Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Sisterhood of the Stall Doors

I was talking to a girl last night, and came to the realization that the women's restroom is the last frontier of sisterhood. In the women's restroom, women pass each other toilet paper, compliment each other's outfits, console each other over dealings with stupid men, and give sage drunken advice.

As soon as women leave this sacred place, the sisterhood veil evaporates. They act like they don't know each other, and may even say something catty about their former acquaintance out in the wide open world.

Crazy huh??

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Random New Word

Pronounced -- Hoar-e-a-door
Source: Taken from the Spanish Conquistador
Origin: 2005, after a real life encounter of something I didn't have a word for.

Definition: A woman who feels entitled to be center stage in their male friends lives. The whoreador does not like her male friends to date anyone else, or pay attention to other girls. The whoreador may have dated the male(s) previously, and even broken up with him/them. However, she subconsciously does not want to give up that intimacy and control.

Ladies, I am sure you run into this. And if you haven't run into this, you are this.

She starts out nice enough, but if you are dating a man with a whoreador friend she will become increasingly aggressive and start 'competing' for your man's time. Most men don't realize this but will feel 'guilted' in the struggle.

If you encounter a whoreador: remain calm. She will most likely hang herself being needy and aggressive.

If you are a whoreador: Loosen up the death grip on your friend, be happy for them, and go get some action yourself :)

Mental Midgets in Grad School

Gotta vent here.

I am sure that most of you, in your school days, had experience with this venture called "The Group Project". I am getting my MBA, and pretty much all of the classes consist of group projects.

Not all groups work harmoniously, different people have different viewpoints, and that should be respected.

But these people are f*cking morons.

I mean, I don't even know how they manage the process of respiration on their own. I am legitimately surprised manage to feed themselves, use the bathroom, and operate a motor vehicle. I imagine several of them just roll out of bed, stare at the alarm clock, try to eat it, and then ask it if it has change for a $5 bill.

They can't complete any of the menial tasks of this project unless I tell them what to do. Get this, I don't just tell them what to do because I am a bossy bitch. They email me and ask what they should be doing because they can't dissect a simple task on their own. They also can't complete these tasks on any kind of legitimate timetable. Apparently, turning in an assignment Sunday night means Monday at 4 pm. Also, apparently they cannot make meetings that they decide to schedule.

Ok. Feel better now.

...And scene.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

The Daily Random

There isn't much going on so I will tell you about the random happenings of my day. In response to being called fat yesterday, I marched myself into the work cafeteria and got the most enormous cinnamon roll they had. I thought about going to sit in the fitness center to eat said cinnamon roll, but I decided to do it at my desk and let the scent of the cinnamon roll just waft through the area.

A girl at work really liked my jacket.

It was very quiet since the loudest, most annoying man on the planet was NOT at his desk today.

I found out that when John Quincy Adams was President, he would go skinny dipping in the Potomac River every morning.

Took a nap on my couch and drooled on my pillow. I am a pillow drooler. It is soooo pathetic. That is why I frequently replace pillows. My friends think it is just because I am finicky and can't decide on a decorating style. Sometimes when they come over and touch my couch pillows I am all "Hee hee. I drooled on that."

Wednesday, March 21, 2007


I just thought of this...

Shittake mushrooms are full of 'shit'.

Hey said....

Bring on the random...

Wide Load, Coming Through

In my life I have been very lucky. I have always done sports and been slim. I never understood why girls had eating disorders or let being called 'fat' bother them. Until I was called it myself.

Lets set the stage. I go to a health fair at work. Actually, 'health fair' is a misnomer, it's called a 'spew bullshit' fair instead. A little background on me...I am 5'6" and a size 0-4 depending on where I am shopping. That is not fat.

Yet somehow, the genius calculating my BMI gets it wrong (I later calculated it myself, it's 21.8 but this idiot got 23.8). He then tells me that "you need to work on this, it's high, have you been working out?".

Hey dumbass, maybe you need to work on passing 3rd grade math. While you're at it, the combover does not hide your male pattern baldness--if you want to beautify this office why don't you start in your own backyard, but I digress.

Then these morons tell me my blood pressure is high and I am at risk for hypertension. 120/70. Yeah, if I am at risk for hypertension we all are. Suck it Trebek.

But long story short, even though I knew these comments were bogus, a little part of them stung. Then all of a sudden I felt like I had a little bit of insight into why some of my family and friends can be so obsessive and why women today have body image issues.

Ladies, you are all beautiful, f*ck the haters, go paint with all the colors of the wind, and remember you can always diet, but a f*cking asshole is still a f*cking asshole.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Memo to the Guys I Work With:

Dear Men I Work With,

What is going on with the porn star mustache? I hate it. It scares me. You are all old and have young impressionable children. They don't need to think Daddy is a wannabe 70's porn star. If you don't know if you have a porn star 'stache, you do. But you can check here for confirmation.

Also, don't give me the creepy stare. I realize there aren't many women that work with us, and even fewer that don't have their own porn star mustache. However, don't give me the creepy serial killer gaze, like you can see through to the back of my skull and eat my brain for breakfast.

One more thing. The shirt has to match the the belt which has to match the shoes. Black shirt, brown belt brown shoes is a nonono.


What happened last weekend?

What DIDN'T happen last weekend? It was St. Patrick's Day, which to me, has always been an excuse to deck myself out in my favorite color, drink some beer, and spend some quality time with my friends. This year was a banner year, two of my college roommates flew down to help me celebrate.

I went to pick them up at the airport, and they are half drunk. Turns out that one of the girls, (we'll call her Roomie A) brought along several sample size Smirnoff Vanilla Vodka liquor bottles to spike their drinks. When I show up to get them, they grabbed my coffee and spiked it as well.

St. Patrick's Day involved getting up early to start drinking early. There's a big parade down here so we had to get downtown early. We also had to get to drinking early. I know we got a bottle of Ketel One vodka and a 6 pack of Sunny Delight. After we got to the parade site it gets a little hazy. Here is what I DO know:

  • I lost my hat.
  • I gained a hat
  • I lost a hat again
  • There were tequila shots during the parade
  • We were brazen enough to open beer and drink it IN the grocery store, we couldn't make it outside.
  • The manager of said grocery store had to tell Roomie B "Ma'am, your beer is foaming."
  • I ran into someone I used to date
  • That someone I used to date started talking to someone I am currently dating, and a surreal moment was born.
  • I yelled at a bunch of people who were taking too long in the Jack in the Box bathroom
  • I ate a pizza in a cab
  • I petted two police horses
  • We didn't see Roomie A until 10 AM the next day.
Yeah, that about sums it up.

New Beginnings and Old Hangovers

I have decided to start writing things down. Why? Why the heck not? My randomness usually proves entertaining to my friends, so why should I deprive you? So here, in this space on the internet, I will record the ramblings of a crazy 20-something in Texas. Riveting, I know.

So, like rusty metal in a dumpster, so are the days of my random life.