Where Is YOUR Cheese?

Remember when you were a kid, and your parents always said "if you pick a job doing something you love, you'll never work a day in your life"? That was really good advice that's only taken me a few decades to follow. 

On July 21st, I gave up my desk job and haven't looked back. A lot of people thought I was crazy to walk away from a steady income, health insurance, and retirement savings. But I think most people are crazy to stay in a job that makes them miserable, regardless of any benefits it might offer. 

It's funny how the rat race sucks you in. As a doe-eyed young adult, you finally land a job that you're actually proud to tell people about - even though it probably doesn't pay all of your bills. But that's ok because you're going to put in your dues, find the right company, work your way up the ladder, and one day be CEO. Then you wake up 20 years, 6 companies, and 2 Jack Welch books later, wondering why the hell you're still rowing with the other slaves while someone else makes all the money. Sure, you've done ok for yourself, but it's not the warm fuzzy feeling you were hoping for at age 40 - and shit gets real. 

At what could realistically be the halfway point of your life, you begin to understand what your parents were talking about all those years ago. And you desperately wish you could turn back the clock and give it another shot, but you can't. So you have a couple drinks, watch some remarkably timed inspirational videos in your Facebook feed, and actually allow yourself to dream. 

So I'm taking the leap and choosing happiness. I still have no idea what I'm going to do, or where I'll end up. But I do know one thing for sure - I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

That Time I Shit Myself

When I was 18 I dated a 24 year old guy named Dave. In my youth, I thought this was extremely sophisticated because he was obviously a very wise, older man. With a giant mole on his forehead and a mullet that rivaled Billy Ray Cyrus'. 

One Sunday afternoon he asked me to join him and his dog, Roxy, for a walk in the forest preserve near his house. Consumed with the romantic possibilities, I said “Yes!” and put on a sexy casual outfit of flannel shorts and a white t-shirt (I was 18 - what did I know about being sexy?!). He picked me up in his super cool silver hatchback and off we went. 

We walked hand in hand through the preserve while Roxy chased squirrels and paused to dine on an occasional tuft of grass. It was a beautiful warm fall day, full of hope and possibilities for young lovers. We strolled for an hour or so, reciting Wordsworth, picking wildflowers, listening to birdsong. The autumnal sun cloaked the world in a magical blaze, illuminating his face (mole), streaming through his hair (mullet). We were a romance novel cover. (Ok, that may be a slight embellishment.)

When Roxy was finished playing, we made our way back to the car so she could have some water. Dave opened the hatchback and sat down while Roxy quenched her thirst. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the car, toward him. He held my face gently in his hands and as he kissed me, a million butterflies danced in my stomach. After an eternity of kissing, we sat in the hatchback, in the empty parking lot, gazing into each other’s eyes. The butterflies were still going crazy in my stomach and, although this gave me slight pause, I chose to ignore them.

And then my stomach decided it would have the last word. In less than a millisecond my insides were churning, making obnoxiously loud not-so-sexy sounds. Dave asked if I was ok and as I bolted up I told him I was a little nauseous and thought I might throw up (because that’s what every guy wants to hear after he’s been kissing you). Luckily there was a Port-a-Potty at the far end of the empty parking lot. I say ‘luckily’ because, in that moment, I knew I was headed somewhere south of throwing up. And then I made the mistake to end all mistakes: I ran for the Port-a-Potty. 

If you’ve ever shit your pants (or shorts, as the case may be) you know that running only makes it worse. Much worse. By the grace of God, I made it into the Port-a-Potty before anything got too far. Once I was inside, I was faced with the horror of having to clean up. As I was frantically grabbing for toilet paper and trying to stay as still as possible, someone knocked on the door. What the...?!?!?! Dave asked, “Are you ok?” I told him I was fine, just needed a few minutes. 

So I spent the next 10 minutes trying to clean up my shorts so that no one would EVER know what happened. Sadly, life has a wicked sense of humor. My shorts might as well have been ultra thirsty paper towels. There was no hope - I was walking out of there with shitty shorts. 

When I eventually came to terms with the situation, I made the torturous walk back to his car. To add insult to injury, the car had light blue cloth seat covers. As I climbed in I tried to position myself on my left hip so as not to make ass contact with the seat. For the 20 minute ride back to my house, I didn’t move and I didn’t say a word. All I could do was hope for a meteor to drop out of the sky and crush me to death. Even though the windows were all rolled down, I could still smell it, so I know he could, too. And so could Roxy. She kept sniffing the air and looking at me. It was, in all honesty, the longest 20 minutes of my life. 

We broke up soon after that. I choose to believe it’s because we were at different places in our lives. 

Trump Should've Been a Blow Job

That is all. 

Seller Beware

As I declutter my life, I've become quite the pro at selling things online. I started out using Varage Sale and was mildly successful, but once the interest in my things started to fade, I moved on to LetGo. I had renewed success, and still periodically sell items there, but my latest venture is on Facebook Marketplace. 

The great thing about all of these websites is that some really random people are looking for some really random things. For example, I recently made a chunk of change selling iris plants from my back yard which had to be dug up and divided anyway. I've sold everything from old free weights to flower pots to barely used bath and body stuff. 

I also have several pair of really cute shoes listed for sale. So when Tyson sent me a message on LetGo asking about a pair of Nine West heels, I thought "ok, it's probably a dude. but maybe not. whatever blows your skirt up, as long as you buy the shoes". His first request was to send a few photos of my feet in the shoes. Strange? A little. But when you're buying shoes site unseen, I can understand wanting to know what they really look like on a foot. So I sent a side profile. Apparently not satisfied, he asked for a front shot. Getting weirder, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Pic sent. He replied that I had really nice feet and big, beautiful toes (brb - urfing). I didn't respond, so he said that I thought he must be a total psycho and he promised he didn't have a foot fetish. I told him it wasn't my place to judge (yeah right!), just trying to sell the shoes. He asked if I could throw in some socks to sweeten the deal. In my naive brain, I thought he meant a new pair of socks, which was weird because you wouldn't wear socks with these shoes. I told him no and he asked if I was wearing any. I couldn't get to the 'Block' button fast enough. Icky. 

Then last night Justin sent me a message about the same shoes. But it wasn't Justin, it was his wife Tammy. She explained they use the same Facebook account, yadda yadda yadda, loves the shoes and was wondering if I could send additional pics. My Spidey senses were tingling because people don't share Facebook accounts, but again I wasn't concerned with a guy wanting the shoes - if he needed the guise of a wife, so be it. Learning my lesson from last time, I sent several different views of them and hoped 'she' wouldn't come back saying she liked my toes. Tammy took a different route and asked me to send another photo of one shoe dangling off my foot. She was even kind enough to send me a photo as an example. Not ok Tammy, NOT OK!! 

(Not sure this is worth the $20 I'm asking)

Haiku

Most summer nights

You'll find me flirting with laziness 

Lounging on my chaise

Sipping a tasty beverage

Admiring the beauty of the wind in the trees

And talking to the universe

Hey Chatty Cathy, Clip your String

Things I know, but shouldn't, about the cable guy that came to my house last week:

His girlfriend's name is Mary.

She's 49 years old.
She was raised Catholic but is now attending an Episcopal church.
Her parents are 77 and 78 years old and think she's living in sin.
She drinks Guinness Stout and now wonders if she's an alcoholic because she has 2 beers a day.
She's a great lady, nicest he's ever met. But she keeps him on a tight leash. 


He's a recovering alcoholic, 22 years sober.

He divorced his first wife after he was in the hospital with blood poisoning and she called him to see if he was going to be ok. (She got remarried a day after their divorce was finalized)
His second wife died several years ago.
He met Mary on Plenty of Fish, and was surprised because he was on PoF for other reasons. 
He is not religious and tries to convince Mary that she is not going to hell because she isn't a practicing Catholic any more.
He has 2 cats.
It took him 2 hours to fix the problem with my cable, but he was at my house for 3 hours. 


Because I was raised to be polite, I let him ramble on and pretended like I cared. But really, it's 3 hours of my life I'll never get back. 

Couldn't Make it Up if I Tried

At the gym yesterday a woman fell off a treadmill right in front of me. I was really proud of myself for not laughing because, DAMN, it was funny!

Since I couldn't make her feel better by sharing my epic gym fail, I'm sharing it with the world: 


I was in the weight room and sat down at a leg machine like this one. 

I was about half way through my first set and thought I felt something rip. I couldn't hear it because I had my earbuds in with the music cranked up, so I wasn't entirely sure what had happened. Naturally, I kept going with the rest of the set. Senses heightened, I started to feel a slightly cool sensation on my nether regions and thought "well this can't be good". 

I did two more sets to make it seem like everything was fine (and as a stalling tactic so I could figure out what I was going to do). Finally, the moment of truth was upon me. I stood up quickly and, with sweet ninja-like moves, got to a nearby machine which happened to be right in front of a mirror. But it's not as easy as you think to inconspicuously look at your ass in a room full of people. 

Unable to assess the situation within a non-creepy 10 seconds, I had to sit down and do a couple sets on this weird arm machine that I didn't know how to use. Fantastic. The best part? I was directly facing a man doing this: 

Whatever was going on at crotch level, he had a million dollar view. Awesome.


The time came when I couldn't stall any longer. I had to stand up. With a nod to Mr. Don't Look at My Junk, I stood up like nothing was wrong, grabbed my water bottle and keys, and walked out of the weight room. 

I instantly knew what had happened - I had ripped my pants from the crotch all the way up the ass. They had no lining, and I was wearing a thong. The cool breeze felt like a blizzard. 

The cherry on top? I had to walk all the way through the packed Cardio Room and then down the length of the basketball court, where former Bronco Champ Bailey was watching his kid play in a summer league. 

I canceled my membership a few days later, because there's no coming back from that. 

Bonjour la France!

Quick shout out to my fans in France!

You've officially grabbed Shut Up and Poo's top spot for Number of Readers in a foreign country. 

Merci