AF

Email to Neno dated 6/14:
Calabaza! I took another pee test this morning. The result was not pregnant. (I just thought of something funny: a pregnancy test with your results read by Borat. You are *not* pregnant. Very nice!)

I hate errbody this morning. I'm in too much pain --such that the idea of being stabbed repeatedly in the uterus sounds refreshing -- it's too hot, and work is too busy.

Yesterday marked the end of an era in my life, a time when I was sober for four solid weeks for fear of being knocked up (as in the condition, not the possibility). I was getting really into that whole I'm-gonna-be-a-mom-time-to-get-all-self-righteous thing. Growing up, on my birthday or whenever my mom wanted a back rub, she'd say "Did I ever mention how painful it was to give birth to you?" To which I'd respond I didn't ask to be born. As I was eating for two these past four weeks, looking longingly at my husbands longneck (and I don't even like beer), I thought of the ways I was going to guilt this child of mine. Did I ever mention how long I went without a drinky drink for you?

Lo and behold, the universe plotted against my selfishness and sent that bitch aunt flo upon me instead. To be real, it was a long, restless few weeks of not knowing what was happening underneath but I actually believed I must be pregnant. I'm at a point in my life that if I get knocked up it wouldn't be so terrible, so it was an exciting thought, despite the sobriety and prospect of cankles. Thankfully I'm past the days of frantic google searches done on behalf of friends (I've always been a prude living vicariously through the misadventures of my friends) eliciting gems like "Help! Plan B failed and now I need a Plan C!"

Neno is a lucky man

I walk through the front door, delirious from a long day working in front of glowing computer screens. I'm greeted with a kiss by my husband, decked out in his jammies, sitting at the kitchen table reading medical study guides -- which is surprising, because usually he's playing call of duty when I get home. I'm giddy and hyper, because that's what happens when I see my husband when I'm tired. I go to the bedroom to change and notice the bed is made. "Calabaza! You made the bed! Thank you! I love my Calabaza!" I shout in the childlike voice I save for my closest friends.

I wasn't looking forward to straightening up my morning tornado of reject clothes or making the bed. (I have to make the bed before getting into it to sleep again). To show gratitude, I bend over, lift my skirt, and moon Neno, displaying my pink, zebra print underwear. "Calabaza look!"

Unfazed, he briefly looks up from his book offers a pity chuckle and says, "I like that underwear."

Pointing to my hanes-her-way on the table (isn't that where you keep your underwear?), he suggests "You should only wear those for working out. Lately you've been wearing them every day. The underwear you're wearing now are better."

The underwear I'm wearing now are the cotton victoria secret variety. It's tighter, but still comfortable, than my beloved hanes briefs (hanes should pay me, or do I wear fruit-of-the-loom? I don't know, something like that, you know what I mean). I recently went to Walmart to stock up on my XXL granny panties and bought new briefs while I was at it. When I pack to go on a trip, my underwear takes up most of the space. I have different underwear for sleeping, running, and daily life.

"What, you don't like the hanes? You think I look bad in them?" I ask laughing, plotting to wear them every day.

"Yes, those are flaggy." He means saggy, but isn't that the cutest thing -- flaggy. "I prefer the Victoria Secret underwear you bought. It's tighter."

Did I mention I'm tired? So this conversation is so funny to me. I laugh throwing my head back. "But the granny panties always turn you on, right?"

He mumbles something like, "yeah only for sleeping."

I'm humored and perplexed, I always thought he was as much a fan as I of the belly high, 'flaggy' look. Does anyone have a picture of me in my granny panties to post? If not, I'll snap a new one when I get home. It's about time the internet sees me in all my glory.

educated citizenry

Although I joke and bitch a lot about paying my monstrous college loan debt while being utterly underemployed, I love and agree with this article from NPR about a book expressing that college education is more valuable in more ways than just the potential income that one might make in the end. College shouldn't be dismissed altogether, even though one could end up like me -- scraping by on a crap hourly wage that goes mostly towards paying $500 in loans each month.

http://www.npr.org/2011/06/11/137093258/professor-value-of-college-extends-beyond-paycheck?ps=cprs

I may be a lowly worker, but I know how to get along with anyone while hating everyone. Plus I can charmingly bullshit my way through anything (I went to a good business school). And nothing feels better than knowing that I'm more educated and cultured than...I don't know who, someone rich and embarrassing -- like Snooki.

I'm kidding (except I am proud I'm not Snooki). I actually came away from university feeling so small and stupid, as my horizons were expanded and sense of relativity awakened. Now I'm small, stupid, poor, and I know a lot of smart people who do amazing things, so I also have really low self esteem. But I would never vote for Sarah Palin...so that's a win for an "educated citizenry."

One day, driven by my low self worth but masked by my desire to help people, I'll acquire more education -- and more debts, of course -- and hopefully do something useful for my fellow man (whom I loathe). I have plans, but I don't tell people because I'm shy like that.

Edit: I just spell checked this post. College should offer spelling (as an elective course, maybe?)for those curious to learn how.

TGIMFF

I generally shouldn't admit this, but I'm at the part of my day where I avoid eye contact and pretend to be busy in hopes that the person walking towards me at the desk decides to figure-it-out instead.

Today I started off in an optimistic, isn't-life-grand kind of mood, then I got to work. I'm good at what I do and I enjoy helping people (idiots), but I have an alter ego in my head who screams obscenities all day.

When I say, "Hi, how can I help you?" with a customer service smile, my inner bitch says What now?

When I say, "I'm sorry I don't understand what you're asking me. What is it that I can help you with?" with a concerned furrowed brow to someone who has a long, drawn out, melodramatic explanation to a probably simple question, the voice inside screams, Bitch, I don't know your life! Just get to the point.

When I respond "No problemo!" with a smiley face to a supervisor who sends a passive aggressive email demanding something disguised as a request, complete with bitchy smiley face emoticons, the smart ass inside of me types I'll think about it.

When I kindly tell the man yapping on his cell phone, "Hi sir, please whisper or refrain from talking on the phone as it disturbs those around you," the bitch inside growls you're on my last fucking nerve right now, buddy.

It's really exhausting being nice with this bitch inside. I'm also rul (not real, but rul, when you spell a word and use it grammatically incorrectly, the intensity doubles) hungry, which is like fuel to the bitch fire. Tonight is date night, so Neno and I are going to our favorite Indian restaurant. I just have to hang on and act sweet for one more hour, then I'll knock this bitch out eating some spicy, vegetarian South Indian grub with my papi chulo. Grub? I hate when people say shit like that.

I had an eating disorder for 13 years and a popular therapy strategy that worked well for me -- besides chasing my heavy medication with alcohol -- was referring to the eating disorder as "Ed," and distinguishing myself from him. I didn't have a problem; it was that asshole Ed. I liked this blame game so well, I use it all the time --for example there's "The Bitch" that I spoke of earlier and "Vinny" who likes his wine. I don't have an eating disorder anymore, but I'm a little schizophrenic. Which is so much better.