Man, that's cold.

So I guess there is such thing as Karma. Yesterday, I made a smart-ass remark to the “don’t touch my kid” guy about the woman who touched his kid having a cold when she really didn’t. I just wanted to get him back for accusing me of getting his kid sick. Well, he didn’t blatantly accuse me, but he sure made me aware of the situation (so I touched your kid’s fucking arm, get over it).

Anyway, so guess who shows up with a cold today? NMF. He sits in the cube right across from me and is sneezing, sniffling and coughing up a storm. And do you think he’s courteous—no—smart enough to cover his mouth? Or better yet, just stay the fuck home? Of course not.

A cold. Exactly what I want to get right before I’m due. I’m already miserable enough. As if you can’t tell. I bitched all last week and, so far, all this week.

Da-yum.

Batteries are expensive. I just spent over $25 in batteries for all the baby shit. And, of course, you need four different size batteries for all the crap. Oh, and all the covers are screwed on with teeny tiny screws. Who has a teeny tiny screwdriver just laying around? Oh, that would be my husband.

Please kill me... or at the very least knock me out.

Wow. Two posts in one day. I must not have anything to do. And always, like when I usually have nothing to do, I can’t surf in peace. I must type away in a word doc to make it look like I’m working or else NMF gets all wound up, afraid he’s working harder than me, which is just completely unacceptable. When I’m not busy, it becomes even more of a challenge for him to mind his own business and not constantly pry by asking loaded questions. “You’re really swamped, aren’t you, Digruntled?” He already fucking knows I’m not. He just wants me to verbalize it.

Anyway. I know it’s always the same shit when I talk about NMF—and I know it’s getting old. I’m sorry. But he’s just so goddamn annoying. I really don’t think there is another co-worker who has annoyed me so badly. Ever. Sure Retard Girl was smelly and talked really loud, but at least she retreated when I wounded her with words. NMF just keeps coming full force, feeding off the sarcasm like a tapeworm.

[There was only one time in almost two years that he ever got the hint. That was when he was practically sitting in my chair reading an email I was writing and when I turned around to glare at him, had the nerve to say that he wasn’t reading it. I just about knocked him on his ass while telling him to get the fuck out of my cube. He must have known I was at my breaking point because he didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.]

Although, there was this one older guy who I used to work with that was a total knob who came close. I have no idea how he survived in the business so long because he didn’t have a single creative bone in his body. I dreaded having to work with him because every time I did, he’d rely on me to come up with all the ideas. Then, if an idea didn’t fly, he’d pretty much say “Well, that wasn’t my idea, it was Disgruntled’s.” Oh really, and the other twelve that did fly? Those were yours I suppose. Rotten bastard. Come to think of it, he smelled, too. Had breath worse than a corpse. He was always sweating, too. I guess I would too if I was so pathetic I had to rely on other people to tell me how to do my job. Maybe the passing of time has made me forget how annoying old moldy breath was, but you know what? I’d rather work with him right now than listen to:

Slurp, slurp, BOOM, growl, fart, slurp, click my tongue, click my tongue, la, la, la, CLAP, CLAP, hummmmmm, “she ran calling, Wildfirrrrrre”, burp, cough, slurp, slurp, hummmmmmmm, BOOM!, cough, click my tongue some more, stupid question, CLAP, fart, slurp, cough, hummmmmm, BOOM!, burp, another stupid question, unintelligible mumbling, cough, feeble attempt at joke, back peddling, la, la, la, hummmmmm, loud chewing, “Are you going to the bathroom? You are? Oh, you’re kidding?” burp, fart, more tongue clicking, whistling, CLAP, “I’m going to put a urinal in my powder room!”, cough, mumbling, heavy sigh, sniffle, BOOM!, la, la la, HUMMMMMMM.

Repeat that sequence end over end for eight hours and that is my pain. Remind me again why I’m coming back after maternity leave?

Tick, tick, tick, tick.... BOOM.

It must be all over but the growing, ‘cause I am starving, people. I mean, constantly hungry, always thinking about food, can’t get enough starving. This kid must just be solely concentrating on packing on the fat at this point because my appetite is… um… very healthy. If people wouldn’t think I was a total fricking pig, I would seriously eat every hour. Possibly every half hour.

Man, it’s going to be hell breaking my eating habits after the baby comes. Not that I’m eating horribly during pregnancy or anything. I have fruit and yogurt and veggies for snacks during the day, but I’m not going to lie, I also have ice cream at night, load up on the sour cream and indulge in a cookie or two. I haven’t gained an exorbitant amount of weight—well within my limits for height and starting weight--but I supposed I could have done better. Let’s just say I will miss all that delicious, melted mozzarella smothering my pasta (Hey, I…er… my kid needs the calcium!)

Moving on, I can’t wait until I don’t have to hear NMF make noise any longer. I will gladly take the grumbles of a baby at three in the morning than the grunts of a retard at three in the afternoon. A few minutes ago he was actually growling. Yup. A forty-something grown man was growling at his computer. Total. F*ing. Douche bag.

Speaking of douche bags. Remember that guy who brought his kid to work the other day? The one that was all “look but no touch” and shit? Well, I saw him in the break room this afternoon. Want to know the first thing he said to me? He said his kid was sick all weekend. She was stuffy, crying and up all night (and that’s my problem how?). I kind of got the impression he was trying to justify why he didn’t allow people to touch his baby and/or point a finger at me as if to say, “See? See why I told you not to touch my kid? Now she’s sick and it’s your fault!”

Compounded by the fact that he took my lunch out of the microwave in order to insert his, I felt it very necessary and appropriate to say, “Yeah, So-and-so [referring to the women who manhandled his kid’s feet, not once but twice, and didn’t get yelled at] has a really nasty cold”, grab my lunch and walk out. So-and-so doesn’t really have a cold. I just wanted Senor Dickhead to feel like a giant penis for even attempting to accuse me of giving his kid a cold.

Oh, joy. NMF is clapping and singing songs now. It’s playtime everyone! Btw, did I ever tell you I found out that NMF got offered a job at a different agency but didn’t take it because the account he’d be working on “just wasn’t him.” Damn. I was *thisclose* to having peace and quiet up in this bitch.

Fantastic. He’s now making exploding bomb noises. All we need now is a couple of BOOM’s to make the day complete.

Apparently, I'm walking pile of disease.

Sooooooo. Yeah. I just committed a huge faux pas.

This guy at work had his wife bring in his six month old baby for show and tell. Naturally a large crowd, including myself, gathered to see the happy little chunk of human flesh all smiling and giggling and kicking away while daddy held her. Everything was peachy keen, when, out of no where, I reached out and rubbed her arm with my finger. It was brief, but apparently long enough to elicit a "look, but no touch" warning from daddy. At first I was just embarassed, but then I was kind of like, "Oh, so I look dirty to you?" I mean, I touched her arm for chrissake. It's not like I licked her face.

But okay, you're right, I thought. My bad. You don't touch other people's babies unless invited to--I get it. Yeah, until this other bitch comes up and starts grabbing and tickling the kid's feet. Not a word. The guy just kept on smiling, and actually held the baby's feet out so she could do it again. WTF? How are her hands any less capapble of spreading germs than mine?

Whatever, dude. If you're going to reprimand someone for touching your kid on the arm and then turn around and let other people rub up all over their feet, then leave your baby home. It's not like your baby's feet are exempt from reaching her mouth at this point. I don't know if you know this, but BABIES ARE INCREDIBLEY FLEXIBLE, especially at six months. Babies put everything in their mouths, including their ass if they could. So it's not ridiculous to say that your baby could stick a foot in her mouth just as easily as an arm.

I realize I shouldn't have touched the kid in the first place, but damn, if you're going to be all tough-ass about it, at least be consistent. I feel sorry for any future kids of yours... growing up with parents who play favorites really sucks.

My continuing love of cheese (read: dragon breath).

Want to know what I had for a snack at 9:30 this morning? Horseradish and cheddar cheddar cheese spread on pretzel chips. Mmmm. Doesn't that sound delicious? Well, it was.

Welcome to my crib.

Not a lot of time.

This is going to be quick because I have a deadline that's six kinds of retarded and I still have to scarf the rest of my lunch. Here's a quick rundown of what's happening in the Land of the Disgruntled:

Got the new Harry Potter book, but lost my glasses. Sure I can read during the day IF I WASN'T AT WORK. But I am, so I have to read at night, after I get home, after dinner, after Jeopardy (yes, I am a big nerd, okay, I know), after picking up and, oops, now it's time for bed so, there, that's when I read. After my face is sufficiently washed and moisturized, teeth are brushed and I'm in bed. With my glasses on. Except now I DON'T HAVE ANY GLASSES. Becuase I lost them somehow. Must. Find. Glasses...

Yesterday I was in a foul mood. For no reason. Well, I'm pregnant so I don't really need a reason, but I can usually pinpoint a reason relatively accurately. Not this time. At about 2:ish I wanted rip someone's head off. Unfortunately, the only person around was my husband. I love my husband, so naturally, I didn't want to rip his head off. I did, however, kind of twist and pull a little of it off. But it's mostly still attached, so he'll survive.

Did I mention I can't start reading my new Harry Potter book because I lost my glasses?

What? It's only Thursday, you say?

I'm not at all impressed with today so far.

Great. Now I have a horrible headache.

Why? Because for the last hour and a half I’ve had my ipod up full blast to drown out the irritating noises, meandering musings and annoying singing coming from NMF’s cube. Jesus Christ. It’s so bad, I can’t even stand the sound of his voice anymore.

What a fucking pecker.

This is it. I have reached my limit. I am no longer even going to try and hide it. I can’t. Not after the little stunt NMF pulled yesterday. He is such a dirty fucking bastard.

So. The designers where all asked to work on this project in order to get as many ideas in the running as possible. It was basically a design exercise, but they were encouraged to work with a writer to provide support copy if needed. There are, let’s see, one, two, three…eight designers and only three writers. Only makes sense that, if you’re a writer, you’d help out more than one designer, right? Well, unless, of course, you’re the copy supervisor. Then you’re exempt. So really, there were only two of us and we were expected to drop everything and help the designers, who were in a panic I might add, since the deadline amounted to 32.1 seconds.

Anyway, so NMF starts working with a designer and they’ve got a couple of ideas going. NMF is carrying on about how their ideas are so cool, really original and how’s he just so totally into it. So into it, in fact, that he pretty much ignored all the other designers, turning them down when they ask him to work with them. Actually, I really shouldn’t say designers. It was one other designer who asked him to work with him--all the other designers were coming to me. Which is flattering, I guess, but more overwhelming than anything else.

Long story short, the designer he abandoned came to me. We came up with a kick-ass idea, the creative director really liked it and when it came time to present he tried to say he worked on it too.

Since I was in a room full of higher-ups, and didn’t want to represent myself in a negative light, all I could do was shoot him the nastiest look I could get away with. It clearly shouted BACK OFF FUCKER and he shut his mouth, but not before he looked and sounded so totally and utterly desperate to prove he’s got talent that it was laughable. Everyone knows he a big fat poseur. And the fact that he took credit where credit was NOT due and looked like a GIGANTIC ass said more than my dirty look could ever say.

I think my distain for NMF is approaching the level of severe dislike I had for my former boss. I can't stand him. And he knows it. The more I try to be a mature adult and just do my work, I feel like the more he tries to get under my skin. I totally. Can't. Stand. Him. Why must there be a total fucking freak hell bent on making my life miserable at every place I work? Why?

Please, if there is a God, let NMF fall off the face of the earth. Or, at the very least, get a new fucking job.

I be illin'.

Remind me to tell you the latest incident with NMF. Bitch almost got his neck snappped. I'm feeling like crap right now, though, so I'll have to tell you later.

Please get me out of here.

Seriously. You don’t even know how fucking bad I want to scream right now. Similar to blurting out BOOM randomly, NMF is now blurting out an unintelligable word. Except it’s not as random. For lack of a better term, it’s more scheduled. He’s going it every 3-6 minutes. I know when it’s coming because he’ll cough first. Then comes the word “boonie pum.” I have fucking idea what that means. Yet it gives me all the idea I need.

Dude’s got problems. Major issues. Turrets. Something. And did I mention he's, like, 45 or something?