I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.

Day 8 of my new work out routine. I wasn't in the mood to hit the gym, so I did 50 minutes on the stationary bike while I watched a True Hollywood Story about Angelina Jolie. Slap my ass and call me "Wild." Because yeah, I am.

Last week, I had hit the gym a little later than usual. As a result, I've met some people in my complex. In no particular order, they are:

~ The chubby married couple. You two are a pain in my ass. I don't care that you want to use the treadmills, but come ON. There are only two, and walking at 3 mph for 3 WEEKS won't get you any thinner, so stop wasting your time and mine. One of you needs to get off the damn machine and waddle over to Dunkin Donuts, because we all know you're going there afterwards anyway. It's my turn!

~ The two 14 year old Asian guys. Now that I think about it, they could be 5, or they could be 27. It's so hard to tell how old Asians are. Every single time I walk into the gym, they are just wrapping it up. What's "it," you ask? Initially, I thought "it" was doing P90X in the back of the gym, watching it on their laptop. But now I'm beginning to think it's a little more homosexual than that. I've run into them about 1,000 times already, and each and every time they are wrapping it up? Yeah, RIGHT. Something's getting "wrapped," and something's going "up," and it ain't no exercise routine. AND, they never turn the lights on. It's all very suspicious.

~ The 10 year old married guy. Okay, maybe he's older than that, but he's got super skinny legs and a baby face, and he's got a bracelet-sized wedding band (or maybe it looks that big because he's so little). We play this little game when we overlap. I usually get there first and put on the TV. I'm a sucker for realty TV shows, especially Keeping up with the Kardashians (Pregnancies!!! Weddings!!!!) He shows up a little later, starts his workout and pretends he's listening to his Ipod (when I can tell he's really locked in on whatever lame-ass show I've got on. I've seen him laugh at it). I get done first and on my way out I'll ask if he wants me to shut the tube off, and every time he waves me off and says, "Nah, that's okay." All nonchalant. Mr. 10 Year Old, you can act cool about it but you dig my shows. Loser.

~ The Hula Hoop Woman. Probably the best I've seen come into the gym ~ she's about 48 years old, has a horrible L'Oreal dye job...I think they call it Crackwhore Blonde. She puts her circa 1992 glasses on (with the tinted rose-hue lenses), then she pirates the TV by putting on Law & Order. Once she's set up, she starts hula-hooping. It doesn't even make sense! She doesn't need to come to the gym. It's an exercise she can do in her own livingroom! I think she does it just to show off. At first I was impressed, but then I noticed she has a textured hula-hoop. It's really hard to describe; the best and only way I can, is to say it's ribbed. (go ahead, say it: for her pleasure. Bunch of bonehead readers). All I know is, it's not one of those smooth, plastic ones that are hard to keep up. I think it's a specially designed hula hoop, kinda like a hula hoop with training wheels, designed to stay up no matter what. I need to do more research on it - I'll get back to you.

Overall, for those of you who are curious, the routine is going well. My plan is to be in wicked shape, just like the chick I've posted - it's "Kate," from LOST. The deadline is Feb 2nd, the day the very last Season Premiere is aired.

I've already taken a "before" picture. I've got the camera all queued up for the "after." Get your puke buckets ready - I make no guarantees that what you end up seeing will be pretty. Or even stomachable.

Someone parked their little penis outside my house tonight.

I've officially begun a new workout routine. It pretty much breaks down like this: A whole lotta cardio, toss in some weights, and don't eat much of anything. It's actually been working out very well for me - I'm working this whole anger thing out of my system and quite honestly, my appetite has gone to shit. So yeah, scoop me another bowl full of broccoli, chick peas and non-fat feta cheese/lemon juice salad. YUM.

In case you were wondering, the new department is working out well for me. I'm definitely a fish out of water and my new coworkers haven't quite figured out my sense of humor, but that's to be expected. Example: Man in his 40's (I'll call him...Hairy) sits across the cubicle wall from me. He cracked a joke earlier today about it being so warm in the office, he was going to take his shirt off. We all laughed and then I said, "Will someone please get this man a FAN?" AND?!?! [crickets] Really? It had all the elements of a great joke - the timing, the content, the truth... (sigh) If it wasn't against Corporate policy, I would have gone around and shook them all.

I have faith that one day, they'll understand.

And that's all she wrote, kids. I really didn't have much to offer you tonight; I just wanted to share my thought on the obnoxious Mercedes someone brought into my respectable, lower-Middle class neighborhood. I would have taken a real photo, but it's dark outside and I was afraid the flash from my camera would alert the neighbors to my suspicious motives. Luckily for me, Googling "Obnoxious luxury sports cars driven by assholes" found the exact vehicle I was looking for. Suck it, Bing.

I love the Internet. What I would love even more than the Internet would be to have an alien as a best friend. Like, someone from outter space, not the person who cleans your house and avoids eye contact.

And on that note, Good Night.

This week was the Ass, and I was the Wedgie.

I've been fairly angry all week. Don't worry, I won't go into it here. You don't care and I don't feel like sharing. However, WARNING: This might turn into an angry blog.

Today was my last day in my department. I will be moving into another gig in my company and far, far away from Douche Nozzle, the guy whose work I've been doing for the past 6 months. I'm as excited as a blonde with two dildos.

Let me tell you the shit I won't miss about this guy -

* I won't miss his disgusting Philly accent.
* I won't miss that gorilla mask on his face he calls a goatee
(gorilla mask: when a person shaves their pubes & glues them to a sleeping persons face.)
* I won't miss the, "I love you...I love YOU...No, I love YOU more" whispers on the phone to his equally hideous, shovel-faced girlfriend who has a complexion greasier than a truck stop kitchen.
* And most of all, I won't miss doing his work, then watching him get presented with a pseudo "Employee of the Month" award.

Believe me, while I have a great imagination, even I can't make this shit up. He was presented a $100 gift card and a pat on the back two weeks ago by our Regional President for how great he was at the job I was doing. I was dumbfounded. I mean, SERIOUSLY?! Who do you have to blow in this place to get recognition, because obviously this lazy turd whipped out a few Chapsticks and knee pads to get his sweet deal.

(Deep breath) But that is all behind me. It's over; The fat lady has sung and I no longer have to suffer through him (or his work) again.

I have a feeling there's going to be some crazy celebration in my house tomorrow night - just me, some wings, a 40 of Miller High Life (don't judge) and Battlestar Gallactica. Yeah, I'm badass. And you can admit it: Man or woman, you've got a crush on me. I get it. Whenever I shave my legs, I have a crush on me, too. And if I wash my hair that same night? Sweet Jesus, I can't keep my hands off myself!

Having more than 5 of anything makes you a fanatic - unless it's plates.

It's that awkward time between Thanksgiving and New Years. A lot of suicides and a lot of breakups happen right around now. But what exactly constitutes "a lot?"

I am not against collections. What I do have a problem with is the prejudice of women and collections.

Let's face it - a guy can have a huge comic book collection, or 15 baseballs, and no one bats an eye. A woman, however, can have 16 Good Luck Trolls, or 23 candles or 37 cats and suddenly, she's a "Crazy Lady" (heavy quotey fingers). Add the factoid that said woman is also single, and you can bet the neighbors won't let their kids stop by her house as they go trick-or-treating.

What if I really like unicorns? Maybe I want to stock up on apple cinnamon candles in case the electricity goes out...for months? And dogs are social creatures, it's a fact - If I want to own 63 of them so they are never lonely, that's my right as a taxpayer.

So when I start collecting these things because honestly, a girl can't live on insurance and pasta alone...I don't think I should be judged harshly for it. I think I may have to put the "spin" in Spinster. I'm going to bring it back and make it cool. If George Clooney can make being a single, middle-aged man seem cool, I sure as hell can turn "spinsters" into "spinkickassters". I'm working on the name.

In other news...I went to Home Depot and got a tree. Sure, it's about as tall as I am, but you make do with what you have. 'Tis the season, and I'm just trying to make it to January 2nd.

I'm the best business decision you've made all year.

There I was, minding my own business at work when an email popped up from my friend S., inviting me to a party at her house on November 21st. Always one to hang out and eat other people's food, I immediately RSVP'd that I'd be there.

This was no regular party. This was one of those "pleasure parties," where they sold lotions not found in CVS, and toys you could never get at Toys R Us. These were things that required car batteries for power, and one even came with its own saddle. Oh yeah, and veggies would also be available for snacking. Sign me up!

The night was a blur of wine, rubber, baby carrots and water-based lubes. The woman presenting was pregnant (bonus for me and things to blog about), but she also had about as much of a sense of humor as The Queen's Guard. Do I even have to tell you she was not at all amused by me?

Like when I asked if some of the toys were dishwasher safe; or when she rubbed lotion on my arm and I asked her what she was doing the next night (her response: Hanging out with my HUSBAND and SON.) At one point I wanted to say, Lady, lighten up. One, you're not my type. And two and three, you're holding a tricked-out vibrator named after a Disney character in one hand, and a book titled, "How to Have Circus Sex Without Banging a Clown," in the other. AND you're pregnant while you do this. I think the moment of seriousness has passed.

Although, I couldn't help but notice that halfway through the 'show' we had all started avoiding eye contact with each other. I guess that's to be expected. No one wants to openly acknowledge that even though we all have cars, sometimes we have the urge to ride the bus. Hey, we're human. It happens. You can't look at Skid Marks sitting across the table from you every night at dinner and feel that same excitement after 10+ years, each and every time. Because trust me, he's looking back at The Nag Master and you're not exactly revving his engine all the time, either.

All in all, a really good time was had. I think if I ever decide to pick up a part-time job, it's going to be to sell sex toys to women. I'd make a killing.

A pre-emptive "Sorry, Mom" goes out.

The End

Ever hit a cat on your way to work? Me neither, for as hard as I've tried.

There are a few things that can happen in the morning that indicate your day is going to be shit. One of those things is stepping IN shit when you take the dog for her morning walk. Another is when you think you've set up the coffee pot the correct way, only to get out of the shower, go into the kitchen and find coffee juice all over the countertop and floor. And lastly, the realization you should've kept your ass in bed is when you get to work and open an email from a friend that starts with, "You might want to get a new accountant." You click on the link, which takes you to a news article where you find out the guy who did your taxes last year is now in jail for embezzling $1.5 million. Nice mugshot, you world-class douchebag.

Does it get any better than that? Funny you should ask.

It's when a fart squeeks out as you stand at the copier and you realize a coworker is right behind you. It's when you suddenly notice your nipples are tweaked in two completely different directions (I like to call that the "crazy eyes" look). Or when you remember that you forgot to put deodorant on that morning.

Jesus, this is beginning to sound like that "Ironic" song by Alanis Morrisette. And ironically, hardly anything mentioned in that song was a true example of irony.

So here's the thing - the globe is warming, my accountant is in jail, my car needs an oil change and at the end of the day, I really don't give a rat's ass about any of it. Is this a sign that I've reached ultimate enlightenment? Have I finally learned to "not sweat the small stuff?" Absolutely not. It means I remembered the stash of baby vodka bottles in the cabinet.

It's not drinking alone when you talk to the TV.

I think it's time I got my own reality show.

I don't see why I can't have my own TV show. There are bigger idiots, bigger douchebags out there who have them, or who crash them. I mean, some knuckle draggers don't even HAVE shows and yet, they are all over TV! Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan...ugh. Lindsay Puke-han.

I live a pretty exciting life. I took the dog to the vet tonight. As I was paying the bill, I looked down and there she went, scootin' across the floor on her ass. I tried to get her to stop but she was on one of those industrial rubber mats - it must have felt good because she wouldn't quit. As I eventually shuffled her out of the office, some moron guy chuckled as we walked past. It could have been the dog-ass thing, it could have been my shirt. Or, it could have been that he sucked. Either way, I bet if I had cameras following me he wouldn't have doubted my coolness.

I think society would enjoy watching me eat. I'm pretty good at it. I can eat a whole box of pasta (white, wheat, gluten free, you name it) in like, 45 minutes. Sometimes quicker if I unhinge my jaw. I'm like a magician - now you see the Whopper, now you don't.

I brought home a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts yesterday. There are two left. I live alone. That can't be healthy, but it sure is fun (not to mention utterly delicious).

I enjoy watching both shows on TLC that are dedicated to midgets (Uh, Midget Show One and Midget Show Two). I want a pet midget. I would make it clean under the bed. I would teach it how to swim. When I wash my car, it could scrub up the tires for me. How many times have your socks fallen down and you wished you could call a midget over to pull them up for you? EXACTLY. Midgets are God's way of saying, "If you keep one of these around, you'll never have to tie your own shoes again!" I like God. He's clever.

Or maybe I could be a reality show scientist person. My first discovery will be to uncover how birds can whistle when they don't have lips. And then I'll see if fish ever get itchy.

And now I'm down to one donut. Don't judge me.