Barrel of Monkeys
My dear friend, Deez, used to date a rather laid-back gentleman when we were roommates in college. He was, unlike us, a very quiet sort. In fact, I’m pretty sure in the 2 years Deez and I lived together, I probably only heard him speak a grand total of maybe 5 sentences. Somewhere along the line, when Deez was frustrated with Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected for his apparent lack of the fun gene, she (or I? or someone else? I can’t remember) sarcastically referred to him as a Barrel of Monkeys, which the two of us thought was just THE FUNNIEST THING EVER. I mean, HIM? A barrel of monkeys?!
Uh…we were kind of high. A lot.
Anyhoo, apparently it is MY turn to be the proverbial Barrel of Monkeys, as the non-fun hormones are in full force around here, and I ain’t even kidding. In fact, don’t stand too close. You might get some on your shoes.
And now, for your entertainment:
THINGS THAT HAVE OVERWHELMED ME TO THE POINT OF TEARS TODAY, TWO DAYS REMOVED FROM WHEN MY 6-MONTHS-PREGNANT SISTER ASKED ME, “SO, ARE YOU ALL WEEPY YET?” TO WHICH I REPLIED, “NO, NOT AT ALL,” SO YES, HA HA HA, UNIVERSE, I GET IT, YOU WIN:
- Work, and the emails/tasks/people/meetings/software therein.
- Work. Did I already say that?
- The ten jillion Outlook reminders I set sometime last week, so that in my nausea and crankiness this morning, I had about 3049573046 annoying reminders of how much fucking work I have to do popping up in my face left and right. RAGE.
- Qdoba, which provided me with the most delicious veggie tacos that their website claims are totally healthy, but in my heart of hearts I know there is no way they can taste that good and not be increasing the square footage of my ass. LIARS.
- My midsection, which looks like it is sprouting a beer gut without the joy of actually ingesting beer; the fact that I have to try to suck in said midsection around coworkers who do not yet know The News, and OW, sucking in is HARD today.
- My mind, which cannot seem to comprehend that my body feels assy and lumpy and achy and pukey because of THE BABY that is in there; mind is instead convinced that the baby exists somewhere in outer space, possibly adjacent to Saturn; mind really needs slapped right about now.
- Girl Talk’s Feed the Animals. Yes, I became emotionally moved by this album, which contains so much profanity that if my mother listened to it, she would never stop passing out. Please don’t ask me what my emotional reaction to this means, because frankly, I’m afraid to find out.
- Husband, who – after enduring a very long phone call of hushed hysterics from his very unstable wife this morning – showed up at her office with FLOWERS (and cash money so she could fill her belly with tacos). And no, I do not deserve him. And no, you cannot have him.
- This whole maternity leave hoo-ha, which OH MY GOD, AMERICA, you are SO FUCKED UP when it comes to this. Parents should have sufficient leave when it comes to their fucking babies (ESPECIALLY for the parent who shoots said baby OUT HER VAGINA), so please get your shit together and take a lesson from the other countries who provide such generous leave and still manage to function just fine, thank you very fucking much.
- The creeping feeling – no, the SOLID BELIEF – that the maternity leave issue would be obsolete if it was MEN who had to shoot the babies out their privates. I mean, are you kidding me? If men had babies, there would be free, in-house day care for every company, as well as Pregnancy Leave AND Menstrual Leave. I mean, can you imagine a man having to come to work with CRAMPS? Bitch, please.
- The realization that I didn’t make the connection in the whole Barrel of Monkeys story clear. I didn’t mean that he was a Barrel of Monkeys because he was calm, I meant he was a Barrel of Monkeys because he was NOT FUN. Like me. Because right now, I am about as fun as rectal transplant, and yes, they do actually have those. Ow.
- Me. I mean, can you blame me? Listen to me. Shut up, me.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.