Friday the fucking 13th indeed.

Think you're having a bad day? Hair not perfect? Pissed off at your SO? Hating your job? Diagnosed with impotence? Fie, I say. My day is worse than yours, this is can guarantee. Compared to mine, yours is cake. Cake, mutherfuckers, CAKE!

I had no idea what horror I was to encounter this morning. Before the clock had struck 8, even. Everything started out innocent enough. I woke up early, after another night of crap sleep and restless cats. But it's Friday, even though it's that Friday, I could see the weekend from here so woot.

I took a shower and forgot to wash my hair. How does one do that? I'm not brain dead for chrissakes, so now I have my greasy hair pulled back into a tight ponytail as to fool everyone that no, I am not a complete pig who wallows in my own filth for days on end.

I continued getting ready for work and picked up my planned wardrobe for the day. Which included a comfy pair of cute low-rise cords, yes cords so shut up, that were freshly from the wash. And then I noticed that one of my feline fuckers had decided that my laundered trousers would make a very comfy chaise lounge for napping yesterday. COVERED in cat hair. Crap.

Then I though I was out of undies, but remembered there was a load sitting in the dryer from last weekend. Whew, got lucky there, because I was not about to wear a substandard emergency pair of panties. (The girls will know what I'm talking about). I walked into the laundry room where I promptly stepped into a fresh pile of cat puke. With my bare foot. And unlike my porkchop coif, a recently soaped bare foot.

After counting to eleventy-five and cursing to calm down, I got dressed and went into the bathroom to finish primping and attempt to make myself presentable for work, despite being a filthy-haired barf-footed fuzzy-panted mess. I was putting my make-up on, something I've done approximately one million times before, and my theme of not paying attention to a damn thing I'm doing today continued as I poked myself in the eye with my mascara wand. Which then caused both of my freshly coated eyes to slam shut, tearing profusely, thus smearing black lines under my puffy peepers.

This is quite the tale of woe, you might be thinking. Poor Betty, she's so right, her day does suck more than anyone else's. But wait. The collection of happenstances the befell me before I left the house is not the worst of it. In fact, I'd take 2 straight weeks of that same scenario in trade for what happened after I left the house.

I started to drive to work, a veil of paranoia still hovering over me after my accident a month ago, and decided that I'd fill up my gas tank and pick up some bottles of chilled spring water for work. Look at me, all hydrating and everything. And if I happened to find a sugary goodie to munch on too, so be it.

I pulled up to my normal pump, turned my car off, got out, slipped my card into the slot and waited for the screen to flicker asking for my pin number. All I got was a beep. I tried again. Beep. Again. Beep. Beep. Beep. Fuck. It. All. Out of 20 pumps, I pick the one that's fucking broken.

I back my car up to the working gasser and get things started, shove some money in my pocket and head into the mini-mart for my sundries. I rarely stop and do any shopping here, but have been in enough times that I recognized the girl behind the counter, and unfortunately for me, she knew my face as well.

I placed my water on the counter, paired with a pop tart and a small bag of plain m-n-m's. OK, so the damn Oprah show I watched yesterday about losing weight and her torturous Boot Camp and kick-ass attitude and how people who complain nothing works haven't tried everything I'm a big fat non-loser hasn't sunk in yet.

I know I've got a wee little problem. I know I'm not a small girl. I know I have a really crappy unfair disadvantage with my missing thyroid, fucked up system and teeny tiny life-long food issues. (And a big giant ass). But I don't think a few empty calories on a fucking Friday warranted the unfair, heinous, depressing, appalling, ill-mannered, stupid, brutal, never ever happened to me despite being a member of the Zoftig Club for Girls thankyouverymuch thing that happened next.

The cashier looked at my purchase, looked at me, then said;

"Are you pregnant?"


AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!



AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!


I replied with a stunned look, “no, do I look preganant??” All I received was a blank stare.

I'll be signing my Oprah Bootcamp Contract today.


Anyone want a pop tart?