Dress Thyself Properly

If you have to leave your house, try dressing in a way that shows that you respect yourself and that you are cognizant of your body size and shape. I’m not saying you need to blow a few grand at Saks in order to go to CVS for some cold medicine, but you know… when you’re going to a restaurant (you know, one of the ones without a drive-thru) or to the office, dress for the body you have.

If you have a shirt that fit you 50 pounds ago or one that you think will fit you in 50 pounds:

  1. Stop measuring time in pounds, you weirdo
  2. Don’t effing wear the shirt

If you’re a large person, wear large clothes. If you’re a small person, wear small clothes. If you’re an XXL, wear XXL clothes. AND PLEASE NOTE THAT BUYING A PAIR OF SIZE 6 PANTS DOES NOT MAKE YOU A SIZE 6.

Office Ungifting

If you have to give a gift at work because it’s the fucking holidays and you’re one of those stupid-ass bitches who buys gifts for everyone in the whole office, don’t expect for one fleeting second that you’ll get one back from me. I DON’T EVEN LIKE YOU, SHARON. DON’T BUY ME A STUPID PRESENT. Also, Barbara–fuck you. Fuck you and your fucking jelly beans. Jelly beans are not seasonally appropriate!

…And Jessica, I do not appreciate that you got me a thoughtful present that I actually like. I now have to expend the tiny amount of time and sanity and money I have left on buying you something nice and that clearly demonstrates that I give approximately one-half of an actual fuck about you. Stop being awesome, Jessica. It’s too much for me to handle during this ridiculous season.

Can we all just not? I mean, Tina needs to bring in her amazing cookies, and Brian can buy us all drinks after work on Tuesday, but that’s it. Let’s just say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘happy holidays’ or ‘pleasant winter’ or ‘seems like it’s getting a bit cold outside, huh Jeff?’ or whatever the hell we’re allowed to say these days. No presents.

Completely Justified -isms

If you have to hate someone, I’ve always said that you should do it for a legitimate (but completely arbitrary) reason. The following examples are groups of people who do not get enough seething rage, discrimination, and hatred from society, though they probably deserve it:

  • Stilettoism:  hatred for women who lack the necessary ankle strength and/or balancing ability, but insist on wearing high heels anyway.
  • Nicknameism:  discriminating against those people who make their nicknames hard to spell. (Like, I get that your parents named you Mikaylah–and I hate them for that, but I hate you because you nicknamed yourself “Mikkiyee.”)
  • Stretchism:  disgust for people who stretch any time and every time they’re standing still. (Get your leg off the back of the couch, Anna, and stop bending over.)
  • Unintentional BJ-ism:  hating on people who, during business meetings, drink water from bottles that are, like, big sippy cups with the fat straws that you have to compress to suck. (No one can concentrate on strategic planning while Tim is performing oral on his water bottle. Especially when he hasn’t broken eye contact with Ron for twenty seconds.)
  • Garbagehumanism:  discriminating against people who listen to country music.
  • Doggy bag at the table eater-ism:  anger toward people who, before the meal, ask for half their dinner to be boxed as leftovers, and then open the box and start picking at it while the rest of us eat from our plates like normal people, Janet.
  • Non sequiturism*:  hating those people who have to jump into EVERY SINGLE CONVERSATION with some off-the-wall, ridiculous bullshit. (“Did you know that the Brazil nut is not, in fact, a nut?” Shut the fuck up, Chad!)

*Fun fact:  my phone tried to autocorrect that to “non sequin urinalysis,” which obviously makes more sense. (I blame Chad.)

Forever Bored

If you have to hang out with me (okay, that makes it sound like it’s a bad thing, but IRL, I’m actually not the bitch I purport myself to be in this blog), know that I get bored very, VERY easily.

Here’s this thing I’ve discovered about people as of late… when it comes to activity, there are the following types of people:

  • Gets bored very easily and lacks the coping mechanisms to deal with it, and therefore seeks out any and all ways to escape the vacuous hellhole otherwise known as just sitting there with nothing to do. This is me. When I go into a situation (social or otherwise), I always try to find an out. Whether that’s finding the actual door to exit the place, figuring out how I can talk to the most interesting person in the room, or planning to get one more drink to force the fun, I find a way to make the situation less boring.
  • Gets kinda bored sometimes, but can deal with it though various methods–thinking, being creative, going on Facebook, etc. Good for you people, really. While I’m tapping my foot at the doctor’s office while fantasizing about punching the nurse who I swear keeps moving my name to the bottom of the list, you people are posting endlessly fascinating little tidbits on your wall. (That’s what it’s called on Facebook, right? Sounds fucking thrilling.)
  • Rarely gets bored because they take joy in solitude. They actually enjoy sitting at a coffee shop. Alone. And they ponder shit while they sit there. By themselves. Alone. And they like it. Because they’re strange.
  • Is never bored because these weirdos clearly have the IQ of dirt and are actually entertained by the minutiae of everyday life. Like, they are jazzed to literally watch paint dry and/or drool on themselves and/or watch other people play golf.

So I’m bored now. Bye.

(Exit is this-a way.) —->

In Defense of Yoga Moms

If you have to write a blog post with the above title, you should probably have something nice to say about yoga moms… but fuck that.

Yoga moms piss me off.

These women don’t work, they don’t do anything for themselves, and THEY DON’T ACTUALLY DO YOGA. These bitches mooch off of their hard-working husbands to support their lives of leisure and… wait. What do they actually do? They drink champagne at 11 AM, they go out with the other yoga moms, and they bag on women like me who actually contribute to society. They hire people to clean their houses and watch their children for them, they’re addicted to whatever pill that is in the amber-colored bottle, and (sorry, hard-working husbands) they’re sleeping with the “life coach” guy who lives three houses down. They put on yoga pants in the morning, they hit the salon, and then they overperfume themselves before heading out for a tough day of shopping and sitting on the patio at the bistro with some other stupid yoga bitches. Oh yeah, and then they bang Sven or Marco (or whatever his name is) before their kids get home from school.

These ladies are the worst, but tbh, their husbands aren’t that much better. Did they really go into marriage hoping to just have a trophy wife? And what about the fugly yoga moms… did these guys REALLY sign up for paying for some ugly bitch to just sit around (and I mean arouuuund) the house that they bought for her? Why? WHY? Why do they let their wives spend $90 on mascara, rack up 10 hours at the spa every week, pay $300 for a haircut, and watch all the soap operas? What are they getting out of it? Maybe it’s some crazy sex move known only to yoga moms. (Maybe THAT’S what they’re learning from that “life coach” guy!)

I’d venture to guess that maybe–just MAYBE–women who have an education and a job and actually pull their own weight probably have a little more to offer than those awful, horrible, throatpunchable yoga moms.

Maybe Just Shh

If you have to compliment someone on their appearance, make sure you’re on the same attractiveness plane as the person you’re complimenting.

Okay, I’m just gonna say it. If an attractive person says another attractive person is attractive, it seems a lot more earnest and honest than if some uggo says the same. By the same token, if a very attractive person says that an uggo is attractive, it sounds all pandery and ridiculous.

It’s like when a person with the IQ of a potato comments on how brilliant someone is because they were able to count out change at the supermarket. *eye roll* Clearly, Potato Man has a low threshold for being impressed by intelligence.

The take home message here, kids, is to make sure you’re not insulting someone by complimenting their attractiveness. Thanks.

I Can’t Home Depot

If you have to go–by yourself–to a hardware store or a home improvement warehouse superstore or some sort of Depot of Home things, make sure you have the requisite penile organ to escape the experience with your sanity and your pride intact.

I’m a girl. (Okay, I’m a woman, but I am totally a girl. You know what I mean.) Going to a hardware store shouldn’t be a traumatic experience, but it always is for me. I can’t help that I appear terrified and lost. I mean, the place has, like, 200 foot ceilings, the smuggest-looking employees in the world, and 25 different places where a particular item could or should be.

Completely Hypothetical Example:  I need a new twisty knob thing for my shower that turns the water on. I’m actually walking around the store with the broken one in my left hand. Is it in Bath, Plumbing, or Hardware?! Why are all the dipshit employees named Jason and why are they looking at me with the same look of condescension I give women who wear capri pants? How is it that I’ve walked down the same aisle three times? Why is a customer asking me if I need help? Where are all the orange-vested Jasons? Where do I pay for this thing? Why is the parking lot so big? WHERE DID I PARK MY CAR?!

I figured out why the parking lot is so big. I literally needed that five minutes driving across the lot to decompress before I got back out on the road.

So damn you, Jason. Also, the other Jason. And all your little Jason friends.

Office Politics and Broccoli

If you have to work in an office for 8+ hours a day, there are certain things you should and should not do in order to maintain a happy and healthy work environment.

DO:

  • Clean up your messes. No one wants to clean your used coffee mug you put in the sink. Have you seen you? You’re disgusting. No one wants to be exposed to your saliva.
  • Keep your voice at an appropriate volume while speaking on the phone. Be quiet enough so people can’t hear every word, but just loud enough so people feel somewhat sneaky when they eavesdrop.
  • Hang up enough crap on the walls of your cubicle/office that it looks like someone works there, but not so much clutter that one can’t determine the color of said walls.
  • Start another pot of coffee when you finish the one that’s there. …It’s called human decency.

DON’T:

  • Heat broccoli in the break room microwave. When the smell of broccoli meets the scent of copiers, it smells like inky, stinky feet. Eat your broccoli cold or keep it out of the office.
  • Print every single one of your emails (in color!) to a public printer and then leave them there for hours and then reprint them and then get all mad when I put them in the shred bin. Holy crap, Devin. Show some respect for yourself and others and the printer and trees and the earth and my sanity.
  • Talk about childbirth or your gall bladder or your sex life or any of the wonders of your many and varied bodily functions. Not only does no one want to have a conversation with you about it, no one wants to inadvertently overhear any of that shit, either. Not at work, not at home, and not on your personal time. Actually, your so-called “friends” don’t even like you. They tired long ago of hearing about what keeps you regular, Tammy. Keep it to yourself.
  • Eat apples at your desk. Ostensibly the most disgusting thing in the world is the crunch-and-slop sound you make when you’re chawing on an apple.
  • Use the Reply to All button (unless you’ve earned your certification). Upon completion of the required courses, you can put the letters NAF (Not A Fuckwad) after your name on your business cards! …Imagine… Barry Jones, NAF. (Just kidding. We all know Barry and Lisa can’t resist replying to all 87 times about his damn zucchini bread. Every year.)

Pal Analysis – Part 1

If you have to ask the question of whether or not you and I can be friends, I’ve composed a few basic questions you can ask yourself (and score) before bothering me with your inane request for friendship.

  1. Do you have an iPhone? If no, don’t bother me. I have neither the patience nor the time for you and your Android bullshit.
  2. Friends or Seinfeld? The correct answer is yes.
  3. Do you drink wine? Okay, you don’t have to know the difference between a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Pinot Noir, but you do have to be open to drinking it. Or else.
  4. Where would you rather hang out–the beach or a driving range? Either or both are perfectly acceptable, actually.
  5. Do you use your turn signal in a roundabout? If you do, go hang out with the Android people who were eliminated by question #1.

These are just the basics–the fundamental building blocks upon which any good friendship is based.

Waxing Political

If you have to talk about politics, do it in your car. When you’re by yourself. With the windows rolled up.

In general, I don’t talk about politics. In specific, I never fucking talk about politics. Trumpeting your political views is one of the quickest ways to make my eyes glaze over. Really, all you’re doing is telling me about your feelings. I don’t actually have feelings, so hearing about yours irritates me. The overarching problem is that people are too emotional to actually hold a conversation in which there is any discussion about politics.

Political discourse digs at the very core of human nature. To remove the passion and the emotion from the conversation is impossible, so it’s my position that discussing politics should be outlawed because the interpretation of facts is skewed by one’s political leanings.

So… shh.