Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Dear Christopher Guest,

Just in case you're reading my blogs I wanna say that although (or all though, depends on who's keeping score) you don't know me, I really like you. You make me laugh. Okay, with that being said I want to get to the reason I'm writing. While at the gym today I came up with the next mockumentary you should write. I could help you. I have experience. In 1996 I wrote G.I. Joan. It was about a chick in the military who had to fight her way through the system before she could prove herself in war. I didn't finish the script because I must have gotten distracted somewhere along the way. Could have been a cupcake, but whatever. So a year goes by and in 1997 the movie G.I. Jane was released. You may remember this one. Demi Moore plays a Navy Seal, fighting Master Chief and all the other men ("Suck my dick!", remember that line? funny.) to prove herself. Sound familiar? That's what I thought. I wrote that shit. I'm not accusing the writers of anything, for I was living in Lawrenceville (Pittsburgh) at the time and there's no way they were reading my notebooks. Speaking of, Danielle Alexandra hasn't done much since writing that script, whereas David Twohy has kept himself a little more busy. Me, on the other hand, I'm still waiting for my break.

Okay, another example of my experience... In 1986, at the age of 10, I wrote, in the back of my mind, the 4th Halloween. You'll love this for obvious reasons. So I thought Michael Myers should have a niece or nephew with whom he connects with but kinda wants to kill. Two years later, in 1988 Halloween 4 was released and guess what the plot was. Michael Myers returns to Haddonfield to kill his niece, but kinda feels a connection to her. Holy shite. So I know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, back to the script you should write. Another mockumentary, this time focusing on personal trainers and their clients, and their lives inside the gym. I think it should focus more on the clients though, and their foolish banter.
I hear a lot of conversations between the trainers and their clients, and mostly it makes we want to put a dumbbell up my ass. Today I caught part of a conversation, and the trainer was like, "Wait, did you say geranium? Oh, I thought it was a tulip?" I also overheard a client say, "My husband's brother's son can't eat cheese anymore either. I don't know what's going on in this world". And, "I've worked really hard to get that car and I don't want to park it next to those other cars."

I can't help but to think that the trainers also want to stick barbells and such up their own asses. We, I said we... You could focus on the competitiveness of the trainers to get clients and the clients' self-absorbed lives. With, of course, the occasional client, such as myself, that comes in solo to work out, looking, feeling and possibly smelling like a sweatsock.

These are just some ideas. Feel free to write me back anytime and we can get this thing rolling.

Thanks for your time.

Love Always,

Chrissy Costa

p.s. - your wife's commercials make me wanna eat yogurt again...

Monday, December 7, 2009


Okay, I am reasonably tall-I mean, average at least..let's say like 5'6" .5, if that makes any sense to the non-seamstresses out there.
So, why is it that I simply cannot find a pair of pants that don't get scuffed in the snow?
I mean, really?
For example, I have fairly long legs, so my friend tried to buy me a pair of "tall" pants for my birthday this year. I tried them on and looked like Chrissy Costa trying to wear pants for anything taller than a gnome.
They were really long, that is.
So, I, of course, had to bring them back.
Next, I went and got "regular" length pants, and was really excited to wear them today.
Of course, last night it snowed and, um, even though I have little wedgie shoes on my cuffs are still soaked in snow salt..
um, how is that possible?
Am I already shrinking at 35?
Well, thath brings me to another issue...
Why is it that we are born shorter than our parents and, in many cases, stay there, but by the time they are in their 70's or such, they are like down to our kneecaps.
My mom is like the cutest, but she is starting to resemble Lilly Tomlin in my favorite movie of the 80's The Incredible Shrinking Woman-
Speaking of, I always wanted to be Lilly Tomlin, but that only came true in the gay way.
At least, I think that is the case--I mean, if I keep buying shorter pants and they keep dragging on the ground, then, um, perhaps the next step is me shrinking so much that I end up falling down the drain of a sink too.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Assault By Masturbation...

When I attempt to initiate a conversation with somebody and they're not really interested, I tend to notice the signs. The "uh-huhs", the lowering of the head, the stomping off the bus (and I don't even ride on busses, but i guess i can blabber). So I quickly shut my pie hole and pretend to read a book or something. In fact, I've always said I don't go to parties i'm not invited to. Figuratively and literally, I mean it. Unfortunately so many do not follow suit.

Why is it that people, acquaintances and strangers alike, feel the need to talk to me when I'm clearly paying no attention? For as long as I can remember people have come up to me and told me bizarre things I would be better off to have never known. I love the elderly and I'm always open to hearing their stories. Over and over and over again. I don't mind. But I also attract looney-bags. They wanna marry me. And hobos always tell me the dirty things they wanna do to me. (Am I supposed to do the dirty things in a cart?) Like I'm gonna take them back to MY place, yah. I can ignore these "interactions". Most of the time. But everyday people I'm in contact with talk way too much about things I mostly never care to know. People give way too much information to a girl who asks a lot of questions...when she's interested.

It's quite selfish, actually. Here's an example...It's a true story.
I'm sitting alone ( i won't say where) at a table, eating lunch, texting and writing a blog (clearly busy) when in comes some perky woman that I barely know, fresh and ready to assault me with her mouth. Not in the good way either. She's rambling on about her plans for vacation and I'm getting indigestion from shoveling food into my mouth so I can get the F out of there. Twenty minutes later she's still talking, barely catching her breath. I'm the only other person in the room so I assume this info is meant for me. I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes and went like, "Psshhhh", but she didn't notice "the signs". She didn't even make eye contact with me. If she could hear the soliloquy in my head she would have stopped talking. But she kept talking and I was there, not participating. And she didn't stop. It was a crime! Maybe not like a 911-worthy crime, but at least a 311 type of crime. I was verbally masturbated on. And she didn't even ask my name. Or if I've ever been to the Bahamas. I don't even think I was supposed to be part of her conversation. But I was forced to hear it. I feel cheap and used and dirty. She didn't just verbally masturbate in front of me, she did it all over me. Without my approval or a safe word. Only after all this took place, later in the day, I realized I should have taken steps to prevent this. Steps like, pretending I couldn't hear her, talking in Spanish, shatting on myself. I bet if i would have shat in my seat she would have left. I should have thrown my shoe, caused a distraction so she'd be forced to look at me, the person she was "talking to". Maybe the guy who threw his shoes at George W. just couldn't take hearing him anymore. I could have tipped the vending machine over. Set a fire. Pulled my pants down. Why do I always come up with a solution when it's too late?

Take heed and learn from my pain. I have, and now I'm armed with mental dental dam and ready for the next assault by a verbal masturbator.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Positive Self Talk

When does positive self-talk become a form of isolation?

For instance, Chrissy and I are supporting each other on this blog, but where is everyone else?

Those resentments aside, I mean, really. What is the point of giving positive messeages to oneself day after day after day if it is going to make you ostracized from, say, your entire social group.

I'll give you an example..I have a friend..let's call her "Lynn." She started to do all kinds of positive self-talk stuff, like posting notes to her mirror, going to therapy 18 times a week, and making sure to tell herself she loves herself and that she is beautiful at least three times per day..working out, attending church, the whole deal. You know, Stuart Smally kind of stuff.

Well, after trying that for a while, she really did totally change..
I mean not only did she start to act more mature (and, if I do say so myself, sexy), she also started to make more money, go on fancy trips and be the life of the party..

well, that is , she would be the life of the party if anyone had still invited her to their homes..

You see, that age old adage, "misery loves company," simply is is true it is true it is oh so true..

So what do you think has happend to accomplished, self-loving, abundant living Lynn? Well, none of her friends want anything else to do with that poor lass anymore..why? because she is in too damn good of a mood all the time..

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Nobody Needs Their Pills On The Holidays...

Save your Paxil pill, your Zoloft, your Lexapro today. It's the holiday. A day of joy. Just ask my neighbor. Yesterday he despised me. Tomorrow he'll hate me more. But today... today he loves me. And he didn't need his pill to show it.

Actually, most people are overly polite on a holiday. Ever notice?

A woman who normally hates my dog saw me walking her today and smiled. It was a smile filled with hope and joy that you only see 3-4 times a year on a major American/"Christian" holiday. Forgive me for being cynical, but I know that b*tch is gonna give me and my dog a dirty look tomorrow, after she's digested her turkey. Save your pill for tomorrow, sweet b*tch.

Unlike most people I tend to cry on holidays. I'm not totally sure why. Sometimes I think of the elderly, the homeless, pets with missing limbs. I don't know why. Maybe I'm emotional. I have some emotions.

I guess what I'm saying is since you're off your pills for a day, can you send one my way?

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Kiss Me, I'm Not Irish

I am sitting here thinking about what it would be like to be Irish around March.
Man, it just isn't fair that even though my parents grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans I am half Cajun French, a quarter Sicilian and a quarter Italian (scary combo, I know).
I mean, why don't I get to have a million beautiful women kiss me in March, just because I am not, say Irish?
Do you have any answers for this?
I am thinking of contacting the ACLU for discrimination against Cajun French, Sicilian/Italian people not getting to make out on the streets during a parade.
I mean, I could start a movement called, "Cuddle me, I'm Cajun, " or one called "Sit down and pay attention to me today, I'm Sicilian," which, while it might be a way to turn lemons into lemonade, would still just be the equivalent of "life on the D list" or dating the man you are in love with's fourth and partly mentally ill cousin.
It just doesn't work.
Come to think of it, it really isn't fair that I am not Irish all year round. For instance, I am an alcoholic, right? (true story). And even though I no longer drink, it would really be nice (and more fair) to be able to explain my drinking away with my Irish genes, or, say, my Uncle Bud bringing it into the family gene pool. But, noooo. Rather, I am forced to take full responsibility for my past drunken streaking episodes and for waking up in bed with a sorority pledge of whom I didn't know the name. Ireland's fault? No Way. Just plain mine.
Well, I guess the upside of all this is I get to take responsibility for myself and I get to keep my girlfriend because I am not making out with women on the streets come March.
Bah Humbug.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Why is it always a power struggle to change lanes while driving?

Are you the douchebag (not in an anti-feminist use of the word: it's a stupid name for a stupid product. probably concocted by a stupid man.) who won't let me over even though I've been using my turn signal and staring at you for the last 7 minutes?

You're so cool.


Why is it seen as a form of weakness to use your turn signal? I used to ponder this. Then I realized that in order to switch lanes (at least in Pittsburgh, PA) you have to forego the turn signal, step on the accelerator and force your way in front of the passive-aggressive driver who
can't seem to differentiate between common courtesy, the rules of the road, and being taken advantage of.

I'm not the only one who experiences this, am I? It's ridiculous and it happens almost every single day. What's the big deal? Why can't you just let me in? ...

We're traveling north. You're in the right lane and I'm in the left. I'm approaching my exit in about half a mile or so. I need to get to the right. I put my right turn signal on. You speed up just enough to not only keep me from passing you, but to keep me from getting in at all. Why you gotta be like that? Fine, you "win" jackass, I'm not getting ahead of you. But who do you think you are keeping me from going right at all? I drive a 4-cylinder vehicle so I didn't think I could pass you anyway. But I'm still way more cool than you. I just wanna get off. (That's what she said) Get off right, at my exit, that is. You f*cking greedy little punk. And you're almost always a dude. Ughhh. I bet you're short. You probably have a small package too. Is that why you're so angry? It is, isn't it? Well that's your problem and you should see someone about that. You make driving less enjoyable. You suck. Get over yourself.

I guess I just have to choose my battles. I.e., equal rights, animal rights, camel-toe symptoms, outreach, and prevention...

Thursday, November 12, 2009

What is it with Skinny Days?

I have a love/hate relationship with skinny days.

I mean, after all, who doesn't want to feel skinnier than usual when they wake up the morning after eating a 15 course meal?

After all, it is nice to be rewarded for bad behavior.

However, it kind of sucks too, because then it makes you think that you can always have a 15 course meal and be skinny.

But, then, you try it and you start having uncomfortable, bloated days instead of skinny days, so you start eating rigidly healthy again.

But when you eat rigidly healthy, you have fat days, thus, causing you to contemplate what the hell you are doing wrong by eating healthy that is making you feel fatter than average...

Is it the over-intake of fiber and not drinking enough water to digest it?

Is it that you are being punished for your long run of 15 course meals and God is teaching you a lesson?

Or, is it simply, that there is really no rhyme or reason to the whole body thing at all?

That your body is really in control of you and that you don't have any bloody say so at all what it does on any given day.

Skinny days, like one night stands, are fun while they last, but then leave you empty and alone when your body (meaningless life) goes back to normal.

Sort of like a teaser for what you could get if you were say, the offspring Heidi Klum and Seal, or if you had 8 personal trainers and chefs calling you a fat ass day in and day out, but that doesn't "apply" to the real world.

That's it. Skinny days just aren't fair. Because even though you like them on the "day of," you always wake up the next day with a hangover from hell.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Never Can Say Goodbye...

Have you ever felt a little violated by a text message that never seems to end?

Let me just say that there are a lot of people out there who have way too much time on their hands.

I blame the always-competing phone companies. Sorta...

I had this friend who only texted when absolutely necessary. Like during a fire or mugging. You know. One day she sent me a text that said "Hi". So I replied, "Hi". Then she said "Whatcha doin?". I replied, "Workin". Then she said, "How's it going"? To which I thought, "WTF", but said, "Ummmm, ok". Then she said something about her cats and I picked up the phone and said "You switched your text to unlimted, didn't you"? Of course she did. Why else would she send such nonsense. So now, for one low price, she can irritate the sh*t out of me and everyone else in or out of her network.
One day she was cool and aloof, the next, some needy cat woman with nothing to do but text. Such a sad story.
Texting, like email, is fast, fun and convenient. Unless you're like me and you think too much.
I find the most confusing texts are the ones sent to and from a new or potential love. You wanna say all the right things. You hang on their every word. You've got a great thread going. Then, all of a sudden, they stop texting and you're like, "What does THAT mean"?! You don't wanna over think or over text, so you do the next rational thing and stew over it for a few hours. You wonder if you said or did something that scared them away. You don't want to sound desperate, or ask too many questions. You're so unsure and perplexed, and the anticipation is so overwhelming over your "text rejection" that you go out and ass-bang someone else. What? And then you feel awful later when you find out that their battery died, or their Grandmother got stuck in a snowstorm, or they have a CricKet phone. Happens all the time.
And all you really wanted to say was, "Why don't you like me anymore?"
Then there's the text you send that was meant for one person, but sent to another. That's always fun. Especially if you were talking smack or sexting. And sexting is a whole new topic for another blog.
I also find that you can learn a lot through texting. For instance, I've discovered how many of my friends are illiterate.
Texters, hear me out: Every now and then go out and do something non-phone-related. Read a book. Go out and take a walk. Laugh (not LOL) at someone falling. It relieves stress and burns calories. And if you must text, for the love of something, please keep in mind that there's another person receiving and/or bowing out of the thread. I could go on, but I'm on a coffee date and my date is texting...or is it sexting? LOL, LMAO, ROTFLMAO, GNR, etc., etc.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Jeans Suck

Dear God-

My 35th birthday is tomorrow and, um, all I wanted was to look decent in, say, any pair of jeans I tried on.
Well, no such luck.
I've been a good girl all year, and even thought -at least for a few minutes in there- of someone other than myself, but, all I get in return is a lousy look in True Religion jeans.

Gee, thanks.

What ever happened to jeans for girls who, say, have hips? I mean, who aren't a negative zero?

And, I mean, what about all the types of jeans that even Claudia Schiffer would look ridiculous in?

I mean, what is it, God, with short zippers and stuff. Or leather shoestring like lace-up deals?
How do you expect someone, like, say, Chrissy, for instance, who is all of 1.5 inches tall to zip something like that up and still be able to see over the top of her pants?

So, I guess what I am saying is, not only did you flake on me in the jean department, but you also flaked on my friend Chrissy.

Neither of us can wear most jean types and, even on my birthday week, I get no respite.

Well lah dee da. Guess I'll behave better this year....

Monday, November 2, 2009

Sometimes I show up @ various places and I don't remember how I got there...

It's 8:30 a.m. I'm in class at my job. I'm sipping a hot coffee, no cream. An 8 year old just pointed to a clump of weave under my chair. It's not mine. I laugh. Then I realize...I have no idea how I got here. No recollection of the coffee purchase. I never saw the weave. "Not again." While everyone is running around this building consumed with fear over "the swine flu", I just want to know who dressed me and drove me to work.

Was I on auto-pilot and forgot to notice everything around me, (I swear I wasn't flying that plane) or do I have the worst case of A.D.D. ever?

Last week I fell asleep standing up. I was in line waiting to pay for a Red Bull. The clerk was texting with her press-ons and making a lot of hand gestures. Her name tag said PRECIOUS so I knew it would be a while. I went off to another place and the daydreaming began. By the time I was done bathing in buttermilk, Santa left and the clerk snapped, "Huh-lowwww!" all loud and what not. Ya, like it was MY fault.

One time I took an on-line A.D.D. test. You know the ones where if you answer YES to seven out of ten questions you obviously have A.D.D. I had all ten checked. Then I made a burger. Whatever.

I read somewhere that the aluminum in deodorants may be linked to Alzheimer's. Since then I've made the switch to aluminum-free deodorants. So far it hasn't helped much with my short-term memory, but I do smell on the short side of shank. (sorry LB)

So I have this new "fancy" touch phone, and all though I've had it for a few weeks I still don't know how to use it for anything other than Facebook. It would be likely that I could make a call if I could sit long enough to read a direction. I prefer to be read to. It's quite endearing I've been told. I told myself that. I'm still waiting for my mom to talk me through setting up my Ikea kitchen.

Back to my original thought... I don't always mind showing up in odd places. In fact, I've met a few charming characters on my way to and fro' the gutter. It's just that It'd be nice to remember where I parked...

Friday, October 30, 2009

Does Rain Make People Stupid in Your Neighborhood Too?

Okay, I am going to preface this one by saying two things.
First, I am writing my blog out of order, because Chrissy Costa really DID win the ghetto award (two posts back) and could not get her internet up in enough time to post her blog. So, I guess you could say, um, she is taking a "sick" day from the proverbial online "office."
Secondly, I will also preface today's blog by saying that I have not owned a car in Chicago for over 5 years, and rarely have I driven one (this could be indirectly related to both crashing the cars of the last two people I dated and, even more indirectly related to the fact that another nickname of mine in highschool and college was Crash).

All of those "prefaces" aside, I am just dumbfounded by how drivers in my city get aaaaaaaaaalllllllll jacked up when even one dew drop dances down (alliteration, like that?) to the ground.
Literally, I know for sure on days like today when it is raining hard that I should probably leave the house 6.5 hours earlier for my 12 minute CTA commute because all drivers will be going one centimeter, say every 30 minutes (don't do the math)...and have their noses planted to their windsheilds so closely that there is noooooooooooooo way they can see that they will be stuck in a traffic jam for weeks and that they'd better just call the boss now and let him know that, well, he shouldn't order their Panera box for today's lunch meeting.

Now, you might say, "Well, rain is can do all kinds of things in the rain, hydroplane, or lose control of the vehicle.."
And I would say ..."RIGHT...."

But, then, how do you account for the fact that I live in Chicago, one of the most horrific weather cities in the world, and one, where, wind storms and, say, blizzards haven't stopped people from going 100 miles and hour on the freeway and running over innocent salt pourers in order to get their dunkin donuts before heading to Grandparent's Day at the local preschool?

This doesn't make any sense.

A true enigma.

A 90-year-old woman can snow dive here or go for a 3 mile run in 20 below zero temperatures (80 below with the windchill), yet that same woman is afraid to driver her car or leave the house when there is a mist surfacing on her window---I mean it could be the dreaded RAIN and all.

This confuses me.

In fact, it is one of those questions in life as daunting to me as, say, where does the universe begin and end..and how did something create something when there was nothing, but nothing and something weren't even words yet?

Monday, October 26, 2009

Work Romances: Matches Made in Bathrooms

It is official. There are AT LEAST three people in the building where I work stalking me.

How do I know this? Because they ALWAYS happen to be in the bathroom the same time as me.

Either that, or they use to have the nickname "pee-nut" in highschool too....true story.

What is it with anonymous bathroom encounters with people that you don't work with "directly" but who always happen to be there at the same time as you....or is it just me?

I mean, these are people you would NEVER socialize with in the "outside world," and, yet, they seem to be face-to-face with you morning, noon and night at one of the most intimate times in your life.

And if life were fair, these people would be kind of like "anonymous sex" friends and you wouldn't have to even say hello to them, but no such luck. At least not in my unfair bathroom world.

You have to pretend to care and to know little tidbits about their lives, when all you really want to do is, as my dog would say (or is that as I would say to my dog?), "go potty" in peace and quiet.

For credibility sake, I'll give you an example.

I am in the social work department, so, generally, I just don't interact with people in, say, finance (this might shock you, but, we, as a rule in social work, just aren't that concerned about money). But, OF COURSE, one of my bathroom "friends" is this lovely woman in finance who just had to go ahead and ruin my whole, say "year" by getting pregnant.

First of all, now beautiful (and skinny) pregnant lady not only knows that my bladder is as small as a woman in, say, her 8th or 9th month of pregnancy, but I also have to ask her questions about her upcoming motherhood and belly and stuff because she seems to always decide to wash her hands at the same time as me.

You might say, "Well, then just don't wash your hands, Blythe," I mean the proverbial you have done that right...well, before you think you are sooo smart in solving my problem, I'll tell you that currently, the pee and run strategy isn't an option, because we have an outbreak of the Swine Flu on our floor (which, come to think of it may be easier to contend with...).

And it isn't just cute pregnant women either, it is the older adult woman who probably has to pee that much for medical reasons, and I am riiiight there next to all my urinating glory.


Come to think of it, though; I mean, now that I have gotten my feelings out and stuff, I could turn this into a positive. I mean, after all, when my boss is waiting outside of the bathroom to talk to me about something (true story), I could have the excuse that I was holding a joint baby and retirment reception for my pee party colleagues.

Enough work for today.

Off to pee.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

This Place, These People, All Testin' My Buddhism...

I don't understand why my neighbor gets so upset when somebody uses "his" cart. It clearly says Family Dollar on the handlebar...

Will I always live in a ghetto?

Monday 7:00 a.m. - Well dressed man with two gay poodles exit the main door. Poodles piss all over the front of the door. Two seconds later they all re-enter the buliding as I stare at the huge pee stain. Really? Did that just happen? He says, "Hi". I think, "Why the f didn't he walk 4 feet away to the tree?"

Monday 9 p.m. - man uses neighbor's car as a porno mag. as a friend watches in disbelief. I mean, I like a nice luxury car too, but do you see me making love to myself in public behind one? No. No you don't. Why? Because I don't have a penis. And that was a good call on the Universe's part. Man proceeds to make a face and run. He was holding a Giant Eagle bag.

Tuesday 6:30 p.m. - I'm talking to a friend. "Bang." Me: "Was that a gunshot?" Her: "Maybe." I just finished my scone anyway. All in a day...

Thursday 2:45 p.m. - same masturbator stands behind friend's car in broad daylight and pees. I have to give him a little credit for not peeing on our building door. Proves he's a little smarter than a poodle. Just a smidge. I look at him and he looks back. Same twisted face. Then he runs. He's holding a Giant Eagle bag.

Last Week - Something or someone; presumably a dog, shat all over the second floor of my building. We, the tenants, did our part to ignore it by stepping over the mess. All except for one of us. That one of us, who, wrote a big nasty letter to the owner of the presumed culprit, or the culprit her or himself, and put it on the pile of shat. It was quite a lovely letter. In fact, I'd like to send the writer of that/those letters a dictionary so next time they write a letter (letters) on construction paper they'll actually use the correct words. Fun.

Am I judgemental? A little. Do I wanna be? Not really. Is it hard not to be living in this shathole? Yes. Do I think I'm better than this? On Tuesdays. No matter where I move, no matter the city, I always end up in the same type of area. Ghetto. I guess I'm used to it. In fact, I'm driving around looking for wireless signal so I can finish this blog. Ya. Maybe I do belong here. But then again, maybe I just upgraded from CricKet to Sprint. Booya!...

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Frozen Broccoli is Gross

I mean, what is the point in frozen broccoli? Really? What is the point.

In fact, I'll go so far as to say that frozen broccoli is like a BAD relationship.

You wanna know why?

Because you go to the doctor or you see on some billboard that you should be having 5-7 servings of vegetables a you get excited to cook...

but, then the "romance" of cooking wears off and you go for the frozen bag. Kind of like a quicky in bed or something.

You don't buy the kind that is in florets, because that would mean you'd have to cut it up and stuff, which would require work AND vegetables, so you just get the chopped stuff. In other words, you pick the bottom of the barrel in frozen broccoli, kind of like you pick your partners.

You feel at least a little excited, though, that you are going to get your vegetables (have SOMEONE to date after all) and so you bring it to work all frozen and stuff (because you don't want to stink your house up with that mess).

You add too much water (too much love and attention) to something you picked in a haphazard way anyhow, and then, what does it do? Broccoli (your lover) literally turns around and bites you in the ass.

That's right. Not only does it smell up your entire office floor (and mean you have to hide from your colleages so as not to leave a trace of you being the smelly staircase culprit), but you have to leave it all to be thrown out in your plate because, well you just can't bring yourself to "digest" it (get it?) anymore...