Show Me On The Doll Where You Want Me To Touch You

Call it Murphy’s Law. Call it karma. Call it what you will.

No matter what, every time I decide to sneak out a fart in my office, one of my coworkers will ultimately enter seconds later to ask a question. Of course, there’s no time for the smell to dissipate, however many air fresheners I may have in there.

What kind of world do we live in when a person can’t float a hot air biscuit in the privacy of his or her (I’m being PC here, even though we all know that girls don’t fart) own office?

If you don’t find itssteviewonder completely hilarious, then I pray for your soul. 

The darkness has settled inside and is making itself comfortable.

1. Someone replaced the air freshener in my office with one that smells like Sweet-Tarts. For a fat guy like me, that’s not a good thing. Mmmmmm…Sweet-Tarts…
2. I think the starter on my car is taking a shit. So I don’t strand myself somewhere and have to get a tow, I’ve been rockin’ the ex’s minivan for the last two days. I always feel like I’ve left my balls in there somewhere.
3. My most favorite and convenient restaurant for me to get my Diet Coke fix shut down over the last weekend. I’m a creature of routine, so I need to find somewhere else where I can walk to and not drive. Stat.
4. I have to interview potential job candidates next week. That means wearing a suit and tie again. I haven’t worn one for at least a year. I’m not even sure I know where my suits are. Or if they fit.
5.  I’m more disorganized than ever this week. Anyone want to be my life coach and get my shit together?

There’s no way this post won’t come off as creepy to some of you. 

My oldest son is well into his teens. Like other boys, he’s curious. Either the ex or I have caught him looking at nudity/pornography on the internet when he’s supposed to be using it to study.

I get that he’s curious. I get that the access to porn is quite easy, even with filters in place. If I had that type of access to nudity and pornography when I was a kid, I’d probably be the same way. 

I try to stress to him that what he’s looking at is unrealistic. Porn is not typical of what sex is between consenting adults. It objectifies both the men and the women. 

My son’s therapist suggested that, as part of a healthy approach to sex, rather than those unhealthy feeling of shame and guilt, he should have some access to healthy images of nudity. She suggested me “accidentally” leaving a Maxim or Playboy around so he can look at it and no one will get mad if he does. However, both of those magazines promote unrealistic appearance stereotypes as well. 

I would like him to know that nudity is nothing to be ashamed of and let him see that, like his therapist suggested. But how? What should I do for him? Should I get a book of nude photography or an art book? Something else? Nothing?

Sometimes I forget from where my crazy ex gets her crazy.

My ex had to have some fairly extensive “woman surgery” done this past Thursday. The plan was as follows: I would take Thursday off from work to get the kids ready and out the door for their last day of school, while my ex-MIL would drive the ex to the hospital and stay there. I arrive a bit early and start doing what I need to do with the kiddos. I notice that the time for my ex to be on the road to the hospital has passed. No ex-MIL. Another ten minutes passes and nothing. The ex is rightfully getting antsier and antsier. I call the ex-MIL to find out how much longer she’s going to be. I am informed that she hasn’t left her house yet, because she wasn’t done dyeing her har.

Let me repeat that. She was busy dyeing her hair when she needed to be taking her daughter to the hospital.

So now I leave the three kids on their own to have to get ready for school while I now have to drive the ex to the hospital. I now have to spend the day in the waiting room with nothing to read or nothing to really do. She was now the one waiting for the kids to get back from school, and now she would have to pile them into her car to bring them to the hospital so I could take them for the rest of the weekend.

But at least she didn’t have any gray in her hair while doing so.

Crazy is genetic. 

I wish, on my first day of work here, that I had lied and told the bosses I suffer from narcolepsy. Then I could take a nap at my desk anytime I wanted. 

Always a day late and a dollar short…

1. I’m falling behind again at work. As usual.
2. It’s Friday, so my mood is very dark. As usual.
3. I’m being used like a doormat by the ex. As usual.
4. I feel like I’ll never have what I want. As usual.
5. I’m bored and lonely. As usual.

The scene starts with me pulling into a parking space in the lot where my therapist’s office is located (I’m already late, of course). There are other businesses there as well. One of those businesses is a manicure/pedicure salon. The door to the salon is next to the door to the office building where I need to go in.

Cut to me getting out of the car  to head inside. I see a mother and a daughter leaving the salon at the same time, hands outstretched, fingers apart. My brilliant powers of deduction tell me that both of them have freshly-finished manicures. They walk to a high-priced Lexus parked a few spots down from my lowly Jeep.

I can hear that both ladies are becoming quite agitated. I look over and the mother’s purse is on her arm. She is directing her daughter to reach into her purse to fish out her car keys, because obviously she (said mother) cannot reach in, lest her perfect manicure be ruined. Daughter now protests that she cannot get the car keys out either, because she doesn’t want to ruin her nails. 

Now zoom in, as for the next four to five minutes, both of the ladies are arguing about how they’re going to get their precious car keys out of mom’s purse. Mother actually tries to use only her wrists to get to them. Daughter starts crying and asking how they’re going to get home. I’m staring, rapt, as mother begins shaking the purse up and down, everything but the keys starting to come out of the purse. One item that fell out was a pen. Mother reaches down, picks up the pen with her fingertips and somehow navigates it into her key ring and pulls out the keys. Daughter is looking at mother like she’s MacGyver or something. 

Needless to say, I was even later to therapy.

1. Thank you for being the one person here I can trust wholeheartedly.
2. I miss your real blog. Come back.
3. I know what happened. I know how it happened.
4. I fear you’re going to end up getting hurt. Please be careful.
5. :E :E :E :E :E :E :E :E :E :E  times infinity.

Myndi wrote a post about how she loves taking the #146 bus into downtown Chicago. I live in the same town as she does, and on rare occasions, I have to ride the bus to and/or from work.

When I have to, I take the #9 bus to get where I need to go. My bus ride is a lot different from Myndi’s. Aside from the constant stench of urine, there’s always quite a unique group of people on the #9. There’s always some sort of entertainment (and I use that term extremely loosely) in store for me during transit. Last night was no exception.

Let’s just say that the highlight of the crowded bus ride had to be the young urban “gentleman” having a conversation on his cell phone telling his wife/girlfriend/baby mama/ that his trust was broken because she “fucked my two boys (boyz?)”. He then proceeded to exact some sort of revenge by telling the woman on the phone that he had, in fact, fucked three of her girlfriends—“Kiki”, “Danita” and  ”Darrenisha”. This phone conversation lasted the entire time I rode the bus, so of course, I was intrigued. I couldn’t not be intriguesd as this conversation drowned out any others that were occurring. The only thing that would have made this more uncomfortable and awkward woulad have been if he had this woman on speakerphone.

All I know from this extremely vocal phone call was that these two wacky kids have some real work to do in order to rebuild the trust and get their obviously important relationship with each other back on track. Should he not have been on the phone the entire portion of my ride, I might have suggested a good couples’ counselor to go to in order for them to begin to heal.

Or not…

Many people in both my real life and my online life consider me trustworthy. Maybe it’s my demeanor, maybe my ability to listen without judgment, maybe because of the work I do and the requirement of confidentiality that comes along with it—I don’t know. People just feel comfortable telling me a lot of confidential things. For the most part, I consider it a compliment and I’m flattered that these people will come to me over others. Call me the Tumblr and real-life version of “Secret Keeper” from the Harry Potter novels.

Sometimes, though, I just don’t like being “the trustworthy one”.

Out of the blue, my direct supervisor pulled me into her office this morning and proceeded to have as close to a full-on nervous breakdown as one can get. While we’ve talked about personal things before, this was now on a level that was way above anything we’ve discussed. A lot of the vitriol was aimed at the person I am closest with here at work.

In the past I’ve promised this person I’m close with at work that if anyone is talking about her, good or bad, I’d tell her. So now I’m saddled with information about her that I promised my supervisor I won’t reveal—which I won’t. I’m in an unenviable and awkward position now, and not of my own doing. I’m good enough at doing that on my own.

Ugh.