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I’m taking a vacation day from work today.  Neither because I want to, nor because I’m going to some exotic location with cabana boys to tend to my every possible need.

Unless, of course, you consider a court room an exotic location…  WHICH I DON’T!

Last winter I  witnessed a hit-and-run/drunk driving accident, and made the mistake of reporting it to the police.  Never, ever again.

Sure I’ll report it, but that will be that.  I’ll call the police, report it and immediately hang up.  I will not stay on the phone at 3:00 AM with the police while I chase down the car to get a license plate number.  And when I find the car pulled over with a girl covered in blood, I won’t try to help.  Nope, not me, I’ll be home sleeping.

I wish I knew what to expect today. I’m really hoping for a wine and cheese mixer beforehand.  I’d like to ask the defendant if her broken nose healed properly, and if she learned her lesson not to wake people up in the middle of the night by hitting a parked car repeatedly.  I’m also wondering if she thought my pajamas were cute that night, they were my new Christmas jammies.

Ohhh, and I hope they serve red wine. I know it’s summer, but I’m not really a white wine drinker. It just isn’t pleasing to my palate, and an displeased palate has been known to cause extreme orneriness. I don’t want to be ornery on the stand.  Otherwise who knows what could happen.  Am I allowed to give my answers in rhyming form?  Or better yet, sing-song?

I’m also wondering if I can suggest the death penalty.  Anyone who wakes me up from deep slumber deserves death.

The agency I work for has a central speaker system. The first person to get access in the morning plays DJ all day. Usually that person is me. Having control of the office music is the driving force for getting out of bed every day. My life is very rewarding like that.

Yesterday morning I had Ben Folds playing. Typically when I leave the office I turn off my music of choice. However, when a meeting I’d forgotten about popped up on my calendar I was in a rush and forgot. When I returned I heard something that sounded less like Ben Folds, and more like my voice. I ran to my computer in horror. No it wasn’t a sex tape, though it sounded astonishingly like one.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! I am seriously sooooo hot right now!”

The file playing was my Botox session, which I recorded so I wouldn’t forget any minor details. Yes, as a matter of fact, humiliation is my middle name. So far, no one has said anything, but really why would they? They are too busy silently judging me, as they should be.

Not only do I humiliate myself in real life, I also do it online. A lot. This morning I was talking to a client via instant messenger and simultaneously messaging someone else.

Of course I sent the wrong message to the wrong person.

And of course the message was about sperm.

And of course my client is from Texas, and was raised in a conservative Southern Baptist environment where sperm is not part of an everyday conversation.

Today’s incident, however horrible, pales in comparison to the time I accidentally sent an instant message to the CEO of the company I worked for saying, “Let’s shag ass!” I intended the message to go to a friend, who for the record, I did not want to shag I was just informing him I was ready to leave for lunch.

The next day when a company meeting emphasizing what is appropriate workplace conduct was called I was secretly humiliated knowing it was intended for me and me alone.

Obviously I learned nothing from the seminar, as the following week the CEO overheard me saying to a male co-worker, “Oh my god, she’s so hot I would totally turn lesbian and hump her straight for you.”

I’m obsessed with Rlo’s balls. As I type this I’m suddenly wondering if his family members have stumbled upon this blog. Hmm…

At my last job I had a co-worker who occasionally rode his bike to work. Now, I understand bikers wear spandex, but when you arrive at the office you should change immediately. No one deserves to see co-workers in plum smugglers. NO ONE!

I don’t know if he forgot he was in spandex, or if he just got busy before changing. Whatever the case, I hated it. The first few times he tried to discuss work with me, while wearing spandex, I would politely ask him to put pants on. After a month of this I lost patience and told him I can’t work so close to his balls. I need distance! It got to the point I refused to acknowledge his presence until he changed out of his spandex. After a few months he finally broke the spandex habit. Every single one of his future co-workers owes me a bit thanks. Because of me, they will never have to be within close proximity of his balls.

What does this have to do with Rlo’s balls? He, too, is a biker. He, too, wears the dreaded spandex. Whenever Rlo and I make plans I always have to ask how many layers there will be between his balls and me. Before committing to plans, I require a promise of at least two layers. Is that really so much to ask?

If there’s any one talent I hold it’s the ability to make a complete fool out of myself at any given moment. If that and sarcasm were an Olympic sport I would rock the gold. I’m completely self-taught. I only admit this because it reflects poorly on my mother when I fall down the same stairs on a weekly basis. She did teach me to walk. Though I am the one who felt the need to walk, talk, boss people around and text message all at the same time. No wonder I fall down a lot.

I’m used to looking like a fool. I’ve been doing it for quite some time–On my own, without any help from others.

So for example if we dated a few times and now work in the same building there is no need to make me look stupid, because chances are I’ve already done that on my own by walking down the hall with toilet paper stuck to my shoes. Twice. In one day.

Trust me, I’ve got the “looking like a buffoon” thing covered. So really there is no need to hang a column I may or may not have written about you for your co-workers to see, causing them to look at me with pity and loathing. Frankly, I’d much rather they dislike me because I accidentally shut the elevator doors on their foot, or knock them over when I trip on nothing in the hall way.

What I’m saying is I don’t need any help looking like an ass. Ever.

It’s Tuesday and my body is still sore as hell. Sports are hard.

I made The Kid go to lunch with me today. He hated it 43% of the time. Hate is good for you, like protein.

Wondering if the bruises all over my legs will fade so I can wear a skirt to the symphony with The Yuppie. If not he has an excellent back up plan: I will be Kristen and he will be Client #9. His profession may be the epitome of boring,but he is not.

My iPhone is no longer the bane of my existence. It may lock up occasionally but if that’s the price I must pay to have Hello Kitty on it, so be it.

I’ve been with my new company for three months and I only remember the names of ten people. Much like sports, names are hard.

I have a new column debuting next week with In Utah This Week and have yet to come up with a proper name. This stresses me out. I told you, names are hard!

When news of Patrick Swayze’s cancer broke I created a shrine on The Kid’s desk. He was less than pleased–he’s way too young to remember the importance of Dirty Dancing. To this day I still find ways to fit in as many quotes from the movie into daily conversation as possible.

The Kid retaliated, and did a mighty fine job of it! Looks like nobody puts The Kid in a corner.
As a reward for such great humor I’m not going to boss him around, or read useless Hollywood gossip to him for five whole minutes.

When I started working for a company only ten minutes from home, I was thrilled. Finally, I could start going home a couple of times a week for lunch–what a great way to save money for my jean habit!

And it was great, for the first couple of weeks anyway. After which things took a turn for the worse–I blame the writers strike. They took away my “good” TV habits and forced me into a reality TV addiction. I’ve despised reality television ever since Julie, the Mormon BYU student, cried in what felt like every single episode or The Real World. The only exception was when Mrs. AK started watching Project Runway. As a rule of thumb when your host is feeding you dinner you watch what she is watching without complaint. (Yes, Arlo, that’s directed at you.)

But suddenly, with nothing decent on primetime TV, I found myself watching Rock of Love, The Hills, and Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant religiously.

When I go home for lunch I watch my trash TV while eating my lunch. Yesterday, however, I hit my breaking point. With a weekend to catch up on my shit shows, I was left with nothing but daytime television to accompany my lunch. I found myself watching Full House reruns. Yes, seriously. And let me tell you, they are just as stupid now as they were then. Uncle Jesse is still the only reason to watch the show, and frankly I remember him being sexier. I guess this is further proof that cheesy writing can ruin anyone’s sex appeal.

On my drive back to work, I vowed to stop watching lunchtime TV and start reading. It’s not like I don’t have enough books at my house, not to mention a growing list of books to buy. At a red light I reached into my pants pocket for my earlier written grocery list to add a book or two while I was thinking about it. Only there wasn’t a grocery list, there was instead a movie ticket and bar receipt. Odd. Upon closer inspection I found I wasn’t wearing the pants I had on earlier.

Another thing about going home lunch is the minute I walk into my apartment I feel the need to shed my pants and shoes as quickly as possible. I have got to start paying closer attention to details… like clothing. Otherwise I could easily end up back at the office in pajama pants.

It’s the little things in life that make me smile–like chasing tail at the office:

I’ve been attempting to introduce a new beverage to my diet: water.

Which, I thought, was going well, until I noticed my desk has one diet soda, two coffees and only one bottle of water on it—all from today, I might add.

Want to guess which one is full?