Monday, October 26, 2009

You've Lost That Loving Feeling...

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

What the FUCK is that NOISE?!?

Oh wait, that’s right. That’s just my BIOLOGICAL CLOCK TICKING! (Side note: why does no one ever say its tocking?)

But seriously. How can this be happening? I’m only TWENTY THREE!!!!

There are a multitude of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening to me right now. I’m not even going to try to list them all at this point except the most obvious, which is… I’m poor. No, seriously. I really am. I’m still like a small child… that smokes, drinks, and cusses like a sailor, but the point is… As mature as I am, I am still WAY too immature to procreate right now. I can’t even afford myself the majority of the time, so what the hell would I do with an extra human lying around?

Unlike me, the baby could not subsist on cigarettes, Coke, and Velveeta shells and cheese for long periods of time.

They need new clothes every five and half minutes because they either A.) Soil themselves in some fashion or B.) Have grown a foot since you (tried) to lay them down for a nap.

So, the question begs to be asked again, WHY ME?!? Why NOW?!?

What has caused my traitorous ovaries to send forth these messages to the rest of my body that say “Gear up, cause oh boy! Next time a penis comes anywhere NEAR the gate we’re going to turn into sperm magnets! We’re just going to suck those little fishies right up through the filter!”? Or, “Oh, that’s cute. A condom. Really? Do you think we haven’t figured this one out yet? How do you think your friends got here?”

All I know is that for the vast majority of my month (or two if they’re feeling particularly mean “Just doing the practice runs for the real thing! Don’t mind us! We’ll release our eggy hostage right after you’ve cried and peed on that stick for the fourth time!”) I am completely fine. I don’t even CARE about sex, men, battery-operated boyfriends, or double clicking my mouse, but then… out of nowhere… comes this feeling.You know… THAT feeling. The same feeling you get when you walk into Abercrombie & Fitch and smell the Fierce cologne they’ve napalmed the store with and have to physically restrain yourself from humping the mannequins. Oh yes, THAT feeling! Twenty-eight odd days of freedom and then perhaps you bump into something with your pelvis, or maybe sit down weird, feel the bass from the car next to you, or I don’t know, SNEEZE, and the next thing you know you’ve gotta have it and you’ve gotta have it RIGHT NOW!

Everything starts to look good. Ex-boyfriends have gotten hotter, next door neighbors are causing palpitations, and my, doesn’t that bar stool look inviting? It is all you can do to keep those hormones at bay with your ovaries screaming “TAKE ME! TAKE ME NOW!” at every fertile male that passes. And you know what? It’s all a trick.

Your ovaries are revving up the engine in hopes that some stray, decent looking Y chromosome will come near them, just begging you to please have sex and do it now, don’t you think you would feel better? Because they know… they know that that stupid little egg is all nestled up on its love seat, primping itself in the mirror and putting on its best lingerie in the hopes of attracting one (or God forbid, MORE) little sailors to its den of iniquity so it can have its way with it and then… “Oh, look what we made you! A BABY!”

And that’s just when they’re not causing me to double over in pain and scream.

That is their punishment for me. As if getting me so worked up I catch myself walking with my legs jammed shut just for the friction isn’t bad enough, they decided to launch a bloody (no pun intended) freaking JIHAD on my ass for not procreating.

They usually call a truce when I poke at them with my index finger through my stomach, bend over and scream “If you two don’t knock it off I’m going to SELL YOUR EGGS!” at them though. They’ll retreat, re-group, and launch a sneak attack when I’m not paying attention.

I’ve had this curse of womanhood for thirteen years. That’s right I was ten years old when this bitch showed up on my doorstep (or more accurately, my white shorts during Social Studies in the 5th grade). For the majority of that time, they’ve been doing THAT to me. They’re evidently getting really pissed off at me for not listening, because NOW… they’re launching psychological warfare.

I keep dreaming I’m pregnant. If that wasn’t bad enough, the last time I had this dream it came complete with an ultrasound with a due date and name on it. The due date minus the date of the dream was the perfect incubation time for a nice little human baby. My ovaries are better at math than I am. The only place they messed up? I will not be naming any baby of mine “Joseph”. No offense to the Josephs, but it isn’t happening.

Can anyone help me? And I don’t mean by knocking me up. I just want these evil bitches to shut up and leave me alone until I’m ready for them.

I'm tired of melting inside every time I see a baby or getting so bored I look up baby names which makes me want to have one even MORE!  Baby clothes, cribs, bibs, costumes, and the biggest one of all?  Little tiny baby shoes.  They get me.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Without fail. 

I need help....   Please?  I can't afford them, they're pretty expensive from what I've seen when I tried to price them on Ebay.  I want to, at some point in the next 18 years and 9 months, move back out of my parents house.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Adventures in Retail Hell Pt.1

Now, don’t get me wrong, I had many fun and memorable moments at the place I used to work; a place which may or may not sell various tractor components as well as a wide array of interesting things for those who partake in the rural lifestyle.

Just today, I threw a book at an elderly gentleman as he was exiting the store, which had closed an hour before due to it being New Year’s Eve. I would not have thrown my delightful non-fiction comedy at this man if he hadn’t moved with the mental speed of a stoned turtle. The doors were closed… and turned off… but not locked.

Ok, question time here folks, if you walk up to a retail store and the AUTOMATIC doors don’t open, what would you do?
I, personally, would walk away, but does anyone here do that? NO! They pull the doors open and walk in.
“Sir!”, “We’re closed!” I say.

Elderly gentleman followed by wife proceeds into the checkout area.
Wife, “Oh, you’re closed?” No shit Sherlock!

“Yes ma’am, we’re closed, we closed at four today.”

They walk out leaving the doors wide open; I throw my book.

Of all the times for old people ears to work, he hears it and comes back to close the doors which I have sprinted to and locked. At a death defying speed I might add. I smoke, and just walking fast enough to keep my feet from shuffling is an aerobic exercise, so running is pretty much out of the question except it dire situations.
But sadly, these were some of my brighter customers.
It’s disconcerting to know that my living space is co-habited by people whose gene pools are so shallow I could stand on a Popsicle stick and keep my toes dry. These next few examples are things that happened on pretty much a daily basis.
We didn’t have to wear uniforms at work; we wore what we wished plus a super cool red vest! It had my name on it. It had the company’s name on it… and their logo. And it was BRIGHT RED, which just happened to be the company color.

I’m meandering around the store, trying to look busy, picking stuff up and putting it in a different wrong spot when this man approaches me. Now, I’m not getting a “Hi, my name is __________ and I’m a Fuck Tard!” vibe off of him, he seems pretty average, but woo boy. He’s special.
“Hey, do you work here?” says the special man.

I bite my lip, look down at my vest for a minute and put on my most pensive expression

I pull out the vest so all the names and logos are clear, turn my attention back to Special Ed and say “No… I just like the vest”. And with that I turn and walk away from the man I’m sure was created from one of the sperm with no tail.
Then there are the people who had the disadvantage of not being able to see my spiffy red vest. They would call and ask questions. One of my favorites was:
“You’re right next to that Chinese restaurant, right?”

“Yeah, you mean the No. 1 Buffet?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it. What’s the number?”
Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD!
Umm… 411? I’m not information. If I had that kind of power I wouldn’t have been working there.
Sometimes they would ask for other businesses, usually our competitors, and God forbid we not have what they were looking for or they might just say in their best bitchy voice “Well (Insert dramatic sigh) I guess we’ll just have to go to Lowe’s to get that”. Right, and I care why?
Back to the phone thing though.
Here at (Insert name of farm equipment store) we had to answer the phone like the six dollar an hour professionals that we were. It went a little something like this… Hit it! Sorry.
“Thank you for calling __________, this is Heather, what are you looking for today?”
One, it sounds rude, so I would add all of the southern charm I had to it and turn it into a Paula Deen like greeting of “Whatcha lookin’ for tuhday?” Nice, huh?

Two, its inviting a proposition of some sort. The most common answer I got was “Aha, you”. Weyull, fiddle dee dee mister, watch as I swoon right into the bed of your pickup truck. Or we have my personal favorite, which I reported to my boss, who didn’t care, “Hot, steamy sex in the shower”. Ok, it was my best friend, but still.
Ok, so this would happen, at least once an hour, every day.
“Thank you for calling ______; this is Heather, whatcha lookin’ for tuhday?”
“Umm… is this ‘name of the store where I worked’?”
“Nope, it’s Pizza Hut.”

You were definitely a two headed sperm.

Tune back in later for the stunning conclusion!