"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’m gonna repeatedly kick you in the balls." - Stepbrothers

I have decided to go out on a limb and donate my time to a local Hospice organization. It is only for one hour a week, and I really want to be able to tell everyone that “I see dead people.” Plus, my ultimate goal is to meet a rich man with a heart condition and I figure this will help me get a foot in the door.

ANYWAY…One of the things I need in order to be ‘cleared’ is to pass two rounds of TB testing. I hate needles, but hey, it’s for a good cause. I went for test # 1 today during my lunch hour. All I can say is, God is a prankster.

I walked into the room for my test. The nurse turns around to introduce herself and she’s as cockeyed as the day is long. Like, BIG time. At first I thought I had something on my shirt, or maybe she was looking at my shoes? Or the wall behind me? I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I even tried to figure out if she had one good eye (because sometimes they do, and it’s just the other goofy eye that throws it all off). No luck, I’m fairly certain they were both fricked. And here she came with her alcohol swab and needle. Jesus Christ. Is this because I didn’t go to mass on Palm Sunday?!

As she looked simultaneously at the ceiling and at the “Eat Healthy!” poster behind me, she explained that I wouldn’t feel much more than a pinch. In all honesty, I didn’t feel anything when she did it. Turns out, she stuck the needle into my leather watch band. I didn’t say a word and got the hell out of there. Negative TB test # 1, here I come!

That's it for today's blog. Just a little blurb from my life before I forget it even happened. I'll let you know how Test # 2 goes.

I think I'll end with some sage-like advice: Never do anything you wouldn’t want to explain to the paramedics.

Stop [trying].

There is a stop sign in a shopping center down the street from my house where someone spray painted “trying” under the word Stop. I love it. I laugh every time I see it. I need to get a picture sometime.

This particular morning, I needed to hit an ATM machine so I ended up driving past my favorite STOP sign and over to my bank. After snagging some cash, I jumped back in my car and pulled away…and saw a duck standing in the middle of the parking lot. A mallard. He was just hanging out; I assume waiting for one of the shops to open.

But it got me thinking. Some days you wake up and you are ready to take on the world. And then other days, you’re just a random duck, bored and loitering in a parking lot, waiting for Subway to open.

Socrates I am not.

Take the company where I work, for example. There is a guy in the office who has been talking to me for the past 4 months, and I’m not quite sure who he is, what he does, or where he sits. Yet, I saw him this morning and he not only knew my name, he knew I was in California last week. How did he do that?

Then I went to the corporate Snack Shack for a drink. The woman who runs it is named Judy. She is known throughout the company for remembering every-single-employee’s name (there are close to 900 of us here)…except mine. I’ve told her my name at least a dozen times. About 2 weeks after I started, she called me Michelle. Then, four months ago she called me Katie for about 3 weeks. Now she doesn’t call me anything, which is just as well. Now come on. How hard is it to remember my name? I’m a white girl who doesn’t strip for a living, named Crystal. The oxymoron of it should be enough to burn my freakin’ name into her memory.

There's a lot I don't understand.

Like why the term “colored” is considered derogatory when referring to black people. The “C” in NAACP stands for Colored. If it’s good enough for them, then why can’t the rest of us use it? I might try bringing it back.

And then there are the traffic signs at intersections that read, “Wait for Green.” I get confused - can we turn right on red or not? Is this like the “partly cloudy/partly sunny” debacle of the traffic sign world? Wait for Green vs. No Turn on Red? Do they both basically mean, "Keep your fat ass parked until we say it's safe to go?"

And what about the time frame in between serving sizes? I love Oreos. But, a serving size is only 3 cookies. So how long do I have to wait between eating my first three and my next three for the servings to be considered two snacks independent of each other? Thirty minutes? An hour? If they can tell me the daily value of dietary fiber in each cookie, then Goddamn it they can tell me the time frame in between servings.

Jesus, that’s a lot of questions. Sorry about that. Here I am, tossing all sorts of highly intellectual thoughts your way without any answers. In order to balance that out, here are some bits of random information you can use the next time you’re stuck waiting in line at the Port-O-Potty at the next Prince concert:

Ants cannot walk backwards, only forwards.
The king of hearts is the only king without a mustache.
Elephants cannot jump.

Now get back to work.

If you still have Christmas decorations up, you also probably think acid washed jeans are still in style.

They're not. Throw those jeans away and take your decorations down. Immediately. You know who you are, and I know you live on Morris Road in Ambler, PA.

Let me apologize to all of my loyal readers for the lack of blogging. I have no excuse, except that I'm kind of a big deal. Okay, I'm not. I just sorta scrapped the blog thing (unintentionally).

I got back from crashing my sister's family vacation last week. We hit up Disneyland. It was pretty fantastic. The only thing that blew my mind was the hotel room. We stayed at a nice little place that was one block from the park. Our room was right across across from the hotel pool, which was conventiently located in the middle of the parking lot.

Our first night there we kept hearing a loud banging sound. Not knowing what it was, I started guessing. "I bet the pool has a diving board. Yeah, that's gotta be it." I walked over to the window and started parting the curtains so I could confirm my thoughts. "Totally a diving board..." (shuffle shuffle shuffle) "That's what it sounds like every time they jump off." (shuffle shuffle shuffle)

Several minutes into it, I'm still not looking out the window and still fighting with the curtains. They were the never-ending! I looked at my Brother-in-Law. "How the hell many curtains does this window have?!?!" (shuffle shuffle shuffle) I was totally frustrated. He and my sister started laughing, and my BIL opened the room door for me to look out.

Super long story short...it wasn't the damn diving board. It was the stupid fireworks from the park. My village called, they're missing their idiot. But in my defense, that sound really could have passed for people bouncing off a diving board. Plus, that window had at least 25 layers of curtain.

Thankfully, the rest of the vacation was uneventful. The only thing I want to mention is about the exceptionally large amount (no pun intended) of morbidly obese people I noticed in the park. I mean, I'm not one to judge (ha ha ha, I crack myself up), but I think the only reason it was so warm in Disney was because of the friction from all those thighs rubbing together. I saw more fat ass cracks hanging out than I ever care to see ever again. And to think most people thought the Tower of Terror was scary - as far as I was concerned, the general public in the park was HORRIFYING. If they weren't so moist and sweet-smelling, I would've shaken them and told them to pull their pants up or at least tuck their ass cheeks in. It helps that I'm not a toucher, either.

Seriously though, good times were had. And even if Disney in California can kind of be the equivalent of a dry Sea World, I'm cool with that.

Live and let live, right? As far as I'm concerned, curtains are the work of the Devil himself.

Oh, I'm sorry. You've mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.

I had to get my drivers license picture taken today. I figured I'd go on my lunch hour. It's a Wednesday, the eve of a snow storm...I put the time frame at about 15 minutes, tops. HA.

Silly me. The thought never crossed my mind that the dregs of society would be out in abundance, waiting for their drug dealers to wake up. Karma slapped my ass again.

I walked in and had to take a number. I was 47. They were calling 41 when I sat down. Not terrible, I thought. This should go by quickly. And then White Trash Mom sat next to me with her bastard child, Richard. Richard was all of about 18 months old and looked like a little girl. White Trash Mom made it very clear how involved she was in her child's life, leading me to believe she wasn't involved at all. She kept mentioning "Daddy," also leading me to believe she had no idea who the father was. She had the kind of face only Stevie Wonder could love. I disliked her immediately.

What should have been a 10 minute ordeal turned into 30 minutes. As I waited, I watched as Old Lady # 1 sat in front of the blue curtain and asked the picture-taker if she could make sure her CANE wasn't in the shot. A cane? Are you freakin' kidding me?! And she's allowed to operate a 1-ton piece of Death on Wheels?? It didn't help that the whole time I was also forced to listen to: "Richard! Are you excited to see daddy? RICHARD! You're not acting as confident as you usually do!" (I swear to God, she called the kid out on his lack of confidence.) That's when the realization hit me that Richard would probably grow up to be that meathead guy who picks bar fights with girls. Thanks, White Trash Mom. I can only hope I don't have kids of my own for another 3 years, to ensure our children don't end up in the same high school.

Number 45 was up. So close, and yet, so very far away. I couldn't leave now. I had so much invested!

So there goes #45. I'll have to guess, but I'd say she was no less than 1 billion years old. And then her questions started: Should I keep my sweater on or take it off? What about my glasses? Can you take that picture again? Can I re-sign my signature, I don't like how the "K" came out....

Between Richard and #45, I firmly believe I was in Hell, or at the very least, Purgatory. Either way, it was apparent that I pissed in God's Cheerios this morning.

Long story longer, a half hour later I finally had my new license along with a new disrespect for human life, and I was on my way back to the office. Thank the good Lord this only happens once every 4 years. I think next time, I'll show up and pass out condoms and Depends.

It's all fun and games until I fall down the stairs.

I will never die in a car accident. I will never die of a heart attack. I feel very comfortable saying "never" because I am the clumsiest person I know. I can say, with much certainty, that I will die in a freak accident, much like I almost did today.

On my way out of the office, the heel of my left foot got snagged in my right pant leg and I went ass-over-tincups down the steps. I'd say out of 12 steps, I was probably around the 6 step mark.

I don't think I yelled out - I think I just crashed down to the first floor in silence (well, vocal silence, anyway), which was probably really creepy for the lady who heard the chaos from the second level. I landed flat on my back and for a moment was so stunned I couldn't move. I'd like to think if we had cameras in our stairwells that the security guards may have given me a "7" for my landing. I definitely got a "2" for the dismount, no doubt.

The lady starts yelling, asking if I was okay. I answer in the affirmative and noticed I'm missing a shoe. Getting up is when I realized how much I hurt and that my shoe heel snapped off. Then I saw that I ripped my pants. Then I realized that when I started out at the top of the stairs, my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. By the time I hit the bottom of the stairs, my hair was down. Geez, if I play my cards right maybe tomorrow I can do it all over again but this time pull off a French Braid. Or maybe even highlights? (ooo, highlights would be nice) Who knew all a gal needed to do to change her hairstyle is throw herself down a flight of stairs? Office Chic on the 2nd Floor, Carefree Party Girl at Ground Level.

So all this story does is prove what I tell people all the time: I have as much coordination as Dick Clark. Actually, he might even have more. And I really think it will ultimately lead to my demise.

Stairs - 1
Me - 0

Concrete stairs, you win. This time.

'Regrets. I've had a few...but then again, too few to mention." - Frank Sinatra

Valentine’s Day. It comes every year and yet, it somehow sneaks up on me every single time. Ugh.

I was never a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. Personally, I think it’s kind of bullshit. I’m not one for flowers or “romance.” Flowers will die and “romance” is overrated. You show me a comfortably romantic man and I will show you a guy who has been to every Cher concert since he was 12. Any other random act of romance is nothing more than a ploy by dudes to either get into a gal’s pants or to avoid sleeping on the couch that night (and really, that’s just because the cushions are too soft and it’s covered in dog hair – otherwise, they consider it ‘camping’).

I’ve had this argument with sappy chicks in the office who try to convince me Valentine's Day a great holiday because of chocolate and candy hearts and the out-pouring of love. I call those chicks idiots. First of all, "love" is relative. Just ask Oprah how she feels about a bucket of KFC. And as for the rest...It’s not like you can’t get chocolate all year round, and those little heart candies don’t even taste that great. Besides, the sayings are stupid. AND, I always manage to get the boring box where the phrases are either, “Be mine” or “Kiss me.” Ooo, nonstop excitement. What they should do is mix’em up – “Be me” or “Kiss mine.” I think I’ll send a letter to the candy heart maker with my ideas.

I guess at the end of the day I should respect other people’s decisions to enjoy a sappy, overcommercialized holiday whose sole purpose is to rape the wallet, get people laid and make single people feel less worthy because “you’re not really somebody until somebody else loves you.” But guess what? I don’t want to (respect decisions, just to clarify). I want people to feel ashamed to have been suckered into such a sucker of a holiday. And to prove my point, I am going to swap holidays this year. Instead of celebrating Valentine’s Day, I’m celebrating the Chinese New Year, which, coincidentally, also occurs on Feb 14th. It is the Year of the Tiger and if you put a tiger in a cage with a box of chocolates, the tiger is going to win. And if you put me in a cage with a tiger and a box of chocolates, I am going to win. Because I’m a winner and for every winner there are dozens of losers…and chances are, you’re one of them. You just have to strive to NOT lose to an old man in a flannel shirt or a fat lady who irons her jeans. Losing to either is unacceptable. Always.

Happy New Year.

People shop for a bathing suit with more care than they do a husband or wife. The rules are the same. Look for something you'll feel comfortable wearing. Allow for room to grow.
-- Erma Bombeck

Remember George Carlin's "Seven Dirty Words You Cannot Say on TV?" Yeah, so do I.

And apparently so does my boss. And a few other people in my department.

The unspeakable happened to me the other day in the office. I was called onto the carpet by my manager and reprimanded for my use of the F word at work. (I'm going to pause and let that sink in).

I would like to remind you, dear Reader, that I am a 31 year old homeowner who pays taxes, doesn't do drugs, will occasionally vote, has never had an abortion and by society's standards, is a fairly decent human being. Thank you for listening.

She told me I had been overheard saying Fudge loudly, it was found to be offensive and she feels it is a poor reflection on our department as a whole for me to use that kind of language. Let me tell you what went running through this noggin of mine:

I didn't use it in an offensive manner. I think that distinction should be made, and I think it means a world of difference. [for the sake of public decency I will be replacing the offensive "F" word with "Fudge" in the following paragraphs.]

When Fudge had been dropped, I was admittedly pretty pissed off. But it wasn't like I told someone to Go Fudge Themselves, or to Fudge Off. I didn't even say Fudge You. I used the word as an adjective, like, "This fudgin' agent is trying to make me crazy," or "If I have to do any more work on these fudgin' quotes I'm going to burn something down."

Using it as a descriptive term as opposed to an active verb should count for something. I should be given some kind of literary leeway in this area. At the very least, I should be held to a kind of bastardized Corporate American version of the FCC rules. Ya know how you can say, "I'm pissed off right now," on the radio but you can't follow it up with "...and I also have to take a piss" ? Yeah, something like that.

If there's PMS involved and something bad happens at work, I should be entitled to Fudge the Shit out of whatever statements I'm about to make. We're all adults here. It's not like I work in a day care. There is no one over the age of 85 that will get offended. And for the record, I have yet to work in an office where the norm was NOT cursing like a drunken sailor. In fact, I've been in offices where had I been blindfolded, I could easily think that I worked on a loading dock at a sex toy company with a bunch of ex-cons with Tourettes.

Will I drop the actual F-bomb again? Not if I can help it. But there will be much Fudgin' substitution going on, to the point of being highly annoying to my coworkers. And yes, that is my goal. Aw, I'm sorry, you thought I was offensive? Well pull up your panties, I'm about to annoy the ever-living FUDGE out of you. If I have to suffer, they have to suffer. We're in this together.

So let this blog be my official announcement to the world: I am bringing FUDGE back. "Oh," you say, "But it was never 'in' in the first place!" You are correct. Which is what will make its comeback GLORIOUS.

You heard it here first. Get it started, pass it around, and go Fudge Yourself.