Make that a double.

I don't know what it is, but I am just really, really not liking NMF today. Could it be the way he feels the need to say "hi" to me everytime he passes by my cube (which is approximately 48705247014740 times a day). Could it be the fact that he waits for a response? And if he doesn't get one, has to comment about it? Could it be the "I'm mad at the world and I'm going to show it in a passive agressive way" attitude he's got going on today? Is it his frequent and heavy sighs meant to silently convey his complete and utter frustration with God knows what?

No, I think it's his need to continuously drain me of my will to live, like it's the blood he needs to survive.

Welcome to Monday.

Something must have happened to NMF over the weekend. Like a fight with his boyfriend. Or the urinal in his "powder room" still hasn't gotten installed. Whatever it was, it's made him extra annoying today.

This morning, he comes in and turns on his trancy, ambient music crap and doesn't use headphones. I hate that. I think it's rude. First of all, what makes you think I want to listen to your music? Second, I'm trying to work, dickhead. He usually does use headphones, but today I guess he wanted to lash out at the world or something by subjecting everyone in it to his poor choice in music.

His reaction when I put on my headphones and started slamming on the keys? He immediately grabbed his headphones and started explaining why he hadn't been using them. I could barely hear him, though, as my own music, good music, was successfully drowning out his squawking. I did hear my name a couple of times, so I'm assuming he was trying to guage if and how mad I was by striking up a conversation with the people around me to indirectly ask them what he couldn't ask me directly.

The answer is yes, you fucking pussy. I hate you.

The size of Texas.

I feel like I’m going to bust the eff right out of my pants. A word to the wise if you’re thinking about having a baby: DON’T BUY YOUR MATERNITY CLOTHES ALL AT ONCE. Because no matter how big you think you’re going to get, you’ll get twice that size twice as fast as you thought you would. And buying all those expensive maternity jeans while your ass and thighs are relatively normal size will be the biggest mistake you’ll ever make. The ham hocks I’m walking on right now are proof.

So far, I’ve been lucky with the tops, though. Tunics and empire waist baby dolls are in right now, apparently. Which is perfect because I can just buy a bigger size and be all set. It’s not so much my stomach that’s out of control as it is my ass. I’m pretty sure that shit is going to need a ZIP code soon. For reals.

Mmmm. Fresh.

NMF just came over to tell me something, and, unfortunately, I had the extreme misfortune of catching a whiff of his breath. It smelled like a 70 million year-old Tyrannosaurus Rex with chronic halistosis after feasting on the ass of a rotting carcass and a pot of 3-day old coffee. Burnt coffee.

Not so much.

Yeah, nachos for lunch? Not a good idea. I don't know which end yet, but there's going to one hell of a blowout.

Oh, Kenny.

Pregnancy has also seemed to turn my brain to mush. It was Coward of the County that almost made me lose my mind this morning, not the Gambler.

Who am I?

Ok. What the hell is going on? Over the last couple of days I have thought about having sex morning, noon and night. Then yesterday I was really withdrawn. This morning I was practically bawling when I was supposed to be rocking out to Kenny Roger’s Gambler. I totally dig Kenny, and usually listening to the Gambler puts me in a really good mood. Well, this morning it nearly made me break out in tears. Especially at the end when Tommy beats the crap out of the Gatlin boys because of what they did to Becky. Now, I’m bouncing around at work like it’s the best place in the world to be. Work, people. I am happy to be at work. Really?

I'm usually disgruntled across the board. This is unsettling.

Too bad, so sad.

No more backrubs for NMF. TFH got canned. I feel kind of bad. Not that there won’t be any more inappropriate massaging going on, but because, all the bickering and rubbing aside, TFH wasn’t all that bad.

Thankin' me matey, Jesus.

So, a while back, I went to the eye doctor. I decided to tell him about an issue I've been having with my left eye. It seems slightly larger than my right. Not noticable to others if I don't say anything, but since I have to look my mug everyday in the mirror, it's noticable to me. Also, you can tell in pictures. In my passport picture I look like a friggin pirate. ARGH! Let me into yer country or I'll poke ya with my wooden leg...

It doesn't hurt or anything, so I never really thought about it. Well, when your pregnant, you suddenly want to make sure every ache and pain or oddity can be explained, and more importantly, isn't going to make your child come out all f*d up. So I told my eye doctor about me pirate eye. He immediately thought my thyroid could be the culprit and asked me to get it checked out. He didn't seem too alarmed, but he was pretty clear that I should have it checked out sooner rather than later. I don't know about you, but unless I'm practically dying, I'm not real keen on going to the doctor. But, like I said, I didn't want to put my offspring in jeopardy, so I made an appointment. Then I made the lovely mistake of looking up thyroid related issues during pregancy. What I found freaked me the hell out so I moved my appointment up.

In the meantime, I had a check up with The Claw. That's what I call my OBGYN. Cause he's kind of old and withered. And, well, looks like he's got claws for hands. I hope he has prosthetic hands for when he delivers my baby... Yeah, so anyway, I tell him about my eye doctor's suggestion to get my thyroid checked out and he's all, "Well, we've already done that. That's routine", but then couldn't find any paperwork that said I had the testing done. Which worried me. Because if I did happen to have a thyroid condition and they didn't catch it because they were a little lax in their routine and something just happened to be wrong with my baby...well, someone was simply going to have to die.

They took blood and when I left I proceeded to do the most idiotic thing I could have done. Went back to the internet. This time I didn't just skim the articles and studies. I read and reread them over and over. And by the time I was done, I was convinced my baby's brain had not developed properly. I panicked and called my OBGYN's office to find out the results, but of course, they didn't have them yet. So I had to wait. And I hate waiting. Luckily, I had my regular doctor's appointment this moring.

I'm happy to report I do not have a thyroid condition. Everything is fine. I don't have to murder my OBGYN. Apparently, I was just a crazy-eyed sea wench in another life.

The TP Bandit strikes again.

About every other day, there is wadded up toilet paper on the floor near various toilets here at work. Although I haven’t seen anything disgusting, I’m assuming it’s used in some way. At first, I was like, “What kind of filthy pig just throws used toilet paper on the floor when the toilet is RIGHT THERE?” That kind of shit totally bothers me. I hate when people are 1.) gross and 2.) just plain fucking lazy. Then, as I passed the cock-eyed part-time receptionist in the hall the other day, it hit me. I bet it’s her. Sidebar: And when I say cock-eyed, I mean cocked-the-fuck-up-eyed. It’s always awkward to look at her because you’re not sure if she’s looking at you. So you just kind of have to pick a spot somewhere near her face and pretend you’re looking her in the eye. She’s nice as pie, but she’s obviously got some vision issues. Which is why I think the toilet paper bandit is her. I’m not sure her perspective is all that good. Maybe she THINKS she hitting the bowl, when really she’s about two inches off. And down on the floor it goes. So far she’s either blown her nose or gone pee. God help us the day she has a BM at work.

Adventures in substituting.

Nothing to work on again, so I have to make it look like I’m busy by feverously banging away at the keyboard. I’m so devious.

So, if you don’t already know from reading the comments, the name we’ve picked out is Mason. Please don’t be that person (Mr. D’s mom) and voice your dislike for the name out loud. (Or, in this case, in writing). A simple “I like that” or “that’s cute” is all I’m asking for. Besides, it’s pretty much cement at this point anyway.

An hour and ten minutes until lunch and I’ve only written two short paragraphs. Christ, this is going to be harder than I thought. I could be doing so many other things right now, you know? Like shopping. That’s the funny thing, though. While you’re working, you can list a million things you could be doing instead, but when you have the day off or are actually unemployed, you don’t seem to want to do much of anything. It’s a strange phenomenon, indeed. One I’ve experienced before about five or six years ago. I must admit, though, I think it was more circumstance than phenomenon that zapped my motivation (read: will to live).

I was at and agency that I absolutely despised. I hated everything about it. The work. My boss. The people. Even the building. I was miserable. So I decided that I was getting out of advertising. I was going to be an art teacher. Hating that job so much motivated me into enrolling in a master’s program. I quit and went back to school. That lasted six months and I was back in advertising. I didn’t go back because going back to school was hard. On the contrary. I liked being back in school. It was the substitute teaching that killed it for me. Jesus Lord kids today are fucking brats.

Obviously, subbing didn’t deter me from having kids of my own, but it did make me realize that I’d rather meet a ridiculous deadline than deal with an utterly ridiculously behaving child. I shit you not, there were days when driving into the median on the expressway entered my mind. I somehow managed to keep it together during the day, but as soon as I walked out of the classroom, it was total water works. One time I nearly had to pull over because I was hyperventilating so hard. Yes. It was that bad. Here’s a recount of a few of the worst to prove it.

My very first subbing gig the teacher didn’t leave any instructions. I had to wing it the entire day. I had no idea what these kids where currently learning, so I had to ask them. Right off the bat I was on the defensive because just like dogs, kids smell fear. I may not remember the names of the rest of the schools or teachers, but I’ll never forget how Mrs. Henrickson at Cooper Elementary apparently thought subs didn’t deserve the courtesy of a lesson plan.

Next up was the gifted class of fifth graders proving mathematical theorems while I tried to keep up with my high school algebra, which, by the way, I had completely forgotten.

Then there was the one time when a teacher accused me of “trashing her classroom.” Bitch, if it’s a mess when I get there, it’s going to stay that way. I’m a sub, not a cleaning lady.

Oh, and all the times in the lunchroom where the full-time teachers looked at me like they had just seen the Chupracabra. Guess I shouldn’t have asked if anyone wanted some of my goat blood soup.

And this, my friends, was the one that pushed me over the edge. I was the sub for a bunch of second graders. I repeat: second graders. How hard can teaching a bunch of kids to color shapes be, right? Well, I’m sure it’s a tad bit easier when the kids are actually interested in coloring instead of dry humping each other. During story time, I spent more time prying boys and girls apart than reading. I mean, these kids where seriously fondling each other. I eventually had to threaten to cut story time short…and that was after making each kid sit with their arms and legs crossed. Then, one of the kids in my class snuck outside for recess without a coat on. Considering that when the bell rang to go outside, all the kids bolted for the hallway like a herd of raging bulls and by the time I got out there, three other classrooms were also out in the hall, I had no fucking clue who was in my class and who wasn’t. Of course, the recess peacekeeper spotted the coatless kid right away, and only when the little bastard pointed me out as being his teacher did I realize the brat that decided not to wear a coat was in my class. No, that wasn’t extremely embarrassing at all.

Oh, wait. I’m not done. During math, a little girl decides she doesn’t want to do math and that she’s going to sit in the middle of the floor. And when I go to pick her up to put her back in her seat, since she ignored my 478765823693 requests to do so, she went all dead weight on me. Yeah, that’s all I needed was for her to say I hurt her somehow or handled her inappropriately, so I threatened to call the principle down. Still didn’t work. In fact, more kids followed suit. So, having half the class in the middle of the floor refusing to cooperate, I was forced to call the principle. As soon as the principle arrived, suddenly they were obedient little angles again.

That must be it, you say? What else could possibly have gone wrong? How about walking the kids down to the LMC (because, apparently, you can’t just call it a library these days) and one of the kids decided to take a detour. The line was going right and he decided to go left. I couldn’t leave the other kids, but I couldn’t let him roam the halls aimlessly either…see my dilemma? So I had to stop the kids and ask them to stand quietly (yeah, right, like that’s going to happen) while I tracked Christopher fucking Columbus down and pointed him in the right direction.

This was their last “class” of the day, so I was relieved that I had forty-five minutes to collect myself and then they’d be off to the bus. I barely made it. I usually leave the teacher detailed notes about how the class behaved. All I could do this time was scribble “Very disappointed” on a post it before getting the hell out of there.

And that is how I ended up back in advertising.