You are only as strong as your weakest nipple.

Last week, I developed a rash on my nipple. Just the one...one rogue nipple. I know, it's an awkward topic, not one I would normally throw out into the public arena casually. Which is why I called my sister about it - I was sure she'd offer up some sage areola advice. Here's the conversation we had:

Me: Hey, I have a rash on my nipple. It's CRAZY itchy, too.
Sister: Why are you telling me this?
Me: Because I want to know if this has ever happened to you. Ya know, maybe this is genetic or something.
Sister: (silence)
Me: Uh, yeah, I put some aloe on it. Do you think that will help?
Sister: (silence...but I could hear her breathing...) So yeah, I was assigned to a new project at work, but I'm not sure I want to deal with the chick I've been partnered with...
Me: (scratch scratch scratch) Uh, okay, what's the problem with her...?

Note to Sister - See that fancy magnet? Don't think you'll be getting one of those from me anytime soon.

Needless to say, the rash cleared up. I attribute that to the aloe and amazing self control. But let me tell you, it was a stressful few days. After the go-nowhere conversation with my sister, I tried Googling "Nipple Rashes." I thought for sure I would be enlightened with some medical goodness. What a mistake that was. All I can say is, I really hope my Norton Anti-Virus was working, because I saw pictures and websites that only my exboyfriend would masturbate to.

What a crazy week.

Aside from the nipple incident, I was at work the other day and opened a bottle of soda. Let me give you some backstory here: I work with a woman who is a crazed Bless You Nazi. Someone can sneeze from 15 aisles away and if she hears it, she will scream "BLESS YOU!" in their direction. She is an insane pain in the ass with it. Now back to the story...

So, I open a bottle of soda. You know how it makes that "PSSSSHHHH" sound, right? Well, it does that, and the only two people in the department are me and Crazy. As I took my first sip I hear (from over the cubicle wall), "BLESS YOU!!!"

It was definitely a WTF moment. But, never one to resist pointing out another person's shortcomings, I yelled back, "Hey [Crazy], I didn't sneeze, I opened a bottle of Coke. But, you turned my soda into wine, so for that, I thank you." What makes this joke even funnier is the fact that she's half Jewish.

Now onto that Van Gough-quality picture. That is the glorious artwork of my oldest nephew. What I like most about his art is how absolute he is. "ONLY call if..." Yea, you tell 'em! Screw you if you want to call to say Hi. Go to hell if you want to check in to see if we have plans for Sunday. If you're not calling about Chip, the green mouse dog (thank you T.D for that description), we want NOTHING to do with you. Now that's my kind of kid.

And finally, to wrap this show up, I have been hearing recently that some people want to leave comments on my blogs, but are hesitent to do so because no one else is leaving comments. PLEASE! If you have something to say, don't be shy! Write it down! I love comments! And hell, if you leave a cool enough one, it might even give me a blog idea. Give it a shot...in fact, I'll go first...

It's 2011! Let's kick ass!

It's a new year. I don't know about you people, but I pretty much kept my 2010 resolutions: I did not get engaged (thumbs down, 2009!), and I'm still awesome (thumbs up, 2010!). Baby steps.

I never did understand people who made resolutions based on other people's decisions. Like people who 'resolve' to get a promotion, or get someone else to quit smoking...stuff like that. You can't control what other people decide to do. It is a simple fact of life. He's not going to marry you no matter how many hints you drop. And your boss barely knows your name, let alone your employee number to fill out paperwork for your promotion. Keep it real. Resolve not to cry after sex, or maybe lose 5 lbs. Maybe finally make a doctor's appointment and get that rash checked out. Stuff like that.

Speaking of losing 5 lbs, this is the time of year that pisses me off the most. Not because I'm trying to drop the 3 guinea pigs I packed on over the holidays, but because my nice, quiet, little gym is now packed with chubby New Year's Resoluters who smell like salami and monopolize the equipment.

Take yesterday for example. I was on the treadmill and Chubbs 1 & 2 came waddling in. I admit, I do get a certain enjoyment out of watching the newcomers. They enter the gym, almost like they've been chased in from the street. Disheveled and a little nervous, they look around, not sure where to go next. The guys always make a bee-line for the weights. The chick follows, realizes she knows even less about dumbbells, and wanders back out to the cardio equipment. She eyes it suspiciously, kind of like how my dog eyeballs the vacuum when I pull it out. The bike? Uuhhhh, no, those pedal straps are SCARY. The Stairmaster? Uuuhhhhhhhhh, nope, stairs are HARD. The treadmill...ooo, yeah, the treadmill. Walk? I can walk!
So Slim jumps on the treadmill next to me and sets it to a 2 mph pace. And dammit if after 5 minutes she isn't winded! I would have offered her some of my water but she looked more like a milkshake kinda gal.

I never did find out how long she lasted (my workout was done way before hers), but I am curious to see if I'll ever see her (or him) in there again. I've found that it usually takes 3 workouts before the newbies quit. They realize sweating and sore muscles aren't fun at ALL. And they are right. But I'd rather be sweaty and sore and not have my own gravitational force because I busted my ass at the gym, than be sweaty and sore because I strained myself racing back to the buffet again (all because they put out more mashed potatoes and rolls....really?!)

So get out there in 2011 and make me proud! And if you are one of the newbies at the gym, don't give people like me the pleasure of watching your awkwardness. Walk in like you own the place. Run on the treadmill like there's only one Whopper left and its got cheese! Sweat like you just won a hotdog eating contest! YEA!

Who took the "Christ" out of Christmas?

Probably the same person who's about to take my foot out of their ass.

Seriously, I'm getting really sick of people having a problem with the majority. Let's face it, if you try to ban anything that centers around a minority - Jews, Muslims, Indians, fried chicken... society goes into an uproar. But hey, you want to suppress the majority? Go for it! Ban Christ from Christmas! Yea! Don't hire the qualifed white chick, hire the ex-drug dealing Mexican who doesn't even have a social security number...Double Yea! Let me be the first person from the majority to announce that it's getting old. Fast.

Let me tell you a few things: Obama is half white. Jesus Christ was a Jew. And no matter how many people you kill, Mr. Muslim, you will never get to bone 73 virgins in your so-called "after life." So for all you nutbags out there saying that the "white man is evil" and we need to shut-down "Christmas" because it makes minorities "feel bad" about themselves.... Are you kidding me? God, I sure hope not, because your jokes SUCK if you are.

Here's what I don't understand. The majority of the vote wins the election. The majority rules when you are hanging with a group of friends and you have to decide where to grab a bite to eat. So then how the hell does the *minority* get to decide that Christmas "offends," or is potentially "unconstitutional?" How is it that a black dude can produce a movie titled, "For Colored Girls," but I'm a racist asshole if I refer to the black guy working at Wells Fargo as "colored." Really?

Somehow, in this huge societal movement to be "politically correct" and "fair," we have really lost sight of basic reality. Guess what? People will judge you for being fat, for being a shitty dresser, hell, for writing a crummy blog about nonsense, regardless of whether or not there's a law in place to protect your sorry ass. Ironically, minorities will get the better jobs (thanks, "Equal Opportunity Employer") and smokers will somehow manage to outnumber nonsmokers (yet we will continue to make them smoke in the cold and in the rain, which would be "unconstitional" if we made any other group do that). That's life. Get over it. The bottom line is, I'm sick and tired of society being run by the same people who give their kids "time outs;" The same idiots who don't have the balls to smack some asses when their kids talk back or break a neighbor's window. It's lame, it's old, and it has slowly morphed us into the Salvation Army of the world ~ we'll take shit from anyone, no questions asked.

So guess what? Not only am I celebrating Christmas this year, I'm going to celebrate Russian Christmas, and then Christmas in July. And after that, I'm going to eat as much pork as my blood type can handle, I'm going to slap anyone who dares tells me "Obama will protect us" (seriously?), and if I want to tell an offensive joke, I will.

What's the best part about banging twenty eight year olds? (wait for it) There's 20 of them.

I was bullied. World, I HAVE arrived!

For weeks, I couldn't figure out why everyone else got to be bullied except for me. I mean, gay guys in New Jersey, kids in Ohio, Demi Lovato...pretty much everyone. Except me. This whole time, I couldn't figure it out. Am I too smart? Too funny? Too disgustingly gorgeous?!

And then...it happened. I logged back into Facebook for exactly nine days, just to hit a radar or two about my upcoming highschool reunion (because, you know, maybe I want to reconnect with some old cronies), and that's when it happened: I became one of the fortunate majority to be bullied. It was as glorious as I had hoped!

But it gets better: I have a blog. They don't.

So let me address you, Bullies, who had so much to offer on Facebook, with your snarky, asshole comments. Oh, don't worry, I'll change your names to protect your innocence. It's the least I can do...

To Nob Rotari: No one told you to date your best friend's ex-girlfriend in highschool. In fact, no one told you to go ahead and marry her. You know what happens when you do that? Karma. Translation: You end up having a big, fat, hippo of a wife. Ooo, ouch, that really sucks. What's that phrase? Something about powder and wet spots? Ah, shucks, it doesn't matter now. But it looks like you should have dated a little outside your social circle during those formative teen years. And ya know what else? You have a horrible laugh. You always have. It's an awful mix between a donkey and a goose. Heee honk! Heee HONK! I can't BELIEVE I had a crush on you in 8th grade. I am so glad I got my first period and came to my senses.

Moving on...

To Kill Bane: "Okay, Calvin." Ooo, you're a clever one. Good thing Bing was working that day, or you never would have found that quote I used. I think it's awesome that in the 7 years we went to school together, this is the most you have ever "said" directly to me. So do your parents know you're asexual yet? Because let me tell you something: I really hope you are ~ this world does not need your type reproducing. And is that a receding hairline I see? Don't worry, it matches the 80 lbs you put on since we graduated. It's all good. Now if only you can have those gums of yours trimmed back...

The bottom line is this: I never claimed to be cool. I never thought I was better than anyone, and I sure as hell was not popular. Not then, not now. I just wanted to log into my little social network site, reach out to a few people and carry on with my day. But apparently, some people can't help but be raging douchebags. And that's really unfortunate. Because for as bitchy as I was in this blog, it doesn't take away from the fact that it's all true.

I win. Suck it.

People who annoy you: N_ggers

Answer: NAggers. Jesus. What's wrong with you people? Racists. (or, if you answered correctly, you are a fellow South Park fan...)

I've realized over the past few days that there are two types of people: Dog people and cat people. And men and women. I'll start with the animals.

Dog people are normal. I am a dog person. I walk my dog, and I am okay with that. I don't want a box of poop or pee hanging around my house. I want something to greet me at the door. I want to share food with it.

Cat people don't care about any of that. I wouldn't even doubt it if cat people are more likely NOT to flush public toilets. And quite frankly, I don't even know why cat people bother naming their pets. It makes as much sense as naming a goldfish. Just like when you see a Lost Cat poster, it'll say: "Lost cat, answers to Fluffy, please call...." Uh, let's think about this. If your cat answered to anything, it wouldn't be "lost" in the first place. It also bugs me when a cat person says their cat acts "so much like a dog." Doubtful. As a fellow dog person said, "You show me a house with a cat, and I'll show you an animal that won't defend its home if an intruder breaks in. Makes me want to break into a house with a cat, just so I can beat up that cat and prove a point."

And my final point is this: Even people who don't like animals are more inclined to like a dog over a cat. Proof: Ever see a dead cat on the road? Yup. Ever run over a cat by accident? Once. Okay, now let's imagine it's a dog. People freak if they hit a dog, and you never see a dead dog on the side of the road. There's a reason for that: Even by society's standards, dogs are the "Caucasian, 35 year old males" of the animal world. They're like the Kennedys of pets. People just *like* them more.

Then we have men and women. No, I'm not about to launch into the "Mars and Venus" bullshit argument. That's stupid. But it has recently come to my attention that men have a different concept of time than women. Notice how "Back to the Future" and every other time travel movie is about men, not women? Exactly. When a woman says, "I'll call you later," she means she'll call within an hour, maybe 2 if she's shopping. If a man says he'll "call later," it could mean an hour from then, the next day, maybe sometime next week...one never knows. When a woman says, "I'm on my way," she's on her way. When a guy says, "I'm on my way," it means he is about to leave in 15 minutes and make two stops before he gets to your place. Not to mention the term "dressing up" means different things to each sex: to women, 'dressing up' means something that is in skirt form, requires pantyhose and heels, and needs extra jewelry. "Dressed up" to a guy means it doesn't smell. Wrinkles optional.

Men, women, dogs, cats...we're all so different, I guess that is what we have in common. But there are a few people I think we can all agree on, who are not like any of us (and more annoying than most). They are:

People who take elevators to go down.
People who "don't like" chocolate.
People who screw up a picture when you say, "Hey, smile when I take this picture." (although I admit, I'm guilty of that myself - but not that time!)
Mouthbreathers.
People who walk fast so they don't have to hold the door open for you.
People who won't go when the light turns green, because they're waiting for another car to go first.
Monkeys.

Okay, the monkeys was random. I just really hate monkeys. They creep me out. But you get the point.

People who annoy me: M_st Pe_pl_.

I've never been married, but I tell people I'm divorced so they don't think there's something wrong with me.

I seem to know a lot of people getting married over the next few weeks. The happy couple you see (look closely, they are there) is one of them – can you believe this is from their Engagement picture package? I asked the groom if the Firing Squad motif was their idea or the photographer’s. Either way, it seems awkwardly appropriate, doesn’t it?

Marriage jokes aside, weddings are a really good time. Not so much because you’re celebrating the next stage in a couple’s life, but because you get free food, free booze, and all the people watching you can handle. As with anything, there are always certain types of guests that you see at every wedding, big or small. Here is my rundown:

The Slut: This is the girl in the exceptionally short, tight dress that is either an incredibly bright color, or (my favorite) white. She is typically a cousin’s date (yet she is not his “girlfriend”) and by the end of the night, has danced with every guy at the reception who is under the age of 27. No one ever knows her name, and after the celebration, she is never seen again.

The Drunk Buddy: Quite possibly my favorite guest. He is wasted by the time dinner is served but still stocks up on his Gin & Tonics before the meal just in case they shut the bar down. If he’s got a date (operative word being “if”), he’ll drink her champagne if she doesn’t finish it during the toast. By the time the DJ plays YMCA (he is always a robust Y), he has already hit on the bride’s grandmother. He is usually a former friend/acquaintance of the groom and was only extended a sympathy invitation because they ran into each other at a sporting event 3 months prior. By the end of the night he is slumped at a table, shirt and tie undone, and can be seen picking apart the flower centerpiece. No one knows how he gets home that night, and no one cares.

The Casual Guest: Usually a man, usually 65 or older, and he’s the one wearing his best blue jeans, suspenders and a crisp, white button down. You’re never surprised to find out he’s the bride’s father, and Goddamn it, he’ll dress any way he wants because he paid for the reception. He gets pissed when the DJ refuses to play Charlie Daniels. You can see him trying to get a second steak dinner (to go) from the waiter. His wife usually convinces him to have at least one slow dance, but he spends his time on the dance floor asking everyone if they liked the food.

The Couple No One Wants to Be: The girl – chubby and wearing a lot of ghetto gold. The guy – super skinny with at least 2 visible tattoos. Bonus if either one has a hickey. The girl is the ‘relation,’ but not by blood. She is the stepdaughter of the groom’s uncle, who remarried last year. They begin the evening by heavily making out during the cocktail hour, but by the time and bride and groom cut the cake, they are in a full-blown fight. She can be seen pouting at the table while he is playing Bejeweled on his cell phone.

The Pack of Single Guys: They can be guests, or groomsmen or both, but whatever the combo, they are rowdy and get seated together. Because they’re still drunk from the night before, the non-groomsmen typically wolf whistle as the bride walks down the aisle and then heckle the groom during the ceremony. At the reception, they alternate between drinking Heinekens and smoking outside. They have no problem hitting on your wife or girlfriend in front of you. They eat too fast and crash other people’s tables, even if they are still eating. By the end of the night they’re inviting everyone to accompany them on some bar hopping.

I love a good wedding.

So there you have it – the classic Guest List. Keep in mind, if you can’t identify one of the guest’s above, then chances are YOU are that person. And to everyone out there getting married in upcoming weeks: Congratulations and Good Luck (you’re gonna need it)!

No, I don’t have kids. They’re sticky and they touch all your stuff.

I was in Arizona last week, hanging with my sister and her family. She’s got a 6 year old and 16 month old, both boys. I offered my babysitting services, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Pretty ironic, considering that not only do I not have children, but I am rarely around them.

Day One: The sister and brother-in-law leave for work, the 6 year old goes to school. Now it’s just me and the baby. It is 8:30am. This won’t be bad, I think. He’s a peanut of a person. Well let me tell you, peanuts can MOVE. He heads for the doggie door (which he can fit through because it is for their 150 lbs English Mastiff). I block him. He cries and then makes a break for the lamp on the end table. I block him. He bounces over to a box of toys and starts pulling everything out. He brings me a dog chew toy. He jumps into his plastic car. Back to the doggie door again. Another block, more crying. I try to get him to sit down with a book but he won’t stop moving. I check the time; it’s only 8:32am. Really?!

By 9:30am he was getting grumpy (and I was exhausted) so I put him down for a nap. I took one, too. An hour later we both woke up and I fed him…on the run. Lesson learned: If you don’t put a baby in his high chair, expect to chase him around the house, shoving pieces of ravioli into his mouth. He was like a mini-criminal on the lam. You couldn’t stop this kid! After awhile, I gave up the Doggie Door Block and let him go outside. I followed him, curious about what he was going to do. It pretty much went down like this: Splash in the dog’s water dish, play in the sandbox, more splashing in the water, run over to the play-set, pretend to want to play with the toy lawn mower, watch your aunt pretend to cut the grass, then back to the water dishes… Time: 12:08pm. I couldn’t help but wonder if 9-1-1 worked in Arizona, because I needed saving.

1:15pm: Time for a snack. He was wet and sandy, so I stripped him down to his diaper. I figured now was a good time to take some pictures...”Proof of Life,” if you will, since I had no idea what the future held. I found a container of blueberries and stuffed his hands and cheeks with them. I later found blueberries on the coffee table, on top of the garbage can, in the dog food…

They say time flies when you’re having fun (or chasing a toddler), and before I knew it, the other kid was due to get picked up from school. I threw clothes on the baby, stuffed him into his car seat, and went to the school.

3:15pm – We go to McDonald’s. I asked the 6 yr old what he wants to eat, he says 10 Chicken Nuggets and French fries. It sounds like a lot of food to me, but hey, he should know how much he can eat, right? We get our order and head to the play area. I see kids in plastic highchairs and I’m too ashamed to ask the ‘real’ moms where they got them. I am trying to pretend I’m a mom, too - all the while I have a 6 year old who has opened 4 Sweet & Sour sauce containers and dipped a nugget in each one, and a toddler on my lap who is sucking Sweet & Sour sauce straight from the container. I’m not fooling anyone.

3:27pm – The kids get done eating and want to play in the playground. I tell the 6 yr old to keep an eye on his brother, and they both disappear into the labyrinth of plastic tubes and crawl spaces. I sit at the miniature picnic table and do breathing exercises.

3:45pm – I can see the 6 yr old but the baby has gone MIA. I grab my older nephew and send him up a plastic tube slide – “Go find your brother and bring him out!” To everyone else, this was just a playground. To me, it was now a search-and-rescue military op. My sister sends a text to check in: How are the kids? I respond by telling her everyone is fine, but I’ve been sending her older son into the playground on recon missions. I see the Marines in his future.

4:30pm – The kids are sweaty and tired. I put them in the car and we head back home. I find the loudest, brightest kids’ show on TV and put it on. It distracts them for a bit, long enough for me to go to the bathroom. I think I forgot to wipe. It doesn’t even matter.

6:00pm – The 6 yr old tells me that “At six – zero – zero Mom gives him (the baby) a bath.” I look over at the toddler, who is now eating pieces of dog food as he crawls up the stove. “Let’s go, buddy,” I say and scoop him up. He licks my face. I barely notice.

6:07pm – I toss him in the tub and scrub him down. When I attempt to dry him off, though, he sits and won’t budge. So I dried off his top half and picked him up. Dangling over the tub, I (lightly) shake him back and forth to get the excess water off from his waist down. He giggles (doesn’t it figure that he’d like it?) so I shake him some more and wrap him up in the towel. Note to the public: The child is fine, he does not have Shaken Baby Syndrome, so calm down.
6:23pm – I find one-piece pajamas. I ask Nephew # 1 if his brother wears these, he answers in the affirmative so I squish the baby into them. He’s squiggling as I stuff his chubby thighs into the suit – why can’t kids hold still, ever?? I barely get him zippered up when I hear the garage door open. MOM’S HOME, THANK GOD! We run downstairs and the little guy is psyched to see his mother. Had she not taken the baby from me, I would have jumped into her arms.

Needless to say, I survived my time out there, but it was very much like an extended, drunken night – I found several mystery bruises all over my body when I got back home and I have no memory of how I got them. However, I can proudly declare that I didn’t even cry. Not once. But I still think I’ll stick to dogs.