TRACK LISTING

“Hi, I’m Dick”

“…Or Asshole”

“…Or Jerk-Off”

“…Sometimes Wanker”

“…Or Furry McEyebrowson”

“…Or Worf”

“…Or Severely Anti-Social”

“…Or What Happens When Two Cousins Fornicate”

“…Or The Only Guy To Appear In Three Consecutive Episodes Of Dateline’s ‘To Catch A Predator’”

“…Or A Waste Of A Perfectly Good Leopard Print Banana Hammock”

“Actually, Now That I Think About It, I’d Prefer It If You Just Called Me Richard”

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“You Ain’t No Friend Of Mine”

TRACK LISTING

“You Ain’t No Friend Of Mine”

“No Way”

“I’d Never Be Your Friend”

“Not Even If You Paid Me”

“You Coulda Been My Friend”

“But You Declined My Request”

“Thirty-Seven Times”

“Then Blocked My Profile”

“And Changed Your Phone Number”

“And Moved Out Of State”

“Also, That Restraining Order Didn’t Help”

“Your Loss, Girl”

“…Your Loss, Indeed”

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“I Heard My Father’s Voice”

TRACK LISTING

“He Was Calling My Name”

“Stevie….Stevie….”

“Get Out Of The Garden, Stevie”

“How Many Times Have I Told You To Quit Sniffing The Flowers, Stevie?”

“The Neighbors Already Think You’re Weird”

“You’re The Reason Their Children Aren’t Allowed Outside”

“Why Don’t You Go Out And Make Some Friends, Stevie?”

“Maybe Get Your Own Apartment”

“And A Girlfriend”

“A Real One, Not The Kind That Comes With It’s Own Air Valve”

” As You Can Tell, My Father Has Quite The Motor Mouth”

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“Don’t Poo In My Mouth And Tell Me It’s Raining”

TRACK LISTING

“Don’t Urinate On My Face And Tell Me It’s Cloudy”

“Don’t Shove My Head Into The Toilet And Tell Me It’s Overcast”

“Don’t Make Me A Vomit Sandwich And Tell Me It’s Foggy Out”

“Don’t Put Your Soiled Fruit Of The Looms On My Head And Tell Me You Have A Feeling It Might Snow”

“Don’t Kick Me In The Junk And Tell Me There’s Going To Be A Slight Chance Of Frost Overnight”

“Don’t Teabag Me And Tell Me There’s A High Wind Warning Remaining In Effect Until 4 PM PST”

“You Know How Much I Hate Bad Weather”

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“Don’t Loose The Love”

TRACK LISTING

“Don’t Loose The Love”

“Loose Love Sucks”

“It’s The Worst Kind Of Love”

“Only Loosers Loose Love”

“Also, Whores”

“It’s Like Throwing A Hotdog Down A Hallway”

“Or, So I’ve Heard, Anyway”

*cough*

“So Yeah, If Your Love Is Loose, Then Loose My Number”

“Or Only Call On Weekends”

“After Last Call”

“Sober, I Like My Love Like I Like My Women”

“Tight”

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“Saturday Night Fiedler”

TRACK LISTING

“Sensible Boogie Shoes”

“Last Night an R.N. Saved My Life”

“Heart of Glass (And A Pacemaker, Housed In A Hermetically Sealed Titanium Container)”

“Love Hangover….Or Maybe It’s Just My Gout Flaring Up”

“Lovin’ Is Really My Game. Also, Shuffleboard”

“It’s Raining Meds”

“Stayin’ Alive (Hint: Think Difibrillator)”

“Shriners Inferno”

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I wonder about a lot of things.

I wonder why people feel the need to write cryptic status updates on Twitter and Facebook, then say “It’s personal” when you ask them about it. I also wonder why Tori Spelling is relevant. One time I was so busy wondering that I forgot to go to work for an entire week.

Unfortunately, my Boss was not a wonderer, which is why I no longer work for that company.

One day, back when I was still employed, I was in a meeting. Because Engineering meetings are boring, I started wondering what would happen if I were to suddenly lean over the table and start making out with Don.

It’s not that I was attracted to Don–He was two years away from retirement and had a forehead that just wouldn’t quit. I just wanted to know what would happen if I did. Would he be all into it? Would my co-workers be shocked? Or even worse, turned on? Would they get all awkward and make an excuse to leave the room? Or would all hell break lose and suddenly the conference room would turn into one giant anal-retentive orgy?

An inquiring mind wanted to know.

To break up the monotony at work, my BFFOOTPITO (best friend forever out of the people in the office) taught me a game called  “Would You Rather.”

C- Would you rather be mauled by a bear or attacked by a shark?

Me- Neither. Final answer.

C- You have to pick one.

Me- Fine. Has the bear been declawed?

C- Why would a bear be declawed?

B- Is it a Basking shark?

C- Does it matter?

B- Well, duh. Basking Sharks don’t use their teeth.

C- *sighs* Why don’t you start. Give me two things and I’ll tell you which one I’d rather do.

B- Okay. Would you rather get rich or die tryin’?

C- It has to be two things that I wouldn’t want to do.

B- You didn’t say that.

C-  I thought it was implied.

B- Fine. Shit or get off the pot?

C- You don’t get it, do you?

B- Move it or lose it?

C- Forget it.

B- Well, that answers my next question. I was going to ask if you’d rather Set It or Forget It.

It took a while, but eventually I got the hang of it.

We played this game every day. Because we didn’t want to be accused of wasting Company time, we made sure to keep our questions strictly work-related.

“Would you rather stay at our current job for another five years or be in a fire where ninety percent of our body is covered in burns?”

When the answers became too easy (Burn Baby, Burn!), we decided to up the ante.

“Would you rather sleep with Hussein in Accounting, or Phil in Document Controls?”

To give you an idea of what we were dealing with it took three days– even cutting into our lunch hour (which we made up for by leaving early)–for us to come to a verdict.

I felt it was only fair that we share our decision with the finalists. I asked Hussein and Phil to meet us in the boardroom.

Me- First, we want you to know that this wasn’t easy. You’re both great guys and I’m sure both of you would make some desperate woman very happy.

Phil- What’s this about?

Me- Patience, old man. You’re not dead yet. *Turning to Hussein*  Now Hussein, you have a really great personality, but we find you too sweaty for our taste. Phil, your sensible footwear and cane really draws attention to your oldness.

During the intermission, C sang a song off her Richard Marx-inspired album “Right Here Collating For You.” I talked about the importance of not grossing your co-workers out by flossing at your desk.

Finally it came time to announce the winner. You could cut the tension with a knife. Had it not been for Hussein’s sweating, you would have been able to hear a paper-clip drop.

To make the experience seem more legit I decided to use the “Double Deek-Out,” a trick I picked up from watching “So You Think You Can Dance.”

You know how when the two contestants are up for elimination and that annoying English chick will turn to one guy and make it seem like he’s the winner? Then, at the last minute she will spew out a bunch of confusing double negatives, causing the loser to go home and slash his wrists and the viewers to wonder what the hell just happened.

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I find this method also works in my personal life.

For example, let’s say I’m at the store trying to decide which chocolate bar I want to buy.  To make the task seem more exciting, I will act like I’m going to pick the Oh Henry, then at the last minute I will point to the Eatmore and say “Eatmore, you may not not stay. Oh Henry, I’m sorry to say “No Way!”"

Given my unhealthy attachment to inanimate objects, I usually end up buying both. Also, a pack of Smarties.

Fortunately, my empathetic nature doesn’t extend to human beings.

I made it look like we were going to choose Hussein. Then I turned around and awarded Phil the title of “Guy We Would Sleep with If We Had To Pick between Him And Hussein.”

I awarded him with a stapler from the filing cabinet. C sang a song from her Meatloaf-inspired album, “Subordinate Out Of Hell.”

I don’t think Hussein was too happy with the results. But to be fair, he was married so it wasn’t like he had to worry about what was on the outside.

The important thing was that we gave an ornery old man something to live for.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder about Phil.

Not because I care–I mean, obviously–but because like I said…I’m a wonderer.

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Convo between myself and my heavily-accented German landlady, while out for breakfast at a cafe in Mexico:

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Sign posted outside cafe

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German Landlady: So, do you know what you will have for breakfast?

Me: I’m not really that hungry. I think I’ll just get the Frühstück.

Landlady: Yes, but you will have what?

Me: The frühstück. And an ice tea.

Landlady:  *deep sigh* I know this. What I am asking is what you will choose.

Me: Oh, you mean I get a choice? In that case, I’ll get a Grapefrühstück. Or kiwi fruh. …Or maybe some kind of exotic fruh medley. Anything but mango fruh. I don’t like mangoes.

Landlady: I do not think you are understanding. In Germany, frühstück is breakfast.

Me: Oh, I see. Well, in Canada, we usually have cereal and toast for breakfast. Or bacon and eggs. Sometimes pancakes.

Landlady: So you will have one of these?

Me: No. I. Am. Having. The. Frühstück.

*awkward silence*

Me: Do you think they’d let me get my fruh in a cup instead? Knowing me, I’ll probably end up stabbing myself with the stück.

Landlady: *rolls eyes* I do not understand what are you meaning.

Me: On second thought, maybe I should just stick with the Desayunos.

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*****

Convo between myself and same heavily-accented German landlady, while walking by the above mannequin on our way back to the hotel:

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Me: *points to mannequin’s extremely abundant cleavage* AS IF those are real!

Landlady: They are not real. It is only a mannequin.

Me: Um, yeah. I know. I was only kidding.

Landlady: *blank stare* I do not understand your humor.

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*****

Email convo later that day:

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Convo between myself and “Guess Who?”, on New Years’ Day, after she spent the entire night pre-post-coital with her “Mexican artist friend” directly above me:

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No, there is nothing wrong with my camera. Oddly enough, the fireworks in Mexico look similar to bushfires back home.

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Me: So, I take it you had a good New Year’s Eve?

Landlady: Yes. My artist friend came to visit me from Oaxaca. *clears throat* Um, we regarded the fireworks.

Me: Must have been hard to see them from that angle.

Landlady: I do not understand your jokes.

Me: *mumbles* I wasn’t joking this time…

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You can ignore this part…I was told I had to put it here - <a href=”http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/2505827/justmakingconvocom?claim=pc87tup9phz”>Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>

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Whenever I feel like I might be crazy, I find it helps to think about people who are more delusional than I am.

Sometimes I’ll think about Courtney Love, or people who think that Two and a Half Men is “The funniest show ever!”

But mostly, I think about a guy I used to date.

I met Jonas at a fitness club, while taking a step aerobics class he was teaching. Usually I make it a point never to take aerobics classes taught by heterosexual males who choreograph routines to “Dancing on The Ceiling.”  But I could tell by his instructing abilities that he really knew his stuff.

“Five, six, seven, eight . . . Step. Feet together. Alright, now rock it out. Pull, reach and pull. You’ve got it. Now ride the pony. Ride that pony hard! Nice work! One more time all the way through. Five, six, seven, eight . . .”

One day after class, Jonas grapevined his way over to where I was sweating and started chatting me up.

“You were amazing,” he said.” “For a minute there, I actually thought you were riding a pony.”

It’s true. when it comes to aerobics, my coordination is so phenomenal that it’s impossible to tell where I end and the step begins.

“I get it from my dad’s side of the family,” I said, fluttering my perspiration-soaked eyelashes. “They’re Quakers.”

He told me he loved my squats. I said I was mesmerized by his shimmys.

We had so much in common. Not only did we both enjoy having an increased heart rate, we were also both single. We even liked the same emoticons. (The winky face, and the one of the mustachio’d pope with a forked tongue eating something spicy.)

It was as if the Gods of the Crystal Light Aerobics Challenge had brought us together.

He asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink sometime. Drunk on a combination of endorphins and love, I said yes.

That weekend, he took me to Jamba Juice.

Because I had never dated an aerobics instructor before, I was nervous. First, I decided to play coy. Then I remembered that I don’t know what coy means. Finally, I just decided to wing it.

Right away, I could tell there was something different about Jonas. He just didn’t seem as “bouncy”. Also, I couldn’t help but notice that his speech was slightly slurred. I must have been staring, because he asked me if something was wrong.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I mean, I was just going to say that you have beautiful eyes.”

“Thanks,” he said. “If you play your cards right, maybe I’ll let you borrow them.” I laughed. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a melon baller. I changed the subject.

“So, what do you do when you’re not teaching aerobics?” I asked.

He said he was an entrepreneur, and was working on his latest invention.

“It’s called mind-step aerobics. It’s just like step-aerobics, only it’s for the mind.”

I asked him how many imaginary calories it burned.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” I laughed. He pulled out an apple corer and drew it across his neck in a cut-throat motion. I looked around for alternate escape routes.

We walked up to the counter. Jonas ordered the vitality superfruit juice with extra EXTRA blueberries. “I want to be able to see them antioxidizing in my cup,” he said.

During the date, Jonas talked about aerobics. I talked about myself. He showed me pictures of his aerobics medals. I showed him my bored face.  He asked me if I believed in the power of jazz hands. I said no. He pushed me off my stool with his jazz hands.

Later, he invited me back to his house for a night cap. Drunk on probiotics, I agreed.

After making me a wheat grass shot, he went to his room to “slip into something more comfortable.”

When he finally came out, he had his bedsheet wrapped around his body like a toga.

“Twelve-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton,” he said, hugging his body. “It’s like being molested by a cloud.”

Jonas walked over to the stereo and hit play. “Now it’s time to really dance on the ceiling,” he said, shuffling his way over to where I was sitting.

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to sleep with you,” I said. He laughed. I laughed. Finally, I was starting to feel a real connection.

Seven minutes later, while in post-coital embrace, he told me that his heart would be forever mine. I told him the same thing I tell every guy I sleep with on the first date: “Ditto.”

“Really?” he said. “Well, then why don’t we make this official?”

“You…you mean marriage?”

He laughed. “Of course not, silly. I meant let’s transplant our hearts into each other.”

While he was in the kitchen looking for an ice-cream scoop, I quickly threw on my clothes and ran out the door. Then I did the half-walk-half-cab ride of shame home.

Because I changed my number and cancelled my gym membership, I didn’t find out until later the reason for Jonas’s strange behavior. Turns out he’d been suffering from temporary brain damage after being scissor-kicked in the head by one of his students.

Unfortunately, by then I had already developed a thing for my yoga instructor.

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Trust me when I say his downward dog is nothing short of phenomenal.

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A few weeks later, while surfing the net, I came across a story about a jealous Pampered Chef Consultant, who stabbed her cheating fitness instructor ex-boyfriend with a paring knife.

Granted, she was the one who killed him, but still. I couldn’t help but think it was a sign.

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So, while going through my old computer files recently, I came across a folder of Facebook comments I’d made during my three-month long insomnia phase.

Most of them I never actually posted, mostly because at the time I was afraid of getting kicked in the cyber-head for being so lame.

Now, after going back and revisiting these comments–that at the time I thought were amusing–not only do I understand why my questions went unanswered, I also made the conscious decision to defriend myself.

Trust me, if this post wasn’t titled “My Lamest Facebook Comments Ever,” I definitely wouldn’t be making these public.

*Note: I have arranged these in order from worst to worster-chire sauce (LOL!…Just a taste of what’s to come!). So if at any time you feel like you can’t take any more, I suggest you stop reading immediately and go somewhere a little more highbrow- Like here. Or here. Really, anywhere but here.

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WWSD?/Jersey Shore Fan Page

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“I Hate It When My Parents Ask Who I’m Texting” Fan Page

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General Hospital Fan Page

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“Kids Say The Darndest Things” Fan Page

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Some Page Completely Unrelated To Jo-Anne’s Post

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Because this last one isn’t really suitable for work (even though the image was posted publicly AND didn’t have the cute Hello Kitty censor that I compassionately added just so your eyeballs wouldn’t spontaneously combust like mine did when I saw it), I put it here. Click at your own risk.

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…Um, yeah. So on that note, Happy New Year!

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