Tag Archives: Fatso

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Just rain on my parade, or presentation

Does it piss anyone else off that people are still saying “Happy New Year”? Honestly. Every morning when I come into work, someone has to say “Happy New Year!!!” And every single time it makes me wonder if I’m just living in Groundhog Day.

It is only acceptable to say “Happy New Year!” on New Year’s Day, January 1. And that is all. If Valentine’s Day happens on a Sunday (which I believe this year it does), then I’m not going to be shouting, “HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!” on February 15. And yes, I understand that Valentine’s Day is one day (thank the stars) and New Years is more of a generic term. But I believe that halfway through January, the year isn’t new anymore. Everyone should be fully aware that it’s 2011. And if you’re not, it’s time to get your head out of your ass.

Anyway, remember when I said I had to go to the dentist Tuesday? Ugh. I hate going to the dentist. It always smells funny—like metal and fluoride or something. Anyway, it was time for x-rays, which I absolutely hate. Even when I was younger, it was torture. Those huge plastic tabs trying to fit inside my mouth scraping all around, ew.

It really isn’t any different now, except the x-rays are digital, which only means the tab is even bigger. The hygienist was getting really frustrated with me that I kept almost vomiting every time she would shove this tab under my tongue. OH I’M SORRY that I’m not as big a slut as you must be, that I nearly gag when you try and shove a plastic box into my tiny oral cavity. She kept saying things like:

“Okay, you keep pushing it with your tongue and it’s ruining the x-ray. Seriously, take a deep breath, we’re gonna get through this, okaaaay?”

I mean anyone who has half a brain knows that it’s just a simple reaction to getting something shoved into one’s mouth. Yeah, I’m going to push back so I don’t choke on the goddamn thing. After all 18 (yes, 18) pictures were taken, I nearly jumped out of the chair and cheered that I survived and/or that I didn’t kill the bitch during the process.

It didn’t help that I had my big presentation that night, something I was anxious about all day. Not only did I want to do a great job, but I had so many deadlines and meetings between my dental appointment and the presentation. The presentation was the light at the end of the tunnel, for real.

A few months ago, you should recall that I gave a presentation on blogging to a group of communicators. While doing so, I was a lil tipsy from my Kahlua-laced coffee.

Well, I did so good on that presentation, someone in the audience asked me to give it again, only to an audience of business owners. I was really honored. And I was also giggling over it because Fatso had given a presentation that same day, but no one asked HIM to give it again.

The company putting on the workshop brought posters and invitations to my office, to which I proudly plastered all over my office door. There was my name, Lucky Goodass Gold, printed proudly among the likes of one of my favorite burrito companies! And a coffee house! A PR firm! Wow!

Now THIS was really something. I was really proud of myself.

When I got to the office after my dentist, Fatso saw me in the hallway and told me he was going to come watch me present that night.

“Errr….oh! ok,”  I said.

I went on with my day, made it to the venue, downed a vodka soda, and made my entrance. They had a seat, reserved for me! with my name on it! And there were gifts! And free food! This was so awesome.

The not so awesome part was that I was last on the agenda, so I had to sit through 1.5 hours of presentations before it was finally my turn. But, there I was sitting, about half way through the workshop, when the MC for the evening says this:

“I’m going to go out of order for just a second and I hope this person doesn’t mind me doing so, but there is a person from Loserville here tonight.”

Me! Me! I’m going next! Yes! I smoothed down my cardigan and straightened my notes, preparing to step up to the podium.

“Fatso, the person in charge of the Loserville facebook page is in the audience. And I just want to as, Fatso, would you say a few things about Facebook?”

WHAT IN FUCKING HELL??!?!??! Does he always have to ruin my shit! How is he a local celebrity!? He’s disgusting! And dammit, this was MY night! My fucking night to showcase something I love, something I am good at, and something i do outside of my job…and he just has to shit all over my sunshine.

In the end, I gave my presentation and I thanked Fatso for coming to support me. He is a jerk, but when I thought about it, no one else in my office came. In fact, no one else that I knew came. Woe is me.

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If there was a problem, yo I’ll solve it.

Last night, I finally caught an episode of the new Conan. I realize the fact that I haven’t made a better effort to watch it is a mortal sin. But I honestly didn’t know what time it came on, or what channel—shoot me, because I don’t have DVR. I’m like the only person that doesn’t because that’s just how lazy I am…I don’t want to make a trip to the cable company and get a proper box.

But anyway, last night was a typical night of a white single female. I ran errands, came home, heated up some leftovers, and plopped my ass on the couch to watch 25 Years of Sexy, a special on People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issue. And yeah, there are times when I love being single. But, as you all know, times when I really get down about it.

In these times, I usually turn to Gizzy, because she won’t judge me and she will listen to me cry, then tell me to buck up and realize that we’ve got it made. I made a promise that I would be honest with you readers, so I will say that having the disgusting trashy cheating bastard ex call and text me, has taken a bit of a toll on me.

In my past experiences with breakups and exes, I’ve found thinking about the bad things that happened often make me feel better. But in this instance, they make me feel worse (as do thinking about the good times). It’s almost like I get mad at myself for falling for someone who was such a jerk off. Anyone feel me?

I will say, with the holidays approaching, my case of the lonelies such even worse. I am excited for Turkey day, as I get to see my friends—Gizzy and Buttons. But Christmas, ugh. Last Christmas I spent with the disgusting trashy cheating bastard ex and his family. And it was fun. BOOOOOOO!

The light at the end of the tunnel (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) will be New Year’s Eve, since Gizzy and I are planning a fun night of drunken festivities (this means you have to buy your flight right meow, Gizzy, or else I’m gonna have to kill myself on Dec. 31). In the meantime, let’s take a looksy into my grocery cart from last night, shall we?

We have a case of 24 cans of cat food, a bottle of red, wheat bread, and a bag of coffee. If that cart doesn’t scream single girl, then I don’t know what does. Am I the only one who thinks this is funny? Because normally my cart looks like I’m a mother of 4, but not last night.

In other news, I’m addicted to ice. Seriously. And no, I’m not anemic. And yes, I’ve heard that means I’m sexually frustrated. although it’s been a solid month since I’ve gotten laid, fooled around, kissed anyone, or visited the vibrator, I don’t think that’s it. Even when I was getting laid on the regular, I was snacking on ice.

It’s been going on for a good four months. I blame it on stress. But it’s starting to get a little embarrassing. I crave it. I will get a glass, fill it with ice from my freezer, put a little bit of water in it, and wait for them to melt a little, so I can crunch them all down.

I’ve even started ranking different ice I enjoy. In my freezer, it makes the half-moon shaped ice. Which isn’t my favorite. Which is why I let it melt before I crunch. Crushed ice and the ice chips, of course, rank among my fave. And those clear, hollow cubes are pretty good, too.

I know, you are probably bored reading this, or think I’m crazy, but this is my real life, folks! It’s becoming a problem, because I do it in public, which I’m sure makes those around me cringe. I crunch when I’m on the phone.

When I see the ice sitting in a glass, I spy the piece I want. Then I get it just right and gulp it into my mouth, and CRUNCH. I’ve discovered the food joints around town that have crushed ice, and that’s all I want, a large cup of crushed ice.

What’s even better? The drink the ice is sitting in. I love to crunch on ice that’s soaked up some orange juice. Last weekend I enjoyed some bloody mary ice. I’m thinking I just need to freeze coffee and maybe a few pureed dinners and crunch on them.

I’ve been aware of my problem for months, but last weekend it reached its peak. I was out with my friends, and we walked by a snow cone booth. Oh. My. God. I had visions of stuffing my face with SHAVED ice. Just plain, shaved ice. Wow. I almost stopped, but I figured my friends would cut me off and take me to rehab if I did so.

You know what sounds good right about now?

MmMM…..christ. I really need to get it together, don’t I?

I want to bring up one more thing before I go: iTunes “big” announcement Tuesday. The Beatles. The fucking Beatles. I’m gonna say it, I’m not afraid to say it—I don’t like The Beatles. Not at all. Nope. Not doing it. There, I said (i read it, I stole my mama’s credit, I’m cool I’m hot, sock me in the stomach three more times). So yeah, I was freaking DISAPPOINTED when I saw that on the sight.

Fatso was having a debate in the hallway with my boss: “which is better, The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?”

THEY BOTH SUCK! I said. AND I’M DISAPPOINTED THAT WAS APPLES BIG ANNOUNCEMENT!!!! I WANTED SOMETHING BETTER. WAY BETTER.

“What’d you expect?” he asked me. “A cure for cancer??”

“That you’d be dead.”

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The terrible girlfriend.

Welp, here at Cocktails at Tiffany’s, it’s fucking Friday. And that means, we like, we like to party. Am I right, or am I right? I showed up to work yesterday to find that Fatso has a new office. Right next to MINE. Great. Just wonderful. I spent the whole day with my door shut and my music on full-blast so I didn’t have to hear his nasal voice.

But enough about him, me and Gizzy have a special treat for you. Remember ShyGuy {the one I had the beach dream about Sunday night, then found out he spent the last five days on said beach with his gf}? He’s guest-blogging today, so read up little lovers. And a week from today marks the 100th post, so get your votes in!

$     $     $

I used to live with this guy, let’s call him Randy, who is one of my best friends. He and I went to college together and both suffered from being chronically misunderstood. He’s been my closest friend since I moved to the Capital city. We moved in together in 2008 and lived together until this past summer.

The reason I moved out really had nothing to do with him. I was just tired of living in frat-style. Sure, having a full band in set up in the family room is pretty convenient for rocking out on a whim. And so is having a deer head on the wall adorning some small breasted woman’s brassier. I’ll even go so far as to say I can respect having nothing in the refrigerator to drink but beer and vodka.

Part of the reason I moved out was because I think I may have gotten dysentery from the kitchen. I mean it was awful. Food from weeks ago left out. Empty pizza and takeout boxes lying in a disheveled pile by the back door. Some unknown fungi growing from the disposal. I could have dealt with all that, but the straw that broke the camel’s back was when I came home from work one day and could not find a clean glass, or any other suitable container from which to drink (trust me, I’d gotten inventive before; bowls, empty bottles, a bongo drum at one point,etc.) to pour my 2% milk into. Shit does a body good.

But really the reason I moved out is much more disturbing than that.

Randy’s girlfriend sucks.

Like awe.ful.person.

Before I go into describing why said broad sucks the life out of everything good in the world, let me tell you about Randy.

Before, lets call her Disaster, showed up in his life Randy was awesome. He was always down for fun, always doing funny and eccentric musings, and would be a drinking buddy one hundred percent of the time. He was a guy’s guy. Ladies loved him because he’s unabashedly himself, and guys loved him because he’s fucking hilarious.

Randy met Disaster at a party of a mutual friend. They both grew up in similar areas but never ran in the same crowds. I use the term met very loosely because after their ‘one-night stand’, Disaster asked Randy if he knew her name. He knew it was either Disaster or Kim, and said Kim. Wrong and embarrassed Randy tried to make it up to her by taking her on a date (to make her feel more like a lady?) and the rest as they say is hell…I mean…history.

Come to find out later, Disaster totally goated him and had no idea what Randy’s name was until sometime later. At least Randy remembered her name…. a little bit! Everyone’s gotten a little drunk and forgotten someone’s name, right? RIGHT?

So Randy has been dating Disaster for almost two years now. Disaster goes to graduate school about two hours away (thank.god). But when she’s around she makes at least one, usually fifteen, nagging comments about how Randy never goes to visit her. Umm. Bullshit. Part of the reason we (his collective friends) hate her so much is because he drives to see her so often. Wretched.

I know women are a little sensitive to this issue so I’ll try to sugar coat her physical appearance as best I can. Disaster has big boobs.
And I just spent five minutes trying nearly helplessly to think of something else positive to say about her. I guess my revulsion of her really does run deep.

And even her boobs aren’t that great because since she’s started dating Randy, Disaster has let. Herself. Go.

But seriously. This broad is awful. Not really as a person, cause I don’t think she’s a spawn of Satan, but she’s just terrible for Randy. Let me count the ways. She’s a nag. She’s demanding. She’s rude to his friends (me) and his friends’ girlfriends (…). She’s blindly ignorant of issues directly relating to what she’s studying in graduate school. Her friends are not hot, nor are they fun; let’s not even get into how snooty those bitches are (what-the-fuck good is having a best friend with a girlfriend if you don’t wanna bang out some of her girlfriends- inciting infighting of friends?)

I think what bothers me most about her though is her sense of entitlement. Randy has told me on a number of instances that he loves living in the city. He wants to stick around here and is in no hurry to leave. Yet almost as soon as they started dating, Disaster started yapping about “when we move here” and “when we move there” as if she’s just expecting him to pick up his successful and gainful employment so she can chase some fantasy she has.

Actually, I lied. That’s not the thing about her that bothers me most. What bothers me most (and I’ve discussed this with the rest of our buddies also) is that whenever Disaster is around, Randy’s not himself anymore. Sure he’s himself literally, but a more vanilla version.

Vanilla is not a good color on a guy whose excellence was perpetuated by pushing the limits of both comfort and appropriate behavior. And by push the limits, I really mean a complete disregard of both.

But how do you tell a best buddy that the girl he’s been seeing, the girl he’s grown comfortable with, whose tricked him into thinking she’s accepted him for who he is, and whose willing to bang basically on demand, that she’s actually in fact a Disaster.

So far I’ve just sat on the sidelines and passive-aggressively made cunning jokes about her, of which only one or two she’s able to realize are directed toward her- and even then she thought I was just teasing her playfully. Think again, bitch.

I know part of the blame should be on Randy. He could stand up for himself and tell Disaster that he doesn’t want to be brought down. Sure some responsibility lies with him in this whole fiasco, but I honestly don’t blame him at all. He was single for a long time, and this sorceress Disaster has tricked him into thinking she’s the best he can do.

Well, I say fuck that, and fuck her. Actually don’t. I wouldn’t wish that on any penis.

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