workers than dream about working - like actually working - all day long.  Dulls-ville, USA.


Bah.  Ok.  Sorry for the super lame post today.  Dreamland day has not been good for my brain power.

That's not the right thing to do.

This week seems to have lasted eons.  It's only Wednesday, in case you were wondering.  All day long I thought it was Friday.  Then I would correct myself and say it was Thursday.  When I finally realized it was Wednesday I thought about googling the most efficient way to off myself.  Speaking of, I had to work my stupid second job this evening.  I know I said I was going to stick it out for a month.  But I lied.  I can't stand it.  I hate every second of it.  It's boring and apparently weirdos hang out in bookstores.  Like the dude the was wearing a kilt and walking around juggling his family jewels.  {I'm going to add this to the list of why cajones creep me out}  Then there are the 3 or 4 old delusional old dudes that play some weird game with marbles.  These guys were clearly losers in highschool.  They wear acid washed, pleated jeans without belts.  And they tuck their shirts into these creepy ass jeans.  One was wearing a shirt that had some nerd joke on it and he thought he was smoking hot.  His name is Jeffrey.  I know this because my stupid second job makes me ask people their names.  Jeffrey has a velcro wallet.  Jeffrey wears glasses with the wrong prescription and likes to try to look UNDERNEATH the rims.  Jeffrey isn't like the other fellas in the group.  He clearly just joined because they other dudes have to explain the game to him.  I've tuned these conversations out because I can literally feel myself becoming boring just listening to them.  Anyway, Jeffrey likes to talk.  A lot.  He likes to talk about things I don't know about and things I really and truly don't give a fuck about.  Today, while Jeffrey was taking a dollar out of his sweeeet velcro wallet he started telling me about the living wage in California.  Cool, Jeffrey.  Then he complains about the price of a shot of espresso.  And asks me if there is anything I can do about it.  "No, Jeffrey, there is nothing I can do about it," I tell him.  He laughs maniacally at this.  And I go hide in the back until he disappears.

Today I decided I'm going to quit.  And I flip-flopped back and forth for most of the evening about whether I would actually go through with it.  I don't need a second job. I don't need the money.  I liked the idea of it because I would be working in a bookstore and I could read books and I thought there would be ample eye candy. Wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrooooong.  Ok, so there are the hot dads that come in but they are few and far between.  And I don't get to read.  And I work with a bunch of fuddy-duddies.  My decision to quit was practically made for me tonight.  And I will tell you why.  We have to wear these head sets and everyone can/does talk on them.  I work with a lot of people that think they are HIGH-larious.  They aren't.  This one old lady was talking about being too personal with customers and how you need to get them in and get them out.  "That's what she said" is/was the only thing I'd said over these godforsaken head sets and no one appreciated it.  Anyone who can't appreciate the art of a well timed "that's what she said joke" is dead to me.

On a lighter note, I went and saw my father before I went into work this evening.  He told me he would work on getting me some tickets to both the UT/Memphis game AND tickets to see the Colts play.  YESSSSSSAAAAA.  Back to the point:  I swear I think he does drugs.  Ricky-poo was asking me how to do something on this ipod (both of my parents are totally technologically challenged) so, naturally, I told him to google it.  His face dropped and he looked like I just punched him in the throat and he said "Shannon, that's not the right thing to do."  Then he turned around and walked away.  I'm still really confused what he meant by this.  Was he disappointed by my answer?  Surely not because "google it" is my answer to 9 out of every 10 questions.  Even if I know the answer I still will tell you to google it.

Ok.  Time for bed.  Tomorrow's Thursday.  Raise the roof.  Get it.

I wish I had some parachute pants.

Guess what I just realized??  It's been 13 weeks since I quit smoking!  (Three months but 13 weeks sounds like more.)  I'm not going to lie to you.  I have stolen a drag every now and again... but it tastes a lot like donkey ass.  Or so I imagine.  Know what else has started to make me want to vom?  When people walk past you and smell like they've been straight up chilling in a smoke filled room and wash their clothes in an ash tray. Barf-o-rama.  Would you like to know the benefits from quitting smoking?  It just so happens there are a wide variety of websites that would like to share these facts with you... here are the highlights from thus far in my journey:

20 minutes after quitting: Your heart rate and blood pressure drops.

12 hours after quitting: The carbon monoxide level in your blood drops to normal.

2 weeks to 3 months after quitting: Your circulation improves and your lung function increases.

What these websites fail to mention is that you don't stink.  Your teeth aren't going to be yellow and rotten when you get old (assuming you don't pick up an addiction to meth).  You'll get fewer wrinkles.  Clearly these are the only real reasons I care about... who wants to look old as balls with no teeth and smell like Virginia Slims?  Double EW.  Vanity aside, I miss smoking.  I didn't hate it at all.  {Plus it makes you look cool, right?} But I'm not going to pick it back up.  I'll spend all the time / money I used on smoking to find some way to trick people into thinking I'm a BAMF.

Moving on, I've been working my second job for what - a week and a half now?  I just finished my third shift and I'm already completely fucking over it.  For reals.  OV.  I guess I'd forgotten how draining it is to be gone from 7:30 am until at least 10 pm?  Maybe I'm just realizing how much I enjoy coming home and taking off my stupid pants (figuratively, obvi... pants are stupid) and my pretty - yet painful - shoes.  This bookstore job sounded a lot better than it is.  I'm working in the cafe and when I say it's boring - that's like saying Palin is an idiot.  Tragic understatement.  Fucking tragic.  I have decided to stick it out for at least a month to see if it's worth it.  It's going to be worth it, right?

What I'm thankful for today:

1. My daily chats with Gracie.  We talk several times a day and somehow always manage to find something to talk about.  Loves it.
2. Ipods / earphones.  Basically anything involving music that takes attention away from the mind numbing conversations happening around me at any time.
3. Oxford shirts
4. My ability to read 3 books at a time.
5. MC Hammer.

Hope all you beauties have a wonderful Thursday.  Love you.  Mean it.

My dance skills are on par with Rick Astley's

HAPPY MONDAY! In case you didn't know we are down to a mere FIVE days until it's once again FOOTBALL TIME IN TENNESSEE! YAHOOOOOOOO!

This is what happiness looks like.

Football season makes me happy.  So, incredibly happy.  I don't have any plans for the first game yet but I'm seriously toying with the idea of making orange jello shots, sitting on my couch by myself and eating said jello shots.  Then I'll probably run out into my street screaming like a maniac after each first down / interception / touchdown.  I imagine that I will probably be pants-less and wearing only a jersey.  This image would be a lot better if I had a helmet of any sorts.  Because this is what should happen if you sit and eat jello shots / watch football by yourself.

In other news, I am once again dually employed.  I'm going to be working part time at a bookstore.  (Hip, hip hooray for discounts!  Though my heart will always live deep in the stacks of the used book store.)  Yesterday was my first day.  And it was interesting, to say the least.  I got there at 3 and I got home around 11.  They close at 7.  Oh, that's right there was a store meeting.  On my first day?  I choked on my drink at one point and thought about not fighting it.  THAT interesting.  Maybe I would have been more engaged if I had known what the fuuuck they were talking about but I doubt it.  I did hear one of the funniest short convos ever, though.

Cashier:  Would you like to donate a children's book to the school we are sponsoring today?

College girl: Um... I don't have a book.

Cashier:  *looks around blankly* Well, we have children's books here.

Did I mention I work in a BOOK store?  Ay, ay, ay.  Some people truly amaze me.

I feel like I should share something with everyone.  I'm obsessed with reality TV.  Ob-freaking-sessed.  Last year I started watching this glorious show called Dating in the Dark.  Three boys and three girls meet in a blacked out room on a "group date" then they decide who they like and go on single dates with these whomever they deem worthy of their affection.  The majority of the show is terminally boring... until they get to see what the person looks like.  They don't immediately turn on the lights.  The other person can't see the others reaction.  And, typically, it is HILARIOUS.  There some unfortunate looking people on this show.  It's on right now.  I must go watch it.  


Hope everyone has a beautiful week.  Love you.  So does Rick Astley.  He told me.

Don't be scared. I've done this before.

Ok.  I know a fella that may or may not be a serial killer / pedophile.  Being that I am pretty much a detective, I should know.  Today I heard him whisper.  I was immediately compelled to conference call Chris Hansen and John Walsh to get them in on this shiz.  The whispering was just the icing on the cake.  If you don't share my detective skills, here are a list of things to need to look for to identify these creepers:

Yes, it begins with the glasses. Beware of transition glasses, too.

• The clothes. The garb is crucial to identifying pervs. If they wear police issued cargo pants but have never been a police officer; if they wear draw string pants; if they wear pants without a belt and the shirt tucked in - get out your mace and lock up your chillren.
• The awkward stare. If he/she makes awkward eye contact for a little too long, run. He/she is thinking of ways to kill you and make a body suit of your skin.
• Shoes: You know the shoes when you see them. They are usually worn in combination with white socks that hit above the ankle. Or black socks with with jorts.
• Men that whisper. There is nothing sexy about a man that whispers.
• Awkward giggles. Especially if it is a man that is giggling.
• European teeth on Americans. Americans who are not and have never been meth heads.

Facial hair is not always a must. This video just makes me giggle.

Now that list held only a few secrets to ID-ing creepers, perv, etc. You'll know it when you see it. Hopefully.

As I've mentioned before, I work with a bunch of chicks.  I'm one of the youngest there and pretty much the only one that doesn't have any chillrens (thank you, sweet baby Jesus).  One of the girls in my department IS pregnant so today I foolishly decided to ask about child birth.  What did I learn?  That shiz is fucking s-i-c-k.  First and foremost, it weirds me out there is a BABY inside of your stomach.  Like a real life baby.  It kicks and moves.  It pees and shadoobs. Not in a diaper.  In your lady biz.  I guess I have just ever really thought about it before.  Ew.  Your baby craps inside of you.  That just makes me uneasy.  Want to know something else?  THEY OPEN THEIR EYES.  I was under the impression that, much like puppies or kitties, they aren't born with their eyes open.  Wrong.  Super wrong and super gross.  What do you think they are looking at? Agh.  This weirds me out so much.  I liked life a lot more when I thought that babies were delivered by storks.

Clearly I'm not ready for chillrens anytime soon.  Sorry mom and dad.  I promise I'm not a lesbian.

Hope everyone had a beautiful Wednesday.  Show me your teeth.

She works haaaaard for the money

When I saw that the stupid whore Anne Curry was filling in for Matt this morning I just knew I should have gotten back in bed and slept until tomorrow.  Maybe it was the fact that I drank far too much last night or maybe it really was because my lover decided to take the morning off, whatever the case may be today was not one of the best.

I work with a lot of funny people.  Most of the time they are not funny "ha ha" though.  Today, however, was an exception.  I work with a lot of chicks.  I mean A LOT.  The estrogen in the office is out. of. control.  There are some scary sad hilarious moments like when someone brings in a baby... imagine starving a great white shark of any nourishment until it is on the edge of death then throwing a scrumptious whale for him to feast on.  And then there are days when I just stand there, look around thinking to myself "What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck is going on?"

Everyday between the hours of 11 and 2, all these broads gather in the break room and watch their "stories."  It is packed.  Everyone takes their lunch break at the same time everyday so as not to miss a minute of their beloved Bold and the Beautiful or whatever one they have been watching since before I was born.  Unless you are willing to give your first born as an offering, you had better be damn sure that you don't make a sound (this includes, but is not limited to: coughing, sneezing, laughing, talking, running the sink) when stepping foot into this threshold.  A scary majority of these women think the break room was put there solely for their individual use so they treat it like it is their home...

As I'm sure you can imagine, things around the office can get a little catty... and even more passive aggressive.  There are a few women who secretly put signs up in the break room in an attempt to will you into doing whatever it is they want.  These signs are brilliant.  Every time I walk in and see a new one it's like a gift wrapped present just for me.  It always causes a stir and hilarity, without a doubt, always ensues.  Would you like to see all of these signs?  Well OF COURSE you would:

I'm assuming this is where it all began... innocently enough with a professional sign.

Keeping it polite... for now.  The sign lady still says thanks.

The bullets, bold font and underlining shows this cat means business.

Up top it says "It can start a fire."  It's all about safety here, folks.

This one talks about fairies.  No.  I can't take it seriously when it's next to a silly cartoon.

The newest one:  in italics "Otherwise, you can clean up your own mess"

Yes.  On both of the microwaves in case you didn't see one...

That's it for now.  I watched this video to make sure it was legit.  I don't know if I can adequately describe how much I wish Donna Summers would follow ME around and sing this song.  The woman in this video doesn't know just how lucky she is... 




smooches.