A text I received a moment ago:

Babe will you call me after work? Just wanna hear your voice. Hope work is going ok.

Best part? I’d already completely intended to.

I’d like to say that I am a grown woman who knows better than to drink (too much) in the workweek.

I’d like to say that I am not easily manipulated into consuming that one extra glass of wine… or three … or five.

I’d like say I’m not currently hung over and fully able to go through my entire google reader.

I’d also like to say that I am totally able to blog really, super, duper well with lots of fantastical grammar.

Alas, none of this is the case.

I am slowly (oh-so-slowly) coming out of my drunken stupor. At least I had a terrific time with Guy last night. He makes me smile. A lot.

I had planned on posting about the Press Conference I got to attend in the Capitol yesterday (yes, THE Capitol), but I just can’t do it.

Moreover, I AM LEAVING FOR CHICAGO TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I stop in WV to pick up the ever fabulous Maxie and then we wake up at the ass crack of dawn to drive to Cleveland for breakfast with Alexa, after which we will meet a ridiculous number of amazingly fabulous Chicago bloggers, plus one lovely Canadian at a Beer Garden.

I might shit myself from excitement!

Okay, not really. That’s effin’ disgusting.

But I might burst!

All I need to do now is pack. Three points to me for being the Queen of Procrastination.

I blame Special K.

Like the majority of us lemmings working in the Corporate Machine, I work in a lame ass cubicle. The joys of this issue include overhearing everything, including the Old Fart’s farts, personal conversations and discussions amongst the “Upper Echelon” about any and everything, including the Old Fart’s uncontrollable bowel movements.

It’s great fun.

The thing that sucks pretty hardcore is that our ears have become fine tuned to all noises around us. Thanks to the beauty that is the Cubie, people can very easily sneak up on you while your blogging, emailing or just digging in your ass.

I hate that.

It’s gotten to a point where I know who’s footsteps belong to who. The summer is the best time for this because everyone and their mama is exposing their fugly feet with flip flops.

Anyway.

My chair makes noises. I had switched it out for another one for the majority of my tenure here, but it hurt my ass cheeks and my back.

No bueno.

While the new chair is splendidly fantastic with it’s back support, it’s not made of leather. I don’t particularly care about that, actually. I just don’t like the loud “PPHHHFFFTT” noises it makes when I happen to adjust my posture.

It’s loud as hell and makes me sound like I have cronic flatulence issues.

Then I have to bounce around in my chair to continue the horrible noises so people know it’s me adjusting my seat and not ripping a gas bubble.

Oh, the joys of Cube Life.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Lately, I’ve had penis on the brain. Ok, that’s a lie… I watch enough porn that penis is more often on the brain than not. It’s not just “lately”, but that’s not the point. [Oh, and I definitely just typed punt. Because that makes a fuckload of sense.]

I’m sure if I would just let loose here and again, I’d have penis on the brain simply because I was enjoying the wonderful things it can provide.

Alas, that is not the case. I am a big prude, after all.

Anywhich way.

Have you ever randomly passed a stranger and thought, “hmm.. I wonder what his package looks like?”

Not all penises are created equal, after all.

And for those of us that are into poontang, does it happen then too? “Hmm.. What’s her vag shaped like?”

See? Inquiring minds want to know.

Or maybe just dirty minds.

Or perhaps just perverts?

Eh, what do I know? Maybe they’re the same thing?

Moving right along.

I often think that certain behaviors and attitudes indicate bulge size in men. It’s sort’ve a syndrome, if you will. Ever heard a guy spout off at the mouth about how big his dick is?

Yeah. Those guys? LYING!

Unless, of course, they’re not.

And what if they’re this massively gargantuan guy – let’s say, 6′5″ with a Willy Wonka the size of a Bite Size Snickers?

Wouldn’t that kinda suck?

While I realize it’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean, it just sort’ve perplexes me a bit. Isn’t it like putting a head the size of a peanut on the neck of a man the size of a gorilla. You know, like those shrunken head thingymabobbers.

Just plain weird, I say. WEIRD!

On the flip side, what about those gigantically huge gaping boxes on a tiny, tiny chick? Or worse yet, lips that are so fat the vagina is almost completely lost?!

And why the hell am I thinking about any of this?

More importantly, for those of you with lil’ wee-wees and huge honkin’ vagges (vages? vagises?), I surely hope you haven’t taken offense. Think of it this way, I will never have a clue if your junk is disproportionate. So, for all intents and purposes? I’m not implying you. Besides, we’re all made different for a reason.

Right?

Right.

The furrball, otherwise known as Henry, likes to stick his claws into things. The carpet, the couch, the wicker cabinet, the stair rail, the doors, the blinds and occasionally someone’s flesh (albeit, only playfully).

Obviously, this is unacceptable behavior. My mother does not appreciate little Henry’s antics.

Not one bit. And yes, for all the newbs, I happen to live with my moms. It’s a long story.

In response to the cat’s clawing she likes to yell at him in German – a lot.

“Nein Henry! Nein!!”

“Also! Was machst du denn?! Hör auf!”

“Henry! Bitte!”

“NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!”

It doesn’t matter if you don’t know what any of that means, just pretend your listening to your mother scream loudly in angry German.

See? It works.

I often wonder what the cat thinks when this happens. Y’see, cats seem quite a bit more coniving than their canine counterparts. Don’t get me wrong, doggies can be all kinds of tricky. They’re definitely able to get trained to do a whole hell of a lot of smart things too… but cats? They’re just different. They have that “look” that says, “Who the fuck are you talking to in that baby voice? Don’t you know I will scratch the shit out of you and then flop over and purr so you can rub my belly? You betta recognize, bitch!”

As it stands, I find it amusing to watch this entire exchange between my mom and the cat. He likes to give her this dopey look and flick his tail around.

Then I think, “what about those times we’re away at work?”

That’s only 7 hours of every weekday, you know. I put money on it that he’s running around sticking those sharp daggers of his in every thing he can find and reveling in the fact that no one’s there to catch him.

By the time we get home he’s already had such a good time doing it that even if he is scolded, it’s like water off a duck’s back.

Ahh.. cats.

Slick little fuckers.