Archive for November, 2005 Page 3 of 3

Newer Entries »

Hellitosis.

Published
by
untitled
on November 10, 2005
in Rants, Work and untitled
. 19 Comments

How exactly do you tell someone that they have bad breath? I’ve run into this problem with my boss lately. In her particular case, the aroma is not unlike that of a runaway hamster that has fallen into the ductwork and died. (If this has ever happened to you, you hear me knockin’.)

Her oral stench is so powerful, it has been to known to crawl over conference room tables and tie nose hairs in knots. Don’t TELL me you can’t smell that, woman! I’m guessing that her olfactory senses have shut down in a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation, rendering her nose powerless.

The bad breath issue came to a head recently when my office mates and I decided to go out to lunch. Boss woman was driving and talking, talking and driving when all of a sudden this wave of stink tangoed across the dashboard and grabbed me by the throat. I looked at her, and then around the minivan. Yes, there seemed to be a positive correlation between the level of smell and the openness of her orifice.

Still 10 minutes from our destination, we were all stuck in what amounted to a terrarium of stink rolling down the road. I imagine the minivan looked straight outta Compton, with swirling clouds of pollutant pounding on the windows like petulant children. But alas, this was as far from a Rocky Mountain high as you could get. Yes, my friends, this was a bona fide halitosis hurricane.

As the air got thinner, my survival instincts kicked in. I quickly surveyed my options. 1). Pull sweater up over nose for a makeshift gas mask. 2) Open window (obvious, yes, but she all but killed subtlety when she opened the flaps on the oral landfill). 3) Find a focus object to take my mind off the discomfort, just as women do during labor.

Just as I was about to take action, we arrived at the restaurant. I yanked on the door handle. Safety locked. I yanked again. Still locked! For the love of god, would I ever escape? Finally, she opened her door, and all other locks magically released, spilling me out into the parking lot like a heap of dirty laundry.

The meal that followed was perhaps the best I ever ate. As is customary with near-death experiences, the whole world was now like a kaleidoscope of blessings. Now I may have been reborn, but I am not a fool. Lessons were learned. I do hereby promise to never, never cry shotgun again.

Short circuit.

Published
by
untitled
on November 9, 2005
in Family
. 9 Comments

Don’t bother talking to untitledhusband these days. He is preoccupado with his new cock, a video iPod. In making his case for the purchase, untitledhusband was quick to point out the device’s utilitarian qualities. untitledson can watch Dora on it. I can use it to view movies on it when traveling for business.

Of course, I know that the likelihood of these things ever happening is slim. He has enough trouble putting it down so he can take a whiz. The one good thing is that Precious (our PowerBook) is now freed up. A man’s only got so many hands, people.

Now let me be clear – no love is lost on Precious. At least not by me. Ever since Precious joined our family, things have not been the same. Precious watches TV with us. Precious relaxes in the back yard with us. And oh look – who’s that at the dinner table? It’s Precious, enjoying a heapin’ helpin’ of tatertot casserole and pilfering the last piece of Texas toast. Precious has even made some special appearances in our bed. All things being said, I am ready drop-kick Precious off the top of our garage.

But oh, how the worm turns. Overshadowed by the new iPod, Precious now sits alone, only feeling the warmth of untitledhusband’s hands when he needs to check e-mail. Fickle is the gadget-obsessed heart.

King of pain.

Published
by
untitled
on November 7, 2005
in Family
. 5 Comments

untitledhusband has this… perversion. He likes turning on the most inappropriate TV programs during family functions. Sometimes it’s planned, sometimes it’s not.

I recall the time when he busted out Jerry Springer’s “Too Hot for TV” at his mother’s house during the annual Christmas gathering. The extended family had just returned from holiday mass. All had begun to gather in the living room, the women in their festive holiday sweaters and the men with their clip-on ties.

There was talk of jam recipes from the “Taste of Home” magazine, so-and-so’s upcoming Mary Kay party, and the guy down the road who’s too cheap to plow out his driveway. About this time, untitledhusband decided it was time for Jerry. I don’t know what was more mortifying, seeing a 300-lb transvestite doing the James Brown power splits, or watching the strippers take each other down in a baby pool filled with chocolate pudding. All this, on a TV that in 20 years had witnessed nothing more racy than the boobalicious babes on Hee-Haw or the rare panty flash that occurred during a Lawrence Welk dance segment.

untitledhusband just sat in the corner and shook. From deep within his gullet emerged this whole-body laugh — the kind that makes no sound, except for some spittle gurgling in the back of his throat. The rest of the room was dumbstruck by the blasphemy, as all the churchiness they’d collectively gathered not even one hour ago was being systematically sucked away by the evil that is Jerry Springer.

This moment is seconded only by the time he flipped on the Howard Stern show when his dad came for a visit. The topic this particular day was, of all things, pussy farts. Some lady had a microphone down her pants as she sputtered out the national anthem, or something that sounded like that. untitledhusband was laughing. His father was laughing. I just sat there, thinking to myself, “May there never be a day when I can laugh about pussy farts with my son.” Christ.

White lines.

Published
by
untitled
on November 4, 2005
in Rants and untitled
. 20 Comments

What is your ONE thing? You know — the one thing that pisses you off more than anything else in the world?

Mine has to do with parking. More specifically, messy parking.

I’m thinking of this one white minivan that parks in my ramp at work. Five levels there are, and somehow, this same fucking minivan manages to hunt me down and park next to me almost every day. I’ve even changed levels to escape it, but with no success. Mother. Fucking. Sienna. Minivan.

Whether I arrive before or after the Sienna, I somehow always find myself next to it. Sure, I could drive on past and search for another spot. But alas, no other spots are convenient. Every day, the minvan’s right rear tire encroaches into my parking space — to the point where I can’t even open my car door fully. Nothing like having to crack open the jaws of life just to get out of your vehicle every morning.

But on a broader level, I have questions. Questions that demand answers. How can you NOT steer your way into a space marked by six-inch white lines that are placed six feet apart from each other? Where are the parking ticket police when you need them? And for god’s sake, when did Mr. Magoo ditch his jaunty sedan for lame-o minivan?

Fruit of the womb.

Published
by
untitled
on November 2, 2005
in Family and untitled
. 15 Comments

Well it seems my eggs have gone and turned tail on me. I got a call from my ob-gyn the other day, saying that I am not ovulating, and that is why I am not getting pregnant so easily this time around. No, I’m not going all Duggar on your asses. It’s just that we would like one more child, if for no other reason, to give untitledson an underling to maim and torture. What kind of childhood would it be if he never got to experience the invisible line down the middle of the back seat or a sibling-enduced Dutch oven?

Last month, I took my first round of Letrozole, which is actually a breast cancer drug. Strangely enough, they’ve found it helps women ovulate, much like Clomid, but better. This next cycle, they are doubling my dosage. I fully expect an emotional rodeo, given the mood swings I (OK — we) endured last month.

All this waiting around for conception has got me thinking. How come you never see childess white trash? Why do people feel they can ask you if you plan on having more children? If it’s so hard to get pregnant, how come there are so many unwanted pregnancies?

When it comes down to it, I’m quite scared about all this. I’m scared those stupid little pills won’t work. I’m scared my doctor fucked up my reproductive system when giving me my C-section last time around. I’m scared untitledhusband will want to give up before I do. I’m scared I’ll spend the rest of my life wanting a second child. I’m scared I’m getting old. I’m scared that somehow, this is all my fault, because I waited too long, I eat too much, I don’t go to church.

Newer Entries »