Tag Archives: bitches and blunts

There’s a great bathroom debate!

My office has been having a lot of bathroom issues lately.

It’s not as gross as it sounds, I promise.

In November, they told us the women’s bathroom on our second floor (where there is both a men’s and a women’s restroom with multi-stalls) was “Out of order” and couldn’t be used.

I didn’t ask questions and started going to the 1st floor bathroom, which is a one-holer…and freezing cold, if I might add.

But when a month passed, and our bathroom was still broken, people started asking questions. We found out that all of the toilets in the bathroom worked, there were just broken tiles on the floor. So, a construction crew came, ripped up the broken tiles, and then we never saw them again.

So, I started using the second floor bathroom (at my own risk) and simply avoiding the parts of the floor with no tiles. Didn’t bother me much. Well, it’s May, and the tiles are still missing (as well as the construction crew).

Last Friday, a chain of emails started in the office regarding our current bathroom situation. Please enjoy:

Hello, Staff.
 
This is to let everyone know Jason has decided that the men’s room on the 2nd floor will now be used by the ladies since there are more women than men on that floor.  So, gentlemen, please don’t use that restroom after today.  Also, I have a “Women’s Restroom” sign to tape to the door if someone would like to come downstairs and put it up there for me.  (Ladies, I recommend not using it until the sign is on the door in case the men should forget.)
 
Thanks,
 
Christine

*   *   *

RE: 2nd floor men’s bathroom

So if we are confined to the men’s bathroom on the first floor near the mini conference room, we are either going to need a lock on the door or a divider put up by the urinal. I can’t speak for everyone, but there are certain types of exposure I tend to shy away from. -Steve

*   *   *

RE: 2nd floor men’s bathroom

Remind me why they can’t fix the ladies’ room on the second floor? Jim

*   *   *

RE: 2nd floor men’s bathroom

Guys, I guess we’re in the dog pound now for no fault of our own, this is why I choose to have 2 restrooms to myself at home. Frank

*   *   *

The bathroom by the staircase is unisex and the door locks in that one. The other bathroom can be awkward. Ernie

*   *   *

Christine, would you mind asking Facility Services to put a lock on the men’s room door on the first floor, or make some other suggestions for how to improve that facility? All the guys, from Jason on down, have commented that it has a very awkward set up. Thanks!
K

No, this is where I work. Let that sink in for a minute.

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Part One: The DWI.

This is the same opening to a post as many that I’ve written before—I haven’t been completely honest with you all. And you know what I’ve realized? When you can’t be honest in your anonymous blog; something ain’t right.

And if you want the truth, it hasn’t been right for an entire month now. It started, sort of, with a DWI.

A week before my mom came to town, D had been working a lot. It was “busy season” at the restaurant and he was constantly stressed. He was also constantly drunk.

Every time he would come over to my house after work, or me go to his, he would be drunk, and I don’t mean tipsy. I mean hammered. He would pick fights with me, or make up things that I said, and I would often sit and cry while he just sat there and watched.

After one particularly brutal fight, I told him he should ease up on the booze and he agreed. Then my mom came to town and things were okay. A few days after she left, I got a call from D at 4 am.

D: Lucky?

ME: Hello? Yes.

D: Can you come pick me up?

NOTE: He sounded sober as hell, I thought he had car trouble.

ME: Of course baby where are you?

D: I’m at Troop A, do you know where that is?

ME: Yes. I’ll be there.

D: When?

ME: I’m going to get out of bed, put pants on, and leave, okay?

D: okay, hurry.

I had no idea what was going on, but I assumed it was something to do with his drinking. I put on the rest of my pajamas (a matching set of pink plaid button ups from Victoria Secret) and jumped in my car. He told me to call him when I got there.

I did and he told me the cop would come outside to get me. I waited, nearly shaking, as the cop came and escorted me into a room that looked like a classroom. He was sitting on a bench that had cuffs attached to it; he was wearing his suit from work.

“I just need to wrap up his paperwork and then you all can go home,” the cop said.

I sat on the bench with D, my boyfriend, who was obviously in some serious trouble. He talked to me like everything was normal. He was drunk.

When the cop finished his paperwork, he needed D’s signatures. I heard the charges: improper lane usage, a DWI (he blew a .217), and had expired plates (they were a year overdue).

The cop then told D that he had a drinking problem.

“I don’t know what is causing this problem, but you need to figure it out. This is your second DWI, if you get a third, you go straight to jail, no matter if you blow or not. Since you blew over a .20, I would advise you to bring your toothbrush when you go to court—you’ll probably spend 48 hours in jail. Drinking and driving does not mix. Do I need to show you pictures of accidents caused by drinking? Because it’s complete mayhem.”

“No sir,” D said.

“Okay, well I’m letting you go home tonight, but please do not consider this a free ride,” the cop said.

D promised that he knew it wasn’t a free ride, and we were free to leave. We got in my car and D, still drunk, started rambling on about, maybe he does have a problem, maybe he should try to get help, maybe he should just move to China, etc.

“If you were looking for a reason to get out, now would be the time to do it,” he said.

“I’m not getting out,” I said.

“Do you normally pick up your boyfriends from the police station?” he asked.

Truthfully, no. But, as I told D, everyone makes mistakes. The question is, are you going to learn from it?

We got to my apartment, D ate, and we went to bed a little after 5 am…

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I am a criminal.

Yep, you’ve read correctly, half of your favorite blogging duo is a (not so smooth) criminal, complete with a warrant.

It all started in October, when I was driving across town to do some last minute work at the magazine. I made a right turn onto a street, and when I turned a cop in front of me put his lights on, then pulled to the side, I passed, and he got behind me.

I pulled over and he came up beside me, saying to pull into a parking lot about a block ahead.

I did as I was told, wondering what the hell I did.

He asked me why I thought I was being pulled over, a question that always boggles my mind. If I get the answer right do I get out of the ticket? No? Then why the fuck do I care?

I told him I wasn’t sure, and he said he didn’t consider my stop at the stop sign to be a complete one.

“It was a rolling stop,” he said.

I gave him my license (which was expired) and registration, knowing full-well that this guy just needed a few extra tickets before he would get that vacation the precinct promised.

He told me he would let the expired license slide, but gave me the ticket for the stop sign violation. I said thanks, and shoved the ticket into my glove compartment and went on my way to work.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Weeks later, I was reminded that I needed to pay that ticket before it was too late. I called the sheriff’s office to get the price, $148.25, wrote the check, and dropped it in the mail.

A week passed, as did my court date/ticket due date, and the check wasn’t cashed.

Great.

I called the sheriff’s office to see what the problem was. The lady said they don’t take checks, so chances were it was on it’s way back to me.

“But my deadline has passed,” I said.

“It’s okay, just send us a money order right back,” she said.

She didn’t seem concerned, so I tried not to worry. When I got home that night, the check was in my mail. I put the money order in the mail the following day.

Then Monday morning rolls around, and I have a message on my cell phone from CASA—the organization I’m about to train for to become a volunteer.

“Hey Lucky, I’m calling about your background check. Your national is fine, but you have a local warrant that’s active,” she said, meaning I cannot become a volunteer.

Pretty standard. I haven’t gotten a ticket in 4 years, and I get one just in time to blow up in my face and completely fuck over something good I’m trying to do.

I told the woman at CASA the entire story, she seemed to understand, and said she would do my background check again on Monday and see if it was cleared up. I pray to whoever that it is.

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Things that terrify me.

Hey, it’s HALLOWEENER!!!!

And just because I’m a pussy and scared of pretty much everything, leading me to virtually hate this holiday, doesn’t mean you all should have to suffer. In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about things that scare me…and it’s a long list. Some of the things are no-brainers, others are probably dumb, but it’s honest and I’m happy to share it with you.

Other than that, steer clear of the razor blade-studded apples!

Masks
Being killed in the shower
Someone looking in my window
Walking to my car
Looking in mirrors
Being murdered
Parking garages
Soggy bread
Clowns
Pitch black
Answering the door
Being car jacked
Going to the bank
Grocery shopping
Movie theatres
Going to concerts
Getting on an airplane
Mice
Spiders
My trunk
Opening my utility closet
Being approached
Movie previews

The soundtrack to Jason

Lifetime movies

Being single forever

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Spilling my big secret (Part 2).

During the kiss I wasn’t thinking just how bad it really was—I was way too swept up in all of it. He pushed me up against my kitchen counter, and I realized just how good of a body this guy had. Despite clearly wanting more, I pushed him away and told him to quit, that I needed to go meet my friends.

Although we parted ways for the night, I was walking on cloud 9… while at the same time feeling guilty as hell.

We didn’t see each other for the next few days, but we talked several times, and when we finally did see each other, we had sex.

Not just…sex.

Fucking amazing sex.

Because of course it was, right? That sweet apple in the garden thing…

When he left my apartment, I figured he would never talk to me again. He’d go home, realize the massive mistake he’d made, and that would be the end of that.

Mixed emotions were swirling around me. How could I fall for a guy that’s married? Once a cheater, always a cheater, right? But the kiss, and his body, and the SEX. God damn. Would it end with his wife beating my door down? Calling me and asking me 20 questions? A private detective?

I was wrong about him not talking to me—he certainly did, just an hour or so later. The talk about his wife was an open subject for us. The real focus, however, was his daughter. He didn’t want to get a divorce and have his 9-year-old daughter hate him. The thought of another man raising his daughter killed him.

The next day, I saw him at the gym and he pulled me aside.

DAVID: Hey listen to this… this morning me and my wife were getting ready to go to work and she tells me she had this dream that I cheated on her…that I was really nonchalant about it because she’s such a bitch…

ME: Holy shit…psychic!

We sort of chuckled it off, but my dream state began to crumble. What was I doing?

The questions of him leaving his family were never questions for me, because I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I don’t know if that was reality talking, or just me building bricks of mud around myself. I suppose that was the one thing that kept me from falling completely.

But I can’t say I didn’t have fantasies of us being together, for real, without the secrets.

The following night, we ate dinner together, watched TV, and had another round of amazing sex after he carried me into my bedroom. When he went home, he told me his wife was doing her usual—sitting on the back porch drinking with her friends.

WIFE & CO: What are you doing here? Thought you were with your friends?

DAVID: I was, but you guys made it sound like I needed to be here.

WIFE & CO: Nope. You should’ve stayed.

DAVID: I guess I should’ve.

WIFE: Hey Tina, how often do you guys have sex? David always complains it’s not enough.

TINA: Well, how often is it?

DAVID: Every 8 weeks.

WIFE: No! It’s more than that!

DAVID: Really? Pull it up on your Period Tracker and tell me when the last time was.

WIFE: Oh… um, 6 weeks ago.

DAVID: Yea, you know what? I don’t even want to have sex with you anymore. I don’t need it.

WIFE: Oh yea? We’ll see about that.

**(To Be Continued…)**

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Gizzy’s baaaaaaack!

Well HELLOOOOOO there old friends. I’m back! And I’m sorry, and I love you.  I know what you’re thinking, I can’t just leave for 2 months and up and walk through the door and be all hey I’m back, sorry, and expect things to be peachy king again.  Well, you’re right,  I owe you all an explanation. 

So, why did I drop off the face of the Earth for 2+ months you ask? It’s easy.  I’ve been in this little country in Western Africa called Malawi, teaching poor kids math for free.  Don’t you feel like an asshole now? Good.

Here’s how it happened, I was at my new job just minding my own business when one of the Surgeons that I work with asked me on a date.  Oh, did I mention that he’s also Brazilian? Yes, yes he is, and H-O-T.  Anyway, of course I said yes.  We pretty much fell in love and he told me about this mission trip he was doing from September – October, since we’re in love and he’s a rich Doctor, I quit my job and went.  I know it seems pretty reckless, but when else in my life will I have this opportunity? Well, I mean now that I’m dating a Doctor that does this stuff all the time, a lot, but that’s beside the point. 

Anyway, I spent  the last 2 weeks in August getting all my immunizations/reading up on what it’s like to be in a third world country and then September 1st we were off. Basically it was the time of my life, yes I pretty much spent the first two weeks barfing my guts up from the water/food – but after that it was awesome.  At some point I’ll put up some pictures/share some stories, but I’ve been back all of 3 days so I’m still trying to get used to electricity and water without dirt and parasites in it – let alone the internet (blowing my mind right now!). Did I mention I’m really tan? I’m really tan. It’s awesome. 

So anyway, I need to give props to Lucky for running this show solo the last 2 months, she’s done a spectacular job even though she’s now going through a hard time.  Now that I’m the equivalent of a house wife, since I’m all African cultured now and have no job, I shouldn’t have any trouble posting my little heart out. 

So I hope everyone will welcome me back with open arms and get ready for some stories of what’s really been going on in my life the last 2 months, because if you people know me at all, you know that the entire above mentioned story is a crock of shit.  Except the part about me quitting my job (again), and that I now have a boyfriend, that stuff is true – the rest was a joke.  Tune in next week!

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Spilling my big secret.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to come clean with you guys. I’ve never understood it before—why can’t I just share the dumb shit that I do with a bunch of people I don’t know? But yesterday, I learned that it’s more about coming clean with myself. And in the last 6 weeks, I’ve been ashamed of a lie that I was living.

On September 12, around 10 pm, I sent a text message to a man I had cut out of my life months prior. David, as I’ll call him for the purpose of this post, is married with a 9 year old daughter. In our previous friendship, you may recall, I cut things off when he suggested cheating on his wife with me.

I cut him off because I’ve been cheated on, and it feels like shit. I cut him off because I know I deserve better than half a relationship. And for some reason, in a haze of Benedryl and tequila, I texted him.

“You awake?” I asked.

“Yea who is this?” he replied.

The ultimate slap in the face. I’d been digitally deleted. From there, the texts were few and far between. Sometimes 5 days would pass before we’d talk to each other. All of our texts were friendly, not romantic.

Until September 26.

I asked him if things at home were better, and then apologized for being nosy. He responded:

“No you’re no nosy at all! I have written this text 5 times and erased it 5 times. It’s difficult to express over text. But I guess the short answer is yes. Not much has changed but I have just kinda accepted that there are certain things that I just cannot change.”

When I saw him at the gym later that night, he expanded on it, saying once we quit talking they worked to make things a little better, but he just used other things in his life to make up for his lacking marriage.

By September 28, some unexpected feelings were brewing for me. I explained to him that what happened between us prior wasn’t because I didn’t like him—it was because I didn’t want him to cheat.

On October 1, we texted constantly. All day. Until I was browsing on Facebook and saw a post from his wife:

“Here’s to 7 great years with my husband, David, and many more to come! I love you!”

I went to the gym and told Marcy that I didn’t think things at home were as bad for him as he made them out to be. I left without saying a word to him, or texting him for a few days. But of course, days later, we talked again and my feelings for him were stronger than ever. A few days later, he flew across the country for a fighting tournament.

I called him for the first time and we talked for hours. That weekend, we talked on the phone constantly.

In the days after his return, our tone changed. He opened up more about his problems at home and wanted to spend time with me. I hadn’t text him to get involved in it all—but it just happened, and I wasn’t on track for it to end.

On October 11, we had a talk.

ME: Do you ever think about how poorly this situation is going to end.

DAVID: Yes. A lot.

ME: Me too.

DAVID: There’s something you told me awhile back that haunts me.

ME: What?

DAVID: How dare I feel that you only deserve part of a relationship. The truth is that you do deserve more than a part. And I know that is it not fair to you. My mind tells me this can’t happen, but when I talk to you or see you you, all of that gets tossed to the side.

ME: Just don’t kiss me. Then I’ll be hooked and it’ll be downhill from there and then I’ll have someone waiting at my door at midnight wanting to kill me.

Two days later, we shared our first kiss. Aside from my very first kiss, and the kiss with my hot neighbor, it was the best kiss of my life. It was like our mouths were meant to fit together and there was passion…

**To be continued…**

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