Oh, work.

My job is fab. But sometimes I wonder if I'm too close with my coworkers.

Coworker: I really like your outfit today.

Me: Thanks!

Coworker: Are you wearing your control top nylons?

Me: ....

Coworker: ....

Me: Yes.

The one where I make a fool of myself.

So we had a potential client visiting my office today. We're a pretty small company, and normally only interviews and salespeople come into our office. So this was a pretty big deal. I'm not high up or anything, so I wasn't supposed to be talking with them directly. Mainly, I just take customer support calls. But this company is like, uber paranoid about customer support, so they wanted to stand in my cube and listen to me take calls, and have me explain some typical calls we get.

Listen, I did a badass job at it. Chatted up the system, was friendly, all that happy sales-y horseshit. I was even wearing a suit jacket, which I haven't done since my job interview three years ago.

Unfortunately, after they left my cube, I looked down and realized my button down shirt had burst open due to my massive breasts (HA) and since they were standing up while I was sitting, they had a clear view down my tank top to my shiny blue bra.
Fuck.

Story of my life. Okay, no, not really, but I'm generally klutzy and make awkward comments and weird social faux paus. It's awesome.

That is all.

Roses are red...etc.

When I was in high school, I really wanted to be one of those punk, I just don't give a damn type of girls. I tried. Black clothes, baggy jeans, approximately ten jillion stupid rubber bracelets. It worked a little; I've always been kind of a smart-ass, I liked (gulp) Godsmack, and it was high school, so it's not like I was ever going to be totally happy. I had a pair of black boots that I freaking loved; my mom called them my shitkicker boots. I still have them in my closet at my parents house, because even when the sole split I just covered it with duct tape and kept wearing them.

The first time the sole split, I was walking home with my boyfriend at the time, and it was raining. My foot started to get wet, so he gave me a piggyback ride the last few blocks home. It was the romantic highlight of my life up to that point, which I think shows just how romantic my life was. He was a decent guy who thought he looked like Scott Stapp. (He didn't)* But we were not destined to be. He was actually destined to be with Claudia, my BFF from elementary school. Scott and Claudia met at my 16th birthday party. Scott and I were still dating at that point, but we broke up in February and a few weeks later, he asked out Claudia. They've been together ever since** Eight years people. That's fucking crazy. I don't talk to either of them (not a spiteful way, we just fell out of touch) but it's nice knowing that I'm some part of their story.

Oh, this is making me sound like a romantic, isn't it? Let's backtrack to punky shitkicking me. Scott Stapp and I broke up probably a few days before Valentine's Day. And my friends asked me, why don't you wait until after Valentine's Day? I guess they thought I wanted they typical Valentine's Day romance...dinner, candy blah blah blah. But it honestly didn't even cross my mind that I was dumping my boyfriend a few days before Valentine's Day. Because I really did. not. care. about that holiday. Or Scott, at that point. Sorry buddy.

I know, everyone says they don't care about Valentine's Day. It's like a rite of passage, to hate the commercialism of the holiday. It's probably the one holiday it's cool to hate. No one really likes it, do that?

Well, Boyfriend does. Now, I'm not complaining that I have a super nice boyfriend who likes to buy me presents and go out to dinner for romantic holidays. But...I am. Look, I like chocolate and wine and food. Who doesn't? It just seems so unnecessary. It's forced. I HAVE to buy him a card and I HAVE to be all lovey dovey and we HAVE to go out to dinner. I like buying things impulsively, or to celebrate a birthday, or special occasion. One night, I was being super crabby, so the next day I brought home a bottle of wine called BITCH as an apology. When I give a photo as a present, I always write the occasion and date on the back, so even if he doesn't see it for years, it's always there. My favorite nights are the ones where we're out out for hours, for no real reason, and I always end up learning something new about him. I don't need any candy hearts for that mushy shit.

Ugh, crap. Is this going to turn into one of those things where I try to be all snarky, but then end up learning the DEEP MEANING behind things? Why I should love Valentine's Day, and why it's important? Because that really wasn't the point.

I am a BAMF with no use for this holiday, mmkay?
(But maybe I'm looking forward to the chocolate)

*Actually, he kind of does!
**Yes, I doublechecked on Facebook to confirm this. What of it?

Zumba!

So last night was my first attempt at Zumba. Apparently, it's all the rage and despite my aversion to working out, it's supposed to be a lot of fun, so I went down to the YMCA, got my hand stamped, and Zumba-ed.

If you don't know, Zumba is a combination of different dances - hiphop, salsa, some other weird stuff. According to the official Zumba website, The Zumba® program fuses hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy-to-follow moves to create a one-of-a-kind fitness program that will blow you away. Well, I wouldn't go straight to blown away.

I read somewhere that you don't know how to dance to be good at Zumba. This is a lie. You know that song "Cha Cha Slide"? It's pretty simple, you slide to the left, slide to the right, at some point everybody claps their hands. But there's one part that always confused me, where you're instrcuted to cha-cha, real smooth ya'll. And you kind step front to back and try to shake your hips, and wait until the instructions are more clean cut.

That's how I felt most of Zumba. There were some parts I could follow - when everybody was kicking, or turning in circles. But most of the time I just felt like I was shaking my hips and hoping for the best. And honestly, I'm not very good at shaking my hips.

I don't think it helped that in a class of about 60, I was in the back row. I could barely see the perky blonde instructer. I could hear her, because she had a mic, and she kept encouraging people to whoop in a excited, Latin dancing type of way. This to me felt more akward than the hip/boob shaking.

Also, there was like a 75 year old woman who was kicking my ass. I felt pretty shitty about this at first, until I realized that when she tried to shake her ass, EVERYTHING on her shook. Not because she was...er, hefty, but because there was just a LOT of loose skin flapping around. For about a nanosecond I felt good about my firm, young person skin. But then I realized that unless I keep working out, eventually I would turn into that lady, except with less rhythm.

So to sum up - Zumba is a little fun, a lot bad for my self-esteem, and I'll be back in class on Saturday.

You have some...Artz on you

LOST last night. It blew. My. Mind.

Okay, just the first five minutes did. And Desmond on the plane did. Otherwise it was just a solid two hours of television.

I think the Dharma wine/beer/fish biscuits helped.