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.

Fat people are eating all our food. Oh wait, that's just me.

I want to begin by declaring that I survived my first family vacation with the guy I'm seeing...and his whole family. I am soooo not even joking about that. I'm talking aunts, uncles, grandmothers, mothers, sister, cousins, the milkman (I didn't ask); it was crazy. But hey, no pressure right? HA. Thankfully, the location was their cabin that is *in* an amusement park, which kept everyone busy. Let me tell you, it's fascinating to walk onto a front porch and see a rollercoaster about 100 feet away. Oh, it's also loud as hell, too. But still pretty cool.

The first day, I hit up the food stands with my boy, his mom and aunt. I grabbed a chili dog, a cheeseburger and french fries. As I was eating my burger his mom looked at the rest of the food and asked, "Who's the chili dog for?" In between chews I said, "Mine." She looked shocked, so I followed up with, "Don't judge." I could tell she did anyway. Talk about foreshadowing.

Overall, it was a fun few days - a lot happened. I used a public restroom and had a white trash lady walk into my stall. (no, the doors did not have locks) Who doesn't look under the Goddamn door?? THAT scumbag, apparently. She saw my 'goods' and I didn't even get dinner out of it. I was pissed off. Literally.

The whole family (all 18 of us) jumped on the bumper cars. I got the impression they thought I'd be easy pickins (they all have this really twisted impression that I'm a "nice" person). Little did they know the last time I was on the bumper cars I was 7 years old and called a little boy a 'son of a bitch' for crashing into me. All I can say is, if Grandma didn't have arthritis before, she did when I was done with her.

I went on the wooden rollercoaster and walked off with a few mystery bruises. Did I mention I got a little drunk before going on? Yeeeaaaah, I'm not a huge fan of rollercoasters.

I did a lot of eating, a lot of drinking, and a lot of inappropriate joke making. Surprisingly, my jokes went over well. Ya know that horrible situation in Louisiana where those 6 kids drowned in the river (none could swim but they went into the water anyway)? I casually commented that it was either a tragedy or natural selection - and the picnic table went WILD. I stole a joke from a comedian about how there's a silver lining to just about everything... even serial killers who bury people in their backyards... at least they're homeowners. They ate it up! By the time I left, I was signing autographs.

So speaking of eating, on my last day there I was approached by my guy's mom. Not like she cornered me or anything, but while we were taking a drive out to a deer farm to grab some venison jerky (it was kinda like "redneck fastfood"), she made the statement that I had a "healthy appetite." I have to admit, I was annoyed. My eating habits were examined the whole time I was there. And the crazy part is, I toned it down! Believe me, it broke my heart to only get one chili dog at a time, especially since I get no less than 2 texas weiners AND gravy fries when I hit up my hometown diner. She wouldn't know a "healthy appetite" if it bit her on the ass.

Mmmm, biting. Chewing. Food. I think I'm gonna get me something to eat.

Soccer is the most popular sport in the world. Thank you, third world countries. - Tosh.O

Summer office attire pisses me off.

Rule number one: If your arms can double as thighs, you should have no legal right to wear sleeveless shirts. If you have vision that is sufficient enough to operate a vehicle, then your sight should be clear enough to recognize that sleeveless, button-up shirts are absurd and should not be worn. In fact, they should not be manufactured. 1985 called, they want their sleeveless, button-up shirts back…all of them.

Rule number two: No flip flops. Feet are gross and yours are no exception. I don’t want to look at your gangly toes when I pass you in the hallway and I don’t need to smell your feet during a meeting. Plus, I have my own bunions to worry about. I don’t need yours in my face when I’m waiting to use the copier. And flip flops on men? Completely deplorable. The only articles of clothing that are acceptable on both sexes are jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps. If you’re a guy and you wear flip flops, you may as well get a bowl haircut…you have no fashion sense. You deserve to be dateless on every national holiday.

I work in a semi-professional office. I use the term “semi” because I’ve seen things at work that could make the People of Wal-Mart look like they’re at a black tie event. For this reason I tend to stay at my desk all day. I venture out for food, water, and to use the shitter. It never ceases to amaze me the crazy things I see during my brief moments outside of my sweet, neutral-toned, cubicle walls.

Take today, for example. If I had a nickel for every burly woman I saw wearing a tank top, I could’ve called off work and not even used a vacation day. One woman was wearing a sleeveless, button-up shirt, and I had a clear view of her beige bra through the arm hole. Well, I assume it was beige, and not a white bra that just gave up. It was one of those industrial bras, the kinds with the super wide straps and 4 clasps in the back…the 6-string bass guitar of bras, if you will. It was almost like seeing the Loch Ness Monster, without the coolness and excited picture-taking.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not, by ANY stretch of the imagination, a fashionista. I have 3 basic rules to my style: 1. It’s gotta be clean, 2. Don’t let the ass hang out, and 3. Never try matching blacks. Maybe that’s why I don’t understand 90% of what I see, like kids wearing pajamas in public (when did the universal nightmare become socially acceptable?) and too-skinny girls who probably cut themselves, wearing knitted scarves indoors. When has anyone ever commented on how chilly their neck was? It’s a senseless fashion from every angle. If I walked around wearing only earmuffs, people would think I looked stupid. Why? Because I WOULD.

I’m not usually this angry. I blame it on a book I’m reading. It’s a Jodi Picoult novel, and holy shit, she’s one of those slit-your-wrists writers. But she’s clever – she lures you in with false sense of, “This is quirky but interesting,” and then right when you’ve invested too much to turn back (somewhere around Chapter 4), her style morphs into that of a sad, anemic, my-uncle-raped-me-when-I-was-12, tortured 19 year old song writer. The only problem with that, is it only works for 19 year old song writers, not pre-menopausal women who should’ve used their Liberal Arts degree for a better purpose, like writing blogs and working for The Man (ooo, burn on me, I’m a clever one).

I may be angry on the outside, but I’m happy on the inside. My vacation starts in approximately 25 hours, and I can’t wait! I’m tagging along on my boyfriend’s family vacation, and I am fairly certain it will be blog worthy. And if not, I’ll just lie my face off when I blog about it.

"My need to pee trumps YOUR need to pee." - quoted by me, to my dog, 5 minutes ago.

In my defense, I've had a few beers. You don't mess with that. ANYWAY...

See this girl? That's my half-sister. Technically, she's really my 2/3 sister. Super-duper long story short, my biological dad is a scumbag whoremonger who deserves to have his dick fall off. And down a storm drain. Never to be seen again. (I'll give you a moment to let that sink in) Needless to say, the only genetic difference between this chick and me is that we have different grandmothers. Our grandfathers were brothers, our mothers...first cousins. Well, that and I have waaaay better hair. So there's your "WTF" moment of the day. You're welcome.

It's no shock to anyone who knows me that people have said I was "mean." The reality is, those people have no sense of humor. Thankfully, I have discovered that the 'mean gene' is, in fact, for real. I found my 2/3 sister's Facebook page (thank you, Bing). Unfortunately (for her), my nosy ass discovered she only had most of it privatized (if that's a word...it is now). Luckily for me, she's *just* enough of an attention whore that she made one page public. Here are some blurbs from her posts:

"Money doesn't buy happiness but I'd rather cry in my Ferrari."
"Move out of the way, children, I've been waiting 11 years to see Toy Story 3."
"I don't like chicks with tans; it means they've been out of the kitchen."
"I don't care if the spider's 'not hurting anyone.' I want it DEAD."
"The amazing feeling of victory when you see karma kick someone's ass..."
"I'm gonna kill this bug...HOLY-SHIT-IT-FLIES!"
"Locking your animal in your room to make it spend time with you..."
"I will sit in my car an extra 10 seconds to hear part of a song."
"You cannot fathom the immensity of the f-ck I do not give."
"Saying 'Oh my God, I almost died!' when you really didn't."
"I can't hear you, so I'll just laugh and hope it wasn't a question."
"People saying 'We can still be friends' is like saying 'Your dog is dead but you can still keep it.' "

Be honest: if I didn't preface those phrases with, I didn't write these, you'd probably think they were me. Creepy, huh? Especially when you consider I've not only never met this chick, but she's a decade younger than me. Apparently the Douchebag Gene is a strong one. I dare say it's stronger than AIDs...well, if AIDS was a gene. Which it's not. But if it were...I'm gonna shut up now.

The point of the lesson is this: Genetics are a strong, strong, force. It's like the Jedi of Biology. Remember that the next time you have sex, and please, use a condom. Because that person only seems that cool 'cuz your drunk.