Dr. Seuss, Anesthesia, and the Cleaning Lady

My cleaning lady is awesome. Seriously, I wouldn't trade her for the world. Not only does she clean my house, she knows where my gun and all my adult toys are hidden. You HAVE to trust a lady with that kind of information about you. She did suggest that keeping the economy size box of condoms in the same drawer with a loaded Glock might send the wrong message to overnight gentleman callers. I pointed out that the guys I bring home usually don't qualify as "gentlemen" anyway.

Last week I was at work when I get a phone call from the anesthesiologist responsible for "putting me down" before the foot surgery I had scheduled for that Friday. He said, "I'm calling do your pre-op questions but I tried calling your house first and some lady answered the phone screaming, maybe you should call home and check on her."

I was immediately concerned. "Screaming? Screaming what?"

He responded, "Well, there was a lot of noise, sounded like sirens almost, in the background and she answered the phone yelling stuff like 'I'm the cleaning lady, don't call the cops' and something about a password and Dr. Seuss. It was all very confusing."

I asked him if I could call home and then call him back.

Turns out my cleaning lady accidentally set my alarm off when she came in. When she tried to disarm it again to stop the noise, it didn't work. So, the phone rang and she assumed it was the alarm company but when she answered, she couldn't hear the person on the other end of the line and so she just started yelling, "I'm the cleaning lady, don't call the cops. The password is Dr. Seuss, the password is Dr. Seuss."

She finally got the alarm off, the alarm company called my cell with the same story about a lady yelling about Dr Seuss and don't call the cops. I explained. The police call was canceled. My cleaning lady was given permission to partake in the bottle of vodka on the counter. And I called the anesthesiologist back. His first question, "Who's driving you to surgery Friday, it's not your cleaning lady is it?"

Note: my password isn't actually "Dr. Seuss" (I just used that for the blog post) but the real password is equally ridiculous.

Working on Sunday is Hazardous

So, I'm at work on a Sunday. Why? Well because...I just am.

My friends texting me to say, "What? Why aren't you *insert more fun activity here*?" you are not helping the situation.

So, I drank a lot last night, and the night before because it's my birthday week in which I manage to guilt random friends into taking me out to dinner every night until I've drilled a fresh hole in my liver from the free drinks and eaten at least 10 lbs of red meat. I refuse to feel guilty for all the calories...or the drunk texts. But as a result of such gluttony, my digestive system is making itself a little difficult to get along with today, if you know what I mean.

I headed into the ladies room thankful that I'm the only idiot stupid enough to work on a Sunday when I encountered a spider. And I don't mean a small but terrifying sort, I mean the kind that has a body the size of my big toe with furry legs and shit and is big enough for you to see the malice in his eyes kind of terrifying spider. And it was between me and the stall in the bathroom. In a panic fit I grabbed the air freshener off the sink and sprayed the beast as it ran and I did my "ew, spider" dance (which looks oddly like a cross between the chicken dance and Irish step dancing) and squealed.

I then dropped the air freshener and ran out of the ladies room because I was both terrified to continue my showdown with the spider and because of the overwhelming perfume-y "Springtime Fresh" smell of the air freshener was about to suffocate me.

Unfortunately, my "fight or flight" reflex is no match for the amount of alcohol and red meat I've consumed in the past 48 hours so I was forced to use the men's room because I'm pretty sure that the spider is waiting behind the ladies room door to eat me alive and because I'm pretty sure I'd asphyxiate in there after emptying most of the bottle of air freshener. This is okay because I'm the only one in the office...or so I thought.

As I got back to my desk, one of the men that works here comes into my office and asks, "do you know who else is here?" and I'm all, "Nope." And he goes, "Well, some one's definitely here, the men's room toilet is clogged and I just used it an hour ago and it worked fine." I tried to look innocent as I said, "Weird. Maybe they already left."

For the record, it appeared to flush just fine when I used it so I have no idea how it's suddenly clogged. Maybe that spider followed my trail and fell into it? That's probably it.

Fruit Flies are Perverts

I have to tell you, things didn't work out with Mr. Melty-Pants. I know, you're thinking, "Wow, that was super quick." You're right. I knew he was still dating other girls and given that we had yet to consummate our growing lust, that was okay with me. However, when I started to feel more like the "backup plan" and less like the "go-to girl" I realized it was time to bow out of the race. After all, I have other guys asking me out and so there's no reason to play pinch hitter when Mr. Melty-Pants' priority girl is washing her hair or something.

But today I'm here to tell you about how I've discovered the perversion of fruit flies. I mean, really perverted.

It all started on match.com which is obviously where most stories about perverts originate, at least since Craigslist has now eliminated the "find a hooker" section of its site. So, this guy that Match.com thinks I'm compatible with has a profile including the story of how he ended his medical school career because he was thwarted by the triple recessive genes of the Drosophila Melanogaster.

I am far too much of a geek to just presume that this is a trivial part of the story and so of course I Googled it and learned that it's Greek for "dark-bellied dew lover" (I am not making this shit up). Also, it's the name that really dorky people use for fruit flies. I was quickly becoming bored with the Wikipedia entry for fruit flies when I spotted this picture (helpfully embellished by moi):

Moral of the story: Fruit flies are obviously perverts. I mean, I think it's pretty obvious from the above picture that the next thing that third fruit fly will do is try to turn this into a threesome.

Secondary moral of the story: WTF kind of medical school is teaching you about the triple recessive genes of perverted fruit flies? I know I'm not a doctor but how is this helpful when I'm having ha heart attack or some poor guy is having one of those dangerous four-hour erections all of those prescription impotence pill commercials are constantly warning about?

Tertiary moral of the story: If you have a dangerous four hour erection, you could just call me because I've now read all about fruit flies on Wikipedia and apparently it's the same stuff they're teaching doctors these days and frankly, since things didn't work out with Mr. Melty-Pants I could use a...I mean, I could probably save you the cost of an emergency room visit.

Whatever-comes-after-tertiary moral of the story: It's probably best to avoid any insect references in your online dating profile but if you have to reference one, pick one that's less perverted than fruit flies. I mean, I'm not responding to you because now I'm convinced that you're into voyeurism and threesomes.

Clearing my Karma

Ok, so if we rewind back to like eons ago when I named Mr. Ass-hat and the "red-headed whore" he didn't even bother to dump me for but just invited over to spend the night (probably without even washing the sheets since the last time I had spent the night) and Twitter was the only way I even found out about the whole thing since she posted a picture of his dog in his bed at 9am on a Monday morning which I saw and immediately jumped to all possible conculsions and still don't really know which of those conclusions I was right and wrong about and don't care anymore but at the time felt scorned and therefore angry....caught up now? Yeah, so that's when I named him Mr. Ass-hat. I named her "the red-headed whore" and I think maybe even something about run-on-sentences which apparently bothered me at the time but since then I appear to have been smitten with the same affliction so yeah, whatever. Besides, I'm an engineer, not only are we the kings and queens of run-on sentences but we're not really even qualified to judge a sentence for it's run-onny-ness.

Anyway, after that I kind of started reading her blog in a "stalking your ex's new girl so you can find out why he thinks she's better than you" kind of way.

Then she started following me on Twitter which was all kinds of weird.

After several weeks, I followed her back...I still don't know why.

Then she started INTERACTING with me on Twitter...and like commenting on stuff I said and asking me questions and shit.

And, she makes me laugh. And when I've been sad, she's cheered me up. And when good things have happened for her, I'm genuinely happy for her. And when bad things have happened, I'm genuinely concerned. And, she's adorably cute.

And so, I don't really think she had/has any idea that she accidently lead to the scorning of me by Mr. Ass-hat. It actually wasn't her fault he wanted to invite her to spend the night in his bed with or without clean sheets (and when he's not wearing his ass-hat, he is adorable, so that's probably why she said yes). It wasn't her fault if he didn't tell her he was seeing someone (and if she did know, I don't want to know about that). AND, me and Mr. Ass-Hat were not exclusive...and I'd only stayed at his place once and that's mostly because a water pipe broke in my house.

And now, I find myself looking foward to reading her blog because she's got talent (and way more readers than I have). And, we have a lot of the same Twitter friends and they're awesome. And right now, she's sad...she's very sad and it actually hurts my heart because I know what it's like to be that sad. And if I ran into her out and about, I'd immediately recognize her because she's the cutest damn thing ever and I'd run up to her and hug her like the old friend she's sort of become to me (in an online communication kind of way). And when she's crying over Ass-hat, I'd let her do it on my shoulder...even if I was wearing something that is dry clean only.

And so, we will be renaming her...from here on out, she will be known as my Twitter-Sister. So, if you see someone sad today, give them a hug because for all you know, it might be her. And if you online stalk her like I did, you won't be able to help yourself...you'll love her too.

Savor This!

I should NOT be eating french fries. This is because I joined Weight Watchers like back in February or something and I've lost zero pounds while my girlfriend I joined with is in an entirely new skinnier wardrobe while I still have to lay down to button my fat jeans. My skinny jeans are just taking some time off. And, don't get me wrong, you can have fast food on Weight Watchers, you just have to commit to broccoli for the rest of the day. I'm bad at committing to things like housework and vegetables and so as a result, I've lost no weight and even though I haven't been able to wear my skinny jeans they're still in the laundry hamper because why waste the effort to wash them if I can't wear them anyway?

Today I had a late doctor's appointment and so I waited to have lunch afterwards. I needed something quick. And what's quicker than Wendy's? I thought, I could just get a burger and skip the fries but then I also thought, "well, that's just retarded." So, I got a burger with fries and I was sooooooo excited. You'd think this was the first time I'd had Wendy's in like 3 days and it's really only been 2 (true story).

I taste my delicious fried potatoey treats only to realize, "Whoa these babies need salt." I searched my bag and alas, no salt. I was at a crossroads, either walk all the way to the front of the building carrying my Wendy's box of fries to search for salt in the kitchen or just eat them as they were. Since there was no guarantee of salt in the kitchen, I decided to eat them as they are using that well-known fact that if something doesn't taste as good as you wanted it to, it obviously has zero calories. This is the cornerstone of most diet plans. Eat food we tell you tastes just like the full fat version and when you're all disappointed, the calories disappear and you lose weight. It's been proven, I'm pretty sure.

So, I eat my calorie-free french fries and I'm down to the last one and I decide to savor it as I lean back in my chair with my eyes closed lowering it into my mouth and realize whatever I just put into my mouth is not a french fry at all...it's not even in the potato family! It's the salt packet. FOUND IT! Too late.

Thus, not only did I not get to savor my last french fry because it got upstaged by the salt but I also ate an entire thing of under-salted fries. I am so disappointed. I'm pretty sure that level of disappointment negated the calories from the Big Bacon Classic too. I can totally skip working out today.

Shower Yoga: Upward Facing Clam

Ok, so you'll remember from my previous post that shower yoga with a razor was on my schedule for yesterday and I have successfully whipped the lady bits into shape with the now aptly named yoga pose "upward facing clam."

I was also asked out by a girl which is unrelated to my clam story. I mentioned this to Mr. Melty-Pants and he said, "I think you should go, and I should go too." Of course he does. But look, if I can't figure out which date is the "sex but not a slut" date then I surely don't know which date is the "group sex" date. Besides, I think I pulled a muscle doing yoga in the shower.

And Mr. Melty-Pants made plans with me for Sunday which sucks because by Sunday I will surely have to shave again and who knows if my pulled muscle will be healed enough to get my leg over my head again.

Seriously, I'm about to justify laser hair removal to myself because having to explain why you're late to work by saying, "Well, it's really important to stretch before showering but it takes some extra time," is just opening yourself up to awkward questions at the office.

Mr. Pants-Melter

I met a guy a few weeks ago and I'm in trouble guys. I like him. A lot.

So, on our last date, he finally kissed me...in that up-against-a-wall kind of way. My biggest problem now is that I'm not sure what date it is that I can sleep with him without being a slut. I was never good at not being a slut apparently because it seems like remembering which date is the "sex date" is pretty important...like rule 1 of "No, I'm not a slut." So, sorry Mom. I'm probably going to screw this up. Good thing you don't read my blog.

So anyway, last night in a fit of bad decisions brought on by the fact that I was stuck at the office still at 9pm and there were no sporks available with which to gouge my own eyes out, I agreed to engage in some stress relief that did not involve ocular mutilation and meet him at his place for some late drinks. Plus he offered to massage out this knot going on in my back as a result of all this hard manual desk-labor. Don't look at me like that, this mouse is heavy if you're a lazy person that eats as much fast food as I do. Anyway, he bribed me with Jack Daniels and promises of massages...that's what I'm getting at. Plus, since the hella-awesome making out from the last date, I was pretty sure that this was going to end up in naked bodies on the floor in a sweaty pile of delicious fun but I wasn't sure if that was okay yet or if I need more dates to reach "not a slut" status. I decided to not care.

But, on the way to his house, I almost had a mental breakdown because I wasn't sure about the landscaping. I mean, I don't usually skip out completely on tending the front lawn but when I'm single it's more of a quick "weedwacker" fashion than a "yoga in the shower to get all the nooks and crannies" fashion. I decided to throw caution to the wind and hope that I could distract him with circus tricks or something if we got that far.

We did not.

Don't get me wrong, there was awesome snuggling, laughing, and some really hot making out. At one point, I kind of thought my pants might just fall off...or melt off...but they did not. And so I left to go home way too late and there was one incident in which his labrador tried to get in on the making out...but despite all that. I can't wait to see him again.

And I'm totally about to do some shower yoga with my razor just in case my pants melt next time I see him. Can't be too careful.

And thus he was dubbed "Mr. Pants-Melter"...God I hope he lives up to it.