The Over-Educated Nympho

I had my first presentation this morning. It was brutal. I would love to say that in spite of freaking out last night I actually ended up doing an excellent job, such an excellent job that some random CEO in the crowd stood up and demanded that I be given a raise immediately for my brilliant insight into what I have learned from my short time in the management training program–but then I’d be lying, and while I’m lying I may as well give myself an extra four weeks of vacation and the nice B-cups I had twenty pounds ago except without all the squishy parts this time.

Seriously, I am not exaggerating or being modest about the presentation. It did not go well. It was rough. Except sooo not in the fun dirty whore sex kind of way.

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I am so not freaking out I am so not freaking out I am so not FREAKING THE FUCKING HELL OUT.

–pours pound-size bag of M&Ms into mouth and chews furiously–

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I think I kind of got promoted today. Not that it was for anything special I did, it was a snowball promotion. Aggie Boss got promoted, so Chill Boss got upped a notch to take over half of his responsibilities, which trickled down to me doing more to cover the things Chill Boss will be too busy to do.

But see… I know I should be happy. Right? I think? And yet I’m sitting here feeling like someone pulled a fast one on me. I call it the menstruation of promotions: the first drops of blood are a rush of relief—yippee!! Another month of not getting pregnant! GO ME!!–and then you look back down at your underwear and realize aw FUCK I’m going to be bleeding from the crotch for the next six days. DAMNIT.

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I give my first presentation on Friday morning, the first of many for this management training program. I’m kind of really totally freaking out over it because I don’t feel ready at all. Like every five minutes while reading/studying I find myself closing my eyes and wondering how the fuck I’m supposed to pull this off, especially since I heard the purpose of the Q&A session afterward is to weed out any bullshit I may have tried to pass off as genuine knowledge.

This is what I call a sweet merciful HOLY CRAP situation.

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There is a guy in my office who is very hot and therefore has been the subject of many of my fantanasties while working at my computer. I finally learned my lesson not to get involved with coworkers, but that won’t keep me from imagining him writhing underneath me on the conference table.

I will call this particular coworker Hot Brother 1 to keep him separate from Hot Coworker. Although they’re good friends and so that’s yet another reason I shouldn’t do anything–who knows what the hell Hot Coworker would say about me. And of course Hot Brother 1 has a long-term girlfriend who is very nice and very cool and so that’s pretty much a big fat strike out as far as naked time goes.

But he has a brother. A hot brother.

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Over the last several months of my involuntary celibacy, many of you have commented or emailed with what happened to Handsome and Pretty Twosome? What about Candyman?

I have ducked questions like these many times, or when I do answer it’s very vague. I’m not doing this to be an asshole, I’m doing this exactly because I don’t want to be an asshole.

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This weekend is the family reunion.

[Please excuse me, I need to take a moment to groan, roll my eyes, let loose a motherload of a sigh, and throw up a little in my mouth.]

But if anyone asks, I love my family. Really. Hell, when I lived fifteen hundred miles away my family was downright awesome.

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Years ago I had a group of guy friends I regularly went out drinking with. I was the token girl among a group of guys, which meant I was the ultimate secret weapon: the wing woman. No girl ever suspected what I was up to when I came over to ask her where she bought her shoes (they are sooo cute!) and a minute later I pulled one of my guy friends over to talk with us.

It was a great arrangement because they did the same for me, although the ratio of douchebags to fuckables in a bar is frightening. My guy friends were more likely to come to my rescue after two minutes of conversation with a missed target and some very noticeable signalling.

Being wing woman was extra awesome for me because if I didn’t meet anyone, I could go home with one of them.

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I like to talk dirty during sex. That’s why sex is fun, jackass. You don’t have to act like a lady like every other hour of the goddamn day. Let loose with the occasional “I love your big hard cock.” If you’ve already got your hand down a guy’s pants I think that means you can stop pretending you’re a good girl. That means it’s time for you to talk dirrty:

Come on. Unleash your inner dirty whore.

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My brother came to visit a couple weekends ago. It was two days of sitting on our asses watching movies and eating junk food. When I asked him “want to go to the store for beer and cookies?” he didn’t bat an eye. See? We get each other.

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Somehow I ended up in the perky department at work. Oddly enough all these “perky” coworkers are men. The partner I work for is the perkiest of them all, which on Monday mornings like today can make the not-so-inner bitch fight to come out. The first time he sees me in every day he asks me how I’m doing. “Fine” is never enough for this man–he wants a whole paragraph. Nothing but sarcastic answers laced with vinegar fill my head. This means that I actually take time in the mornings to think about what I’m going to say when he asks me so that something respectable comes out of my mouth.

One of these days I’m worried that my sarcasm filter is going to be overflowing to the point that a piece of poorly-disguised snark manages to slip out. It almost happened today. These were some of the gems that surely would have gotten me fired, or at least put in isolation:

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When I went to the gynecologist a couple weeks ago I asked her to test me for everything. Note: I did not say “STD.” STD is not a happy word. Only happy words are welcome in my Happy Place.

“Hmm…” The doctor said as she flipped through my chart. “We’ve never tested you for AIDS. Want me to do that too?”

“Yes please.” I shuddered under my paper gown. Yes please? Am I asking for a second helping of potato salad? What the fuck. This isn’t potato salad this is fucking AIDS.

We are so so far from my Happy Place right now. Not a unicorn or Oreo in sight.

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