(no subject)
Well, I really should be working.
After all, I’m the only member of ‘management’ in the office today, so I’m in charge. In a perfect world I should be leading from the front lines, waving my sword wildly and screaming blood-stirring insurance/corporate slogans--or possibly even singing the company mission statement-while running madly towards a vast barbarian horde.
It should be noted that this is not a perfect world. In fact, it’s a decidedly imperfect world. Because of this fact, I’m okay with sitting in my office, answering all my LJ responses from the “Touched by Venom” posting and staring intently at my computer wallpaper and three Orlando Bloom calendars.
Yes, three. Because, good gentles, yesterday my 90 days was up on my new job. I was officially past my probation period as of yesterday at 8:30 AM EST. At 8:31 AM EST, calendar number three went up.
Of course, I had to examine each one carefully and decide which one will show which month. For business purposes, of course.
I have one open on January, one on February, and one on March. That way I can see a full spread of… days. Yeah. Days. Purely for organizational reasons… so I can organize my filthy sexual fantasies by days of the week, much like my panties following up on claims in an expedient time frame.
Yesterday some of our insureds walked in. Their adjuster was out to lunch so I did the ‘good supervisor’ thing and took them in my office and talked to them about their claim.
They were an older, retired couple. I was going to try and talk to them in the lobby but it was quiet in my office. So I walked them back and closed the door (!!!!) and sat and talked to them for a while.
The wife yammered on and on and on about everything, and her husband just sat there. I then noticed him-he was 80 years old if he was a day-checking out my calendars. Not just checking them out, but CHECKING THEM OUT. WITH DEEP INTENSITY. Like MY kind of intensity. To the point of ignoring both his wife (obviously a normal thing for him) and me and everything else.
“Oh shit”, thought I. “He’s checking out Orlando! He’s an 80 year old male and even he feels the HAWT radiating off that wall. It’s…it’s almost supernatural!”
Yammer yammer yammer went the wife. The husband kept checking out the wall O’::SPLURT:: in the most obvious way.
All I could think while I watched him out of the corner of my eye was, “Boy, I’m glad I haven’t brought the action figures in yet! He might be tempted to steal one of those so he could sit and play with and fondle the HAWT little bulge between his little plastic legs just like I do!” ::pause:: “EEEEEWWW!!!!”
Being professional = such a stretch for me. Really.
Uhm… and I don’t REALLY play with the little plastic bulge. Much. Honest.
But I digress.
So I went and weighed in this morning upstairs. We have a workout room on the second floor with a nice doctor’s scale. I’ve been plateaued for quite a while and have been working very hard on breaking it this past week.
For those who are just joining in (I see there are a few here) I’ve been working on making myself healthy and losing weight since last March. I’m down 79 ¾ lbs since then. Yes, 79 3/4. I asked the doctor if I could go to the bathroom, strain mightily for a few minutes and then reweigh just to get that ¼ lb off and call it a solid 80 lbs.
He laughed at me. Upon reflection, many people laugh at me. I’ve learned to accept this.
It’s not a good idea to weigh in on ‘jeans day’ when you’re also dressed for the deep freeze of a winter’s day in Florida. I mean 49 degrees F? ::shiver:: . How much do jeans, a heavy shirt and a heavy sweater weigh anyway? Probably at least 20 lbs. Yeah, that’s it!
I weighed myself and then looked around the dark, empty fitness room. It would be nothing to creep over and close the door, strip down to bra and panties and weigh again. Sure, the balcony that the smokers congregate on is just on the other side of that glass wall, but the blinds are mostly closed and no one is out there anyway! I can run like the wind when needs be! I seriously considered it for a good minute and a half before sighing and slinking back to my desk.
See. Being professional = really, really, really HARD for me.
I was talking with Janesy today about her upcoming travels around the country. She’s going to be here and there and everywhere. “Jetsetting Janesy”, said I. “You could be an action figure! Then I could buy you and put you up here next to my Will Turner/Orlando action figures and pose you in the most ‘agreeable’ fashion with him.”
She just laughed and said, “An INaction figure is more like it. My figure comes with a pack of smokes, a can of Diet Coke, and a general ennui.”
Which leads me to wonder, if some toy manufactured an action figure of you, what would it be like?
I can tell you that mine would be very blonde, come with little, itty-bitty open-toed, open-backed three inch high heeled sandals (so that my action figure, being short like me, would not look like she was standing in a hole at all times), garishly painted and decorated toenails, a teensy-tinsey Venti Iced non-fat, sugar-free 12 pump vanilla latte from Starbucks (with 4 additional Splendas), and an eensy-weensy copy of some hideously bad book that has been foisted on her by one of the other action figures in the “Alpha Bitch Club” line of toys, (most recently Circle’s and some godawful vampire book courtesy of harmonyfb) as well as an “In-Case-Of-Encounter-with-Orlando-Bloom” emergency kit with a variety of things like tiny cans of Extra-thick Reddi-Whip, Sugar-free Lime JELL-O, little fur lined handcuffs, a mini roll of duct tape, and a few ferrets. Because you never know.
There might even be a ‘Minivan O’Perimenopause’ expansion set, complete with a tiny bag of Charms blow pops, a little GI Joe doll (complete with kung fu grip), and a puppy-all the things you need to cruise local middle schools for younger men.
Hmmm. What else can I type about to avoid working today?
I know! Mom called me last night.
For those not in the know, I have a very interesting mother and a very interesting relationship with her. I love her dearly, but she’s just…. Well, there really are no words for our relationship. I know I’ve discussed her escapades many times on here.
Well, I’ve been quiet about her because it’s been quiet. She’s been up in New Jersey since the beginning of January. She’s doing training for her new job and she’s been very, very busy.
Which is good. Busy is very good. She’s not out orchestrating slip and falls, trying to “save” my child behind my back, getting involved in any second hand Botox resale operations, looking for new and exciting medical conditions to develop, or telling me that while I am a beautiful girl and she loves me despite my religious failings, I really should be looking into getting Botox or something to make that frown wrinkle between my brows go away (mind you, the only time that wrinkle comes out is when I’m with her. Co-inky-dink? Riiiiight!)
Well, she’s coming home for the weekend. She gets in tonight and leaves back for New Jersey Monday morning. We have a family dinner planned for Sunday night.
I can already feel the muscles in my neck bunching up in preparation for the event. I’m sure my sisters are much the same way. It’s a shame because it’s been so nice and relaxed for the past month.
So she calls me last night and she starts talking to me about how she wants to join Weight Watchers.
“Well, that’s a good idea, mom. peacockharpy has lost over 50 lbs on them. Plus it’s very healthy.”
Mom has tried every single weight loss scheme known to man, from Jenny Craig to amphetamines, from Atkins to a 40 day liquid fast for world peace (that ended tragically with a pepperoni supreme pizza on day four-followed immediately by a bus bombing in Israel. Make of that what you will. I’ll have to tell you the whole story some day. Same with the used Botox.). From trying to eat nothing but popcorn and diet coke to that fat blocking pill that’s out now (with which she started eating MORE fatty food because she just crapped it all out). Mom is a bit of a professional dieter, but in all the wrong ways. It’s like having someone over to fix your house that says he’s been fixing houses for 40 years but when he patches the hole in your drywall, he uses toothpaste to fill it in, blames you when it falls apart a day later and tells you that you should be grateful for the minty fresh smell it leaves behind.
So then I get the long story about how she was trying to reach a folder that was in a basket on the wall and her poor injured back wasn’t letting her stand up so she was reaching and straining and stretching and just couldn’t get to it… because of her stomach.
Then she starts getting personal.
“So, what was your breaking point, Rene? What set you off?”
Normally, I don’t mind talking about this with people I’m comfortable with. The Alphas. People that I think I can help by giving them my story and encouragement.
Mother is not one of these people. Mother has done everything she could to consciously and subconsciously sabotage my efforts to take control of my life and I really just haven’t appreciated it.
But it gets worse. “So...” she starts. “This may be a little personal, but do you find since you’ve lost all the weight that your sex life has, you know, gotten a little more ‘zip’ in it?”
I’m not going to say that a little piece of me died at that question, but it definitely curled up into a fetal position and started sucking its thumb while rocking back and forth.
This is my mother. My MOTHER. My mother wants to know about my sex life. The same mother who told me that since she’s found Jesus she doesn’t need a man in her life. She just prays and God fulfils her. She has ‘spiritual satisfaction’ from Jesus. My kool-aid swilling, pudding munching, track suit and Nike wearing, comet watching born again mother.
“Well, I mean, I don’t have anyone in my life right now. But if I did have someone in my life and we wanted to have sex, I’d like to have some great orgasms…”
Forget what I said before. A little piece of me DID die last night.
After all, I’m the only member of ‘management’ in the office today, so I’m in charge. In a perfect world I should be leading from the front lines, waving my sword wildly and screaming blood-stirring insurance/corporate slogans--or possibly even singing the company mission statement-while running madly towards a vast barbarian horde.
It should be noted that this is not a perfect world. In fact, it’s a decidedly imperfect world. Because of this fact, I’m okay with sitting in my office, answering all my LJ responses from the “Touched by Venom” posting and staring intently at my computer wallpaper and three Orlando Bloom calendars.
Yes, three. Because, good gentles, yesterday my 90 days was up on my new job. I was officially past my probation period as of yesterday at 8:30 AM EST. At 8:31 AM EST, calendar number three went up.
Of course, I had to examine each one carefully and decide which one will show which month. For business purposes, of course.
I have one open on January, one on February, and one on March. That way I can see a full spread of… days. Yeah. Days. Purely for organizational reasons… so I can organize my filthy sexual fantasies by days of the week, much like my panties following up on claims in an expedient time frame.
Yesterday some of our insureds walked in. Their adjuster was out to lunch so I did the ‘good supervisor’ thing and took them in my office and talked to them about their claim.
They were an older, retired couple. I was going to try and talk to them in the lobby but it was quiet in my office. So I walked them back and closed the door (!!!!) and sat and talked to them for a while.
The wife yammered on and on and on about everything, and her husband just sat there. I then noticed him-he was 80 years old if he was a day-checking out my calendars. Not just checking them out, but CHECKING THEM OUT. WITH DEEP INTENSITY. Like MY kind of intensity. To the point of ignoring both his wife (obviously a normal thing for him) and me and everything else.
“Oh shit”, thought I. “He’s checking out Orlando! He’s an 80 year old male and even he feels the HAWT radiating off that wall. It’s…it’s almost supernatural!”
Yammer yammer yammer went the wife. The husband kept checking out the wall O’::SPLURT:: in the most obvious way.
All I could think while I watched him out of the corner of my eye was, “Boy, I’m glad I haven’t brought the action figures in yet! He might be tempted to steal one of those so he could sit and play with and fondle the HAWT little bulge between his little plastic legs just like I do!” ::pause:: “EEEEEWWW!!!!”
Being professional = such a stretch for me. Really.
Uhm… and I don’t REALLY play with the little plastic bulge. Much. Honest.
But I digress.
So I went and weighed in this morning upstairs. We have a workout room on the second floor with a nice doctor’s scale. I’ve been plateaued for quite a while and have been working very hard on breaking it this past week.
For those who are just joining in (I see there are a few here) I’ve been working on making myself healthy and losing weight since last March. I’m down 79 ¾ lbs since then. Yes, 79 3/4. I asked the doctor if I could go to the bathroom, strain mightily for a few minutes and then reweigh just to get that ¼ lb off and call it a solid 80 lbs.
He laughed at me. Upon reflection, many people laugh at me. I’ve learned to accept this.
It’s not a good idea to weigh in on ‘jeans day’ when you’re also dressed for the deep freeze of a winter’s day in Florida. I mean 49 degrees F? ::shiver:: . How much do jeans, a heavy shirt and a heavy sweater weigh anyway? Probably at least 20 lbs. Yeah, that’s it!
I weighed myself and then looked around the dark, empty fitness room. It would be nothing to creep over and close the door, strip down to bra and panties and weigh again. Sure, the balcony that the smokers congregate on is just on the other side of that glass wall, but the blinds are mostly closed and no one is out there anyway! I can run like the wind when needs be! I seriously considered it for a good minute and a half before sighing and slinking back to my desk.
See. Being professional = really, really, really HARD for me.
I was talking with Janesy today about her upcoming travels around the country. She’s going to be here and there and everywhere. “Jetsetting Janesy”, said I. “You could be an action figure! Then I could buy you and put you up here next to my Will Turner/Orlando action figures and pose you in the most ‘agreeable’ fashion with him.”
She just laughed and said, “An INaction figure is more like it. My figure comes with a pack of smokes, a can of Diet Coke, and a general ennui.”
Which leads me to wonder, if some toy manufactured an action figure of you, what would it be like?
I can tell you that mine would be very blonde, come with little, itty-bitty open-toed, open-backed three inch high heeled sandals (so that my action figure, being short like me, would not look like she was standing in a hole at all times), garishly painted and decorated toenails, a teensy-tinsey Venti Iced non-fat, sugar-free 12 pump vanilla latte from Starbucks (with 4 additional Splendas), and an eensy-weensy copy of some hideously bad book that has been foisted on her by one of the other action figures in the “Alpha Bitch Club” line of toys, (most recently Circle’s and some godawful vampire book courtesy of harmonyfb) as well as an “In-Case-Of-Encounter-with-Orlando-Bloom” emergency kit with a variety of things like tiny cans of Extra-thick Reddi-Whip, Sugar-free Lime JELL-O, little fur lined handcuffs, a mini roll of duct tape, and a few ferrets. Because you never know.
There might even be a ‘Minivan O’Perimenopause’ expansion set, complete with a tiny bag of Charms blow pops, a little GI Joe doll (complete with kung fu grip), and a puppy-all the things you need to cruise local middle schools for younger men.
Hmmm. What else can I type about to avoid working today?
I know! Mom called me last night.
For those not in the know, I have a very interesting mother and a very interesting relationship with her. I love her dearly, but she’s just…. Well, there really are no words for our relationship. I know I’ve discussed her escapades many times on here.
Well, I’ve been quiet about her because it’s been quiet. She’s been up in New Jersey since the beginning of January. She’s doing training for her new job and she’s been very, very busy.
Which is good. Busy is very good. She’s not out orchestrating slip and falls, trying to “save” my child behind my back, getting involved in any second hand Botox resale operations, looking for new and exciting medical conditions to develop, or telling me that while I am a beautiful girl and she loves me despite my religious failings, I really should be looking into getting Botox or something to make that frown wrinkle between my brows go away (mind you, the only time that wrinkle comes out is when I’m with her. Co-inky-dink? Riiiiight!)
Well, she’s coming home for the weekend. She gets in tonight and leaves back for New Jersey Monday morning. We have a family dinner planned for Sunday night.
I can already feel the muscles in my neck bunching up in preparation for the event. I’m sure my sisters are much the same way. It’s a shame because it’s been so nice and relaxed for the past month.
So she calls me last night and she starts talking to me about how she wants to join Weight Watchers.
“Well, that’s a good idea, mom. peacockharpy has lost over 50 lbs on them. Plus it’s very healthy.”
Mom has tried every single weight loss scheme known to man, from Jenny Craig to amphetamines, from Atkins to a 40 day liquid fast for world peace (that ended tragically with a pepperoni supreme pizza on day four-followed immediately by a bus bombing in Israel. Make of that what you will. I’ll have to tell you the whole story some day. Same with the used Botox.). From trying to eat nothing but popcorn and diet coke to that fat blocking pill that’s out now (with which she started eating MORE fatty food because she just crapped it all out). Mom is a bit of a professional dieter, but in all the wrong ways. It’s like having someone over to fix your house that says he’s been fixing houses for 40 years but when he patches the hole in your drywall, he uses toothpaste to fill it in, blames you when it falls apart a day later and tells you that you should be grateful for the minty fresh smell it leaves behind.
So then I get the long story about how she was trying to reach a folder that was in a basket on the wall and her poor injured back wasn’t letting her stand up so she was reaching and straining and stretching and just couldn’t get to it… because of her stomach.
Then she starts getting personal.
“So, what was your breaking point, Rene? What set you off?”
Normally, I don’t mind talking about this with people I’m comfortable with. The Alphas. People that I think I can help by giving them my story and encouragement.
Mother is not one of these people. Mother has done everything she could to consciously and subconsciously sabotage my efforts to take control of my life and I really just haven’t appreciated it.
But it gets worse. “So...” she starts. “This may be a little personal, but do you find since you’ve lost all the weight that your sex life has, you know, gotten a little more ‘zip’ in it?”
I’m not going to say that a little piece of me died at that question, but it definitely curled up into a fetal position and started sucking its thumb while rocking back and forth.
This is my mother. My MOTHER. My mother wants to know about my sex life. The same mother who told me that since she’s found Jesus she doesn’t need a man in her life. She just prays and God fulfils her. She has ‘spiritual satisfaction’ from Jesus. My kool-aid swilling, pudding munching, track suit and Nike wearing, comet watching born again mother.
“Well, I mean, I don’t have anyone in my life right now. But if I did have someone in my life and we wanted to have sex, I’d like to have some great orgasms…”
Forget what I said before. A little piece of me DID die last night.