The devil in me.

You know, for as disgruntled as I am, I’d like to think I’m at least mature. Someone attached a devil figurine beside my cubicle nameplate. For reasons and human can understand, I’m quite bothered by this. Maybe because, even though I don’t really want to be here, I still put forth an effort to contribute my fair share. I may not always agree with you, but I am by no means an asshole about it. So, to me, letting an inanimate object insinuate that I’m an evil person to work with instead of telling me to my face is not only not funny, it’s cowardly.

Question of the day:

Can someone tell me what it means when a woman, who looks and acts nothing like a man, wears men's cologne?

Not loving Holy Thursday so far.

I fucking hate writing style guides. Ninety-five percent of it is rules about design, layout, type treatment, spacing and logos. If I knew that shit, I'd be a fucking art director now wouldn't I?

And I love how they all rattle off what this should say and that should say so fast you can barely understand what they just said, but they expect you to translate their mumble jumble and write it so it makes sense. Oh hi, incase you didn't get the memo, I'M NOT A SECRETARY. I honestly think the art directors should write style guides, considering it barely talks about copy tone. I mean, if you felt like Thai, you'd go to a Thai place, right? Why should this be any different?

In my mind, the logical answer is write it themselves and then give me the rough draft. Oh, but that would make too much sense. So let's let the writer waste time writing shit you're just going to change anyway. Yeah, that makes more sense. Aaaaaaand, go!

I cracked.

Uh-huh. I'm just going to come right out and admit it. I ate one of those Reese's peanut butter eggs. And it was so fresh, so delicious, the Easter Bunny must have layed it 1.3 seconds before it and the other 25 bags of candy found their way into my cart.

I went to Tar-jaaaay on lunch break to get delicious confections for little d's Easter basket. I had been putting it off exactly for this reason: I will end up eating all the candy I buy. Mr. D is vegan and little d has no teeth, so that leaves me. The non-vegan candy lover who just happens to have a full set of teeth.

Are you wearing green? Me neither.

First, Happy St. Patty’s Day. Second, there’s a delicious minty brownie staring at me. Threatening to undo all I’ve worked semi-hard for (I cheated several times when I was sick). I only have six more pounds to go and I’ll be down to my pre-pregnancy weight. After I lose that, I’m going for the gold and hope to lose another ten. But this fudgy concoction in front of me is making it very difficult to focus. So I write.

In some weird way not giving in to the temptation is proof that I can do it. That I can take the tiniest bite, just to taste it, and then leave the rest. That I have will power and, in the end, I’ll lose the baby weight and beyond. Besides, it’d be rude to throw it away. And since she walked around with the pan (one of my pet peeves), she practically forced me to take one.

If it was cake, though, all bets would be off. Brownies I can handle. Donut holes are tough but do-able. But cake? Forget it.

Word to yo mother.

Imma 'bout to bust a cap in this kid's ass. It's one thirty in the mother f'ing morning and this will be the third time I've gotten up. I don't know what the hizzle is going on (what? I'm feeling gangsta this morning), but my homey needs to GO THE HELL BACK TO SLEEP.

I actually didn't even go back upstairs this time. Last two times I did that, he started screaming as soon as I laid down. Man, I hope this is just the time change jacking up his internal clock for a night or two (Okay, just this one) and we'll be back to the regularly scheduled program in no time. Mamma needs her beauty rest, boy.

Shit. I hear him tossing and turning in there. I seriously may cry right along with him if he starts up again.

Later:
Okay, it's been fifteen minutes of silence. Do you think it's safe to go back to bed?

B-I-N-G-OH My God Somebody Shoot Me.

We're three (or is it fourth?) days into the Xtreme Crab Baby Games. It's been constant whining, crying, make-me-feel-better-mommy and I'm quickly approaching the Meltdown phase of the XCB Games.

The only think calming little d down as of late is the song Bingo. Yeah, you know the one:

There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o...

If he's screaming and I start to sing it, he'll stop dead in his tracks, smile and listen intently, which I think is hilarious because, kid, no matter how many times I sing the song, it's not going to change. There's a farmer, a dog and that dog's name is Bingo. That's it. End of story.

But, he likes it. So I keep singing it. And ever so slowly go insane.

M.I.A.

Yeah, yeah. I know, but we've all been sick.