Sometimes I go through my search term results just to see what leads people here and what they might be trying to glean from my vast stores of diarist rambling. For the most part you seem to be looking for "silverthinks" or some variation of that, which is fine. I always wanted a dedicated fanbase. thx.
But sometimes I get randomly other different search term hits and quite frankly I don't understand if Google is just fucking with me here or if they really think I'm the go-to source for some of this information. I don't know whether to be flattered or freaked out is what I'm saying because here's why...
A few notable search terms from recently:
Hot couple in rollers fucking
Fucking in her curlers
Hot girl in rollers
I sincerely apologize for the lack of fucking and general hotness you'll find here. It's sad for me too sometimes. trrrrust me. Anyway, I didn't realize there was such a thing as curlers/hot roller fetishism, but whatever, Rule 34 and all. It just seems so retro. Very 1950s ish. Like you're looking to be the milkman who pops in on June Cleaver unawares and *cue porn music* Or perhaps the interest is Oedipal in nature? Maybe your mom used to wear hot rollers or something and you remember that...um...fondly (see what I did there? fondle-y? heh) in which case...well...that's for you and your therapist to work out. best luck. and...sorry.
On a related note, there was also: Sissies in curlers
Now, for the many of you apparently who were searching for Sissies in curlers, wow, I mean I know you had to be super disappointed when you landed here. Because I got NOTHIN' in that department to satisfy your curiosity. And never in all my years did I think I would feel bad about that. Until now. So I think Google should really take the fall for this one because they led you pretty far astray.
But you're here and I'm a problem solver, so we may as well work together. Alrighty then, *neck cracking head turn. wiggly keyboard fingers* from my extensive research on this topic (clickety over to craigslist casual encounters), I'm pretty sure there's no shortage of Sissies within driving radius of your local metro area. And even if you don't want to meet them in person, I'd hazard a guess that they would very likely wear curlers, stockings, your wife's lace panties, or whatever else your repressed heart dreams up and email you many, many photos of that. Based on what I can now not unsee, Sissies seem to be quite...uhm...accommodating. And pretty enthusiastic about self portraiture.
What *I* gleaned from that search is that I need to post some new pictures here because the hot roller self portrait pictures are the ones that pop up if you image search le blog and...not only am I not as accomplished at photography as some people, but also I really should have thought that through.
Moving on.
Blonde with balloon tits sucks | redtube free
My question: What the everloving FUCK, Google? I love you and it's like you hate me leading people here with that. seriously. knock it off. I like internet porn as much as the next minivan mom, but come on.
Now for you, you silly little boy, looking for some chick with balloon tits and...well...sucking (and I'm positive you don't mean in an #EPICFAIL way based on the redtube bit at the end. Although I think that's a question of perspective) *sigh. Sweetie. Look. Those ladies have already been bought and paid for. So unless you have a limo filled with blow or semi-legitimate casting couch, they're not giving you the time of day. I'd like to be optimistic about the possibility that you're rolling in scads of cash to pay for limos and camera equipment, but you're Googling free porn. You are broke. Go check your craigslist and see if that waitress at Applebee's "hitt u back" on your Missed Connections post yet. Or just go back to the goddamn restaurant and ask her out in person. In this booty texting, Girls Gone Wild day and age, it's very likely you'll get lucky if you just show up.
Crack rose pipe
Okay, so, multiple people looking for information about the crack rose pipe, you have come to the right place. clearly. Now, you obviously have a little more knowledge than I did when I was first introduced to this appliance if you're stringing that search together. Because I wouldn't have associated crack cocaine with those little roses in the glass tubes at convenience stores at all. Until the crack smokers I used to sell timeshare with gave me the 911. But let's not let my former naivete get in the way here.
I'm taking the liberty to assume you're shopping for crack pipes online. And with Valentine's day just around the corner, two birds and all. I think it's wise that you're looking for a more discreet way to feed your habit. Especially since you've noticed the dude at the 7-11 starting to look at you with a special twinkle and if history is any indication, you're *this close* to ending up in the cooler with his dick in your mouth to score some quality rock (or vice versa? I haven't learned the etiquette of the sex for drugs exchange. sorry) but you love your wife and you promised her you would never, EVER, do that. again. hence the need for the roses.
Anyway, if you're looking for the line on where you can get crack rose pipes delivered in bulk I'm thinking you should check Oriental Trading maybe? Fingerhut? They have everything. And it's all made in China which means it is specifically designed to kill you. So I don't see why they wouldn't be selling crack rose pipes made out of asbestos and black mold or something. Seems like common sense to me but I can understand how your drug addled brain wouldn't have put that together right away.
See? HELPING! You're welcome.
In conclusion, I think Google is being prankful with these search results. But I haven't decided on whom.
Showing posts with label wtf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wtf. Show all posts
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Hell at the Church Carnival
So, I mentioned the church carnival was last weekend. That Zipper ride I took a picture of? Decided to ride it on Sunday after some hell broke loose I'd rather not get into yet or possibly ever because I'm still a little bit in shock over the whole thing. But today we're talking about the Zipper ride. And that's not even a euphemism. Well, it wasn't.
The Zipper is a carnival ride. It's got a big long, oval piece in the center maybe 50 feet long with 14 or so people cages attached that two riders can cram inside. No Single Riders, the signs warn. You have to find a friend and buddy up. foreshadowing, I never knew thee.
The aluminum cages for riders are faced with a dog kennel kind of mesh and the insides are reinforced with foam wrapped bars that have seen fluffier days. The seat side of the inside isn't a seat per se. Rather a contoured wall, padded with red diner booth vinyl. Looking back, I'm convinced an epic amount of WD40 had to be involved to keep these death traps from squealing out rusty hinged hints of impending peril.
As such, my sister and I met the kids up at the carnival on Sunday day and happily climbed right in after much coaxing from Thing 1, Thing 2 and their gaggle of buddies. Fine. One ride. that's it. We leaned into the diner vinyl ready for an adventure. Sometimes when your life feels like a carnival ride, it's good to get on an actual carnival ride and put things in perspective a little bit I think. "So, bring it," I thought.
The first half was fine. We laughed and shrieked as the Zipper swirled us around. I think we were the only two riders. The Things and their friends were watching us from the ground, holding bags and sunglasses. Thing 1 had stumbled off the ride two nights before yelling, "Never again!" in mock-ish outrage. But he'd been back on it a dozen times since then, so how bad could it be?
Then...
What happened on the second half I'm not entirely sure but it was easily the single most terrifying experience of my adult life.
As we paused mid-ride at the tippy top of the world, the ride operator must have set the Zipper on Straight to Hell mode because suddenly we started lurching through the air, flipping and looping and plummeting in ways that I would not have thought possible by watching from the ground. I felt like someone threw me in an old lunch box and swung me around changing directions by surprise and with such force that I was brutalized by gravity itself. Well, gravity and a roll bar. I still have bruises.
I would never survive the space program.
My sister and I screamed. And kept screaming. This wasn't playful shrieking anymore, these were piercing, tear-streaked, torrents of pure fear that drew a crowd on the ground below us. I don't even know how many people gathered by the time we were done because I was so dazed once I got off the ride. My sister needed to go vomit. I needed gingerale and a seat that wasn't moving. If I were a cartoon, I'd have had googly eyes and birdies chirping around my head.
Skipping over the gross parts, let's just say that once the next 30 minutes and the contents of both of our stomachs had passed, we felt much better.
Never again, Zipper. Never again.
The Zipper is a carnival ride. It's got a big long, oval piece in the center maybe 50 feet long with 14 or so people cages attached that two riders can cram inside. No Single Riders, the signs warn. You have to find a friend and buddy up. foreshadowing, I never knew thee.
The aluminum cages for riders are faced with a dog kennel kind of mesh and the insides are reinforced with foam wrapped bars that have seen fluffier days. The seat side of the inside isn't a seat per se. Rather a contoured wall, padded with red diner booth vinyl. Looking back, I'm convinced an epic amount of WD40 had to be involved to keep these death traps from squealing out rusty hinged hints of impending peril.
As such, my sister and I met the kids up at the carnival on Sunday day and happily climbed right in after much coaxing from Thing 1, Thing 2 and their gaggle of buddies. Fine. One ride. that's it. We leaned into the diner vinyl ready for an adventure. Sometimes when your life feels like a carnival ride, it's good to get on an actual carnival ride and put things in perspective a little bit I think. "So, bring it," I thought.
The first half was fine. We laughed and shrieked as the Zipper swirled us around. I think we were the only two riders. The Things and their friends were watching us from the ground, holding bags and sunglasses. Thing 1 had stumbled off the ride two nights before yelling, "Never again!" in mock-ish outrage. But he'd been back on it a dozen times since then, so how bad could it be?
Then...
What happened on the second half I'm not entirely sure but it was easily the single most terrifying experience of my adult life.
As we paused mid-ride at the tippy top of the world, the ride operator must have set the Zipper on Straight to Hell mode because suddenly we started lurching through the air, flipping and looping and plummeting in ways that I would not have thought possible by watching from the ground. I felt like someone threw me in an old lunch box and swung me around changing directions by surprise and with such force that I was brutalized by gravity itself. Well, gravity and a roll bar. I still have bruises.
I would never survive the space program.
My sister and I screamed. And kept screaming. This wasn't playful shrieking anymore, these were piercing, tear-streaked, torrents of pure fear that drew a crowd on the ground below us. I don't even know how many people gathered by the time we were done because I was so dazed once I got off the ride. My sister needed to go vomit. I needed gingerale and a seat that wasn't moving. If I were a cartoon, I'd have had googly eyes and birdies chirping around my head.
Skipping over the gross parts, let's just say that once the next 30 minutes and the contents of both of our stomachs had passed, we felt much better.
Never again, Zipper. Never again.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
The Oven Exploded and Other Things
I blow out lightbulbs like birthday candles. Microwaves, video players and other small appliances too. Sometimes room fuses, once the whole house. Once the cul de sac went out but they never pinned that one on me officially. Anyway, today I blew out the oven.
See, I've been meaning to make Oatmeal Raisin cookies for a week or two just because I forget why. And today in a fit of prehistoric hormonal imperative, cookies got made. I was kvelling on the phone with Audrey while the second tray of cookies were in the oven. And...PHZZZT! POW! WTF?!
It sounded like a combination of ice maker and garbage disposal, but it came from my oven.
"Um, hey, can you hold on a minute? I think my oven just exploded."
"What? You're joking, right? Are you kidding? You have to be kidding."
"Um...I...uh..." *spies something glowing and possibly on fire inside the oven* "What the...I need to call you back."
I opened the oven and tried to figure out what the hell I was looking at. It wasn't a flame. It looked like it could maybe turn into one, but at the time it was just...this glowy thing in the back of the oven.
I took the cookies out.
Took the wire racks out.
Poured baking soda on it just in case it was grease.
The glowing didn't stop.
I kind of wished I had a fire extinguisher? but after the baking soda I realized there was no flame to put out so I just stood there and stared at the glowing and realized the open oven door was letting air get to it and if there's any truth to science, that was probably not an ideal situation for avoiding a fire. *put racks back in place* *close oven door*
Huh.
Meanwhile, I have two 9 year old boys, Thing 2 and friend, standing in the kitchen sucking on popsicles and staring into the oven with me wondering what we might be supposed to do next.
So I flipped off the oven at the fuse box and the glowy part of the heating element went dark. And the best I can come up with is that the oven is staying off until further notice.
Thank god I replaced the fuel line on the grill.
Anyway, that was a brief moment this afternoon. The rest of the week has had me doing other things.
Like...
I applied for my passport on Tuesday.
So you don't think I'm totally uncivilized, I did have a passport before but that was in my married name and I've not only gone back to my maiden name since but also I changed my first name and middle name too which makes for lots of paperwork and WHEE! but also, I lost my first passport a million years ago anyway so I HAD to get a new one because I have an international vacation coming up in a little while that I'll tell you about later. In a surprising and totally coincidental turn of events, it's going to take place near a teenbeauty pageant scholarship competition. Thusly, Thing 1 will always remember that puberty started mid July 2011. *shakes head*
What else? Oh, I took the kids to the beach the other afternoon. For no reason other than Thing 2 was bored and I needed something else to do besides be in the house. Sometimes even though it feels like I should be chained to a radiator for the safety of the villagers, getting my feet in the sand is more calming.
I remember afternoons like that when I was their age. Doing Spelling homework in front of the ocean. Pretty outstanding memory to have. *wistful sigh. Anyway...
And this weekend is the big church carnival. Not my church obvs. My church can be found in the previous two pictures. But it's the neighborhood Catholic church and we go every year because they have awesome rides and creepy carnies and a not at all bad flea market section.
And sometimes you see stuff like this.
See, I've been meaning to make Oatmeal Raisin cookies for a week or two just because I forget why. And today in a fit of prehistoric hormonal imperative, cookies got made. I was kvelling on the phone with Audrey while the second tray of cookies were in the oven. And...PHZZZT! POW! WTF?!
It sounded like a combination of ice maker and garbage disposal, but it came from my oven.
"Um, hey, can you hold on a minute? I think my oven just exploded."
"What? You're joking, right? Are you kidding? You have to be kidding."
"Um...I...uh..." *spies something glowing and possibly on fire inside the oven* "What the...I need to call you back."
I opened the oven and tried to figure out what the hell I was looking at. It wasn't a flame. It looked like it could maybe turn into one, but at the time it was just...this glowy thing in the back of the oven.
I took the cookies out.
Took the wire racks out.
Poured baking soda on it just in case it was grease.
The glowing didn't stop.
I kind of wished I had a fire extinguisher? but after the baking soda I realized there was no flame to put out so I just stood there and stared at the glowing and realized the open oven door was letting air get to it and if there's any truth to science, that was probably not an ideal situation for avoiding a fire. *put racks back in place* *close oven door*
Huh.
Meanwhile, I have two 9 year old boys, Thing 2 and friend, standing in the kitchen sucking on popsicles and staring into the oven with me wondering what we might be supposed to do next.
So I flipped off the oven at the fuse box and the glowy part of the heating element went dark. And the best I can come up with is that the oven is staying off until further notice.
Thank god I replaced the fuel line on the grill.
Anyway, that was a brief moment this afternoon. The rest of the week has had me doing other things.
Like...
I applied for my passport on Tuesday.
 |
| I'm okay with the picture. Although I wish I'd contemplated a hairbrush. |
So you don't think I'm totally uncivilized, I did have a passport before but that was in my married name and I've not only gone back to my maiden name since but also I changed my first name and middle name too which makes for lots of paperwork and WHEE! but also, I lost my first passport a million years ago anyway so I HAD to get a new one because I have an international vacation coming up in a little while that I'll tell you about later. In a surprising and totally coincidental turn of events, it's going to take place near a teen
 |
| Random kite surfer |
 |
| Thing 1 & 2 just digging in the sand |
And this weekend is the big church carnival. Not my church obvs. My church can be found in the previous two pictures. But it's the neighborhood Catholic church and we go every year because they have awesome rides and creepy carnies and a not at all bad flea market section.
And sometimes you see stuff like this.
 |
And it triangulates you exactly at "*gasp!* Precious!", "It feels like just yesterday..." and "...holy christ Thing 1 is starting middle school in three months."
So there's just all kinds of interesting things going on here lately.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Blurring the Lines
The crazy must be piling up because lately I'm thinking to myself in blog. Words start to bubble to the surface and soon it becomes this roiling thing in my head reaching out with tendrils growing to branches unfurling swirls and layers of tumbling thinkingness until I can't even procrastinate with Spider Solitaire anymore because the words are clogging up my whole brain.
Soooo, HI!
Okay, I mentioned a couple of posts ago how I was being my Junior Counselor to the Free World self over at WYRD101.com right? I did a podcast for them that one time? And you all listened to it and thought it was much better than CATS and you'd listen again and again? Remember that? Well, I did another podcast. This time it was a video which you can download from here: http://wyrd101.com/bbb03/
I make my appearance around the 50 minute mark of the video and if you don't have the time or inclination to go listen to my SAGE WORDS OF ADVICE, just know that I did the podcast in catface makeup.
Like so:
Because when someone tells me they're having problems getting along with people and they just don't know what in the world could be wrong and HALP! and then I get clickety and find out pretty quickly that this guy belongs to the Furmunity and identifies more strongly with a German Shepherd Dragon Hybrid at times than regular human people? I'm doing the podcast in catface because I think that's a kind of significant detail that might factor in to your interpersonal relationships and next time you might want to mention that because see how being a humanimal might be a little distracting? And I'm not even mentioning the pregnancy fetish thing. So, what I'm saying is that I'm not a One Size Fits All junior counselor, okay? It's called caring, people. I haz it.
Soooo, HI!
Okay, I mentioned a couple of posts ago how I was being my Junior Counselor to the Free World self over at WYRD101.com right? I did a podcast for them that one time? And you all listened to it and thought it was much better than CATS and you'd listen again and again? Remember that? Well, I did another podcast. This time it was a video which you can download from here: http://wyrd101.com/bbb03/
I make my appearance around the 50 minute mark of the video and if you don't have the time or inclination to go listen to my SAGE WORDS OF ADVICE, just know that I did the podcast in catface makeup.
Like so:
 |
| mrawr |
Anyway, that's just a smidge of what I've been up to. Also I want to address the blurring of virtual and 3D people lines, because that's something I've been bumping up against lately.
See, I run into people I know in 3D who've stumbled across the blog (hey! maybe it's you) and it's always awkward for me because I have to wonder if I've talked shit about you here and what dear diary insanity you may have read about me so far. Because you don't really say what you've read, you just give me a knowing look and tell me I'm an amazing writer which, y'know, *BLUSH! and Thanks! and all and I don't know what to say except I'm a little paranoid now and how long have you been lurking around for god sakes?! sorry. It just seems weird to me that we've run into each other at little league and the grocery store with the neighborly "hey there" head nod 27 times and all of a sudden I find out you know my secrets. that's all.
Because I want to write more. I do. It's therapeutic for me and stuff. I can't believe I made time to do this every day for most of last year just because why not. And I could kick myself for checking out right before the entire blog awards season because I think I could have gotten an honorable mention or something from somebody. yeesh. But that wasn't the point.
The point was that while it's liberating to splay myself wide open all over the internet, knowing that my audience is just as likely to live around the corner as across the country is something I'm still working at reconciling.
See, I run into people I know in 3D who've stumbled across the blog (hey! maybe it's you) and it's always awkward for me because I have to wonder if I've talked shit about you here and what dear diary insanity you may have read about me so far. Because you don't really say what you've read, you just give me a knowing look and tell me I'm an amazing writer which, y'know, *BLUSH! and Thanks! and all and I don't know what to say except I'm a little paranoid now and how long have you been lurking around for god sakes?! sorry. It just seems weird to me that we've run into each other at little league and the grocery store with the neighborly "hey there" head nod 27 times and all of a sudden I find out you know my secrets. that's all.
Because I want to write more. I do. It's therapeutic for me and stuff. I can't believe I made time to do this every day for most of last year just because why not. And I could kick myself for checking out right before the entire blog awards season because I think I could have gotten an honorable mention or something from somebody. yeesh. But that wasn't the point.
The point was that while it's liberating to splay myself wide open all over the internet, knowing that my audience is just as likely to live around the corner as across the country is something I'm still working at reconciling.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Updating.....78% complete
You know how full moons are supposed to make everyone crazy and certain astrological events have a profound effect on how people do things? Well, if you're into new agey things like astrology, magnets and The Force and stuff then you might be familiar with that concept, but if you aren't then I'm probably about to sound like a crackpot. consider yourself warned.
Okay, so in the last few weeks we've had some major planetary events. One of the most powerful earthquakes in history, a devastating tsunami and then the Super Perigee full moon right afterward. Now, I'm not saying I'm anywhere near Japan. In fact, I thought I was probably on the exact opposite side of the world from it until I found this totally radical mapping website and found out the geographic other side of the world from my sofa is freaking NOWHERE in the Indian Ocean southwest of Australia. Anyway, I'm nowhere near Japan is what I'm saying but I think the significance of all those events one right after the other served to shake up just about everyone on the planet.
As the world seemed to be finding its footing that whole week after the devastation in Japan, the Super Moon waxed to bursting overhead and I'm pretty sure that tipped the scales of the universe toward totally bonkers.
At least that's how it feels for me. I was a guest on a podcast over at wyrd101.com titled "A Fistful of Silver" which carries a NSFW warning and also Not Safe for the Easily Offended which I find oddly flattering and a complete surprise because they told me it was an adult broadcast and I was just speaking freely and I didn't think I was so offensive that I warranted TWO different kinds of warnings. I didn't even turn on the webcam. It was fun to be a part of actually. So, if you aren't at work and have an open mind and also an hour or so go listen and tell me why that event keeps playing in my head on a loop. Because I can't figure out why.
Another thing that has me thrown for a loop is that I joined the gym last Friday. I have been there every day except Sunday because my legs were on fire from 96 squat-related exercises but it still doesn't feel real. I don't even know how to explain the gym thing except that I felt suddenly and overwhelmingly compelled to join. An irresistible urge. Which is the definition of compelled if I'm not mistaken (and I'm not because I just looked it up, thanks Google).
I'm trusting it though. At this point in my life, I feel like I have to trust things like that because how much more time do I have to waste not listening to my intuition? The more opportunities I squander, the less time I have to enjoy my success when I finally do figure it out. So I think I should probably just do the right thing now rather than hold myself back any longer. I think.
I have been wanting a reset button on my life for a while. Of course I KNOW the universe doesn't give those out. Well, not without actual death involved and I don't think I'm quite there yet. But for whatever reason I feel like things got shaken off the shelves internally speaking and I'm reorganizing how they're arranged in my head. Probably why I haven't been writing here in so long that I feel I hardly qualify as member of the blogosphere these days. Even though there are a whole host of other things I could and have been blaming it on, it just boils down to me not have my thoughts nailed down in a way that I'm ready to share for a while.
Like this event planning business I mentioned a couple months ago. I've been dragging my heels on that kinda. Fits and starts anyway. And it's driving me nuts. End of April is when I expect to be fully legit. I just have to quit talking myself out of it. I read a quote in Inc. last month that pretty much summed up the mindset I need to keep:
Having mentioned being critical, I have to admit that I absolutely love Regretsy, the website that snarks about ridiculous crafts on Etsy. But that's because what Regretsy features is so head cockingly WTF you can't help but rubberneck and giggle yourself stupid. At least I can't. so, there's my smidge of hypocrisy for ya.
Okay, so in the last few weeks we've had some major planetary events. One of the most powerful earthquakes in history, a devastating tsunami and then the Super Perigee full moon right afterward. Now, I'm not saying I'm anywhere near Japan. In fact, I thought I was probably on the exact opposite side of the world from it until I found this totally radical mapping website and found out the geographic other side of the world from my sofa is freaking NOWHERE in the Indian Ocean southwest of Australia. Anyway, I'm nowhere near Japan is what I'm saying but I think the significance of all those events one right after the other served to shake up just about everyone on the planet.
As the world seemed to be finding its footing that whole week after the devastation in Japan, the Super Moon waxed to bursting overhead and I'm pretty sure that tipped the scales of the universe toward totally bonkers.
At least that's how it feels for me. I was a guest on a podcast over at wyrd101.com titled "A Fistful of Silver" which carries a NSFW warning and also Not Safe for the Easily Offended which I find oddly flattering and a complete surprise because they told me it was an adult broadcast and I was just speaking freely and I didn't think I was so offensive that I warranted TWO different kinds of warnings. I didn't even turn on the webcam. It was fun to be a part of actually. So, if you aren't at work and have an open mind and also an hour or so go listen and tell me why that event keeps playing in my head on a loop. Because I can't figure out why.
Another thing that has me thrown for a loop is that I joined the gym last Friday. I have been there every day except Sunday because my legs were on fire from 96 squat-related exercises but it still doesn't feel real. I don't even know how to explain the gym thing except that I felt suddenly and overwhelmingly compelled to join. An irresistible urge. Which is the definition of compelled if I'm not mistaken (and I'm not because I just looked it up, thanks Google).
I'm trusting it though. At this point in my life, I feel like I have to trust things like that because how much more time do I have to waste not listening to my intuition? The more opportunities I squander, the less time I have to enjoy my success when I finally do figure it out. So I think I should probably just do the right thing now rather than hold myself back any longer. I think.
I have been wanting a reset button on my life for a while. Of course I KNOW the universe doesn't give those out. Well, not without actual death involved and I don't think I'm quite there yet. But for whatever reason I feel like things got shaken off the shelves internally speaking and I'm reorganizing how they're arranged in my head. Probably why I haven't been writing here in so long that I feel I hardly qualify as member of the blogosphere these days. Even though there are a whole host of other things I could and have been blaming it on, it just boils down to me not have my thoughts nailed down in a way that I'm ready to share for a while.
Like this event planning business I mentioned a couple months ago. I've been dragging my heels on that kinda. Fits and starts anyway. And it's driving me nuts. End of April is when I expect to be fully legit. I just have to quit talking myself out of it. I read a quote in Inc. last month that pretty much summed up the mindset I need to keep:
Your competition is a secondary factor. Analyze whether you think you can be successful or not before you size up your competitors.Because I don't want to adopt the habit of knocking people down to make myself feel better about my chances. You know how people do that sometimes? They look at someone else and say, "What a piece of shit; they should be ashamed of themselves for that attempt." and don't take into account 1. There's always a learning curve and 2. It's pretty easy to sit back and be a critic without getting your hands dirty. And, y'know, bitter isn't my best side. I'll let you know more about the event planning thing as it coagulates.
Having mentioned being critical, I have to admit that I absolutely love Regretsy, the website that snarks about ridiculous crafts on Etsy. But that's because what Regretsy features is so head cockingly WTF you can't help but rubberneck and giggle yourself stupid. At least I can't. so, there's my smidge of hypocrisy for ya.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Quick Telephone Refresher
I'm not sure how many planets are in retrograde right now but I kind of wish they would snap out of it so I quit having THIS phone interaction:
Phone rings. Twice.
Me: Good morning, Dr. Nelson and Associates. This is Silver.
Them: Hello!
Me: Hey there!
Them: Does he have any appointments open? ("He" being my father. The only He in the office to which they could be referring)
Me: Have you seen him as a patient before?
Them: [laughter] Oh yes. I've seen him for years.
Me: [insincere yet convincing chuckle] What's your name?
Them: Steve.
Me: [less smiley voice but still polite] Uh huh. Steve? Do you have a last name?
Them: Smith.
Me: [the a HA, now we're getting somewhere voice] Okay Mr. Smith, when would you like to come in?
Them: Oh, I don't know, whenever.
Me: [helpfully perplexed] 10:30 Thursday? Does that work for you?
Them: Oh. No. You know what? I don't have my calendar in front of me. Can I call you back?
Me: [sigh. smiley voice.] Suuuuurrre. No problem. Just let us know! [Hang up the phone quietly. close eyes. deep breath. head twisty neck crack movement. another deep breath.]
Can we (meaning you) please tighten that conversation up by a million and start off with, "Good morning. This is Steve Smith. I was wondering if Dr. Nelson has anything open late this afternoon?"
THEN all I gotta say is "have you seen him as a patient before?" (if I don't recognize your name right away. sorry) and we're good to go.
That way? I don't feel compelled to take up smoking again and you get to check your blindspot tomorrow without searing pain. Everybody wins.
We're all cool with this, right? I could write it down for you if you need. I've got sticky notes by the truckload over here.
Also, I'm still not smoking. Nearing on three weeks.
I will say a couple of things about not smoking at this juncture. Quitting smoking during Halloween Candy Season? poor planning.
Upside to slight weight gain? Boobs!
Another upside? Smelling vaguely of Snickers No.5.
Phone rings. Twice.
Me: Good morning, Dr. Nelson and Associates. This is Silver.
Them: Hello!
Me: Hey there!
Them: Does he have any appointments open? ("He" being my father. The only He in the office to which they could be referring)
Me: Have you seen him as a patient before?
Them: [laughter] Oh yes. I've seen him for years.
Me: [insincere yet convincing chuckle] What's your name?
Them: Steve.
Me: [less smiley voice but still polite] Uh huh. Steve? Do you have a last name?
Them: Smith.
Me: [the a HA, now we're getting somewhere voice] Okay Mr. Smith, when would you like to come in?
Them: Oh, I don't know, whenever.
Me: [helpfully perplexed] 10:30 Thursday? Does that work for you?
Them: Oh. No. You know what? I don't have my calendar in front of me. Can I call you back?
Me: [sigh. smiley voice.] Suuuuurrre. No problem. Just let us know! [Hang up the phone quietly. close eyes. deep breath. head twisty neck crack movement. another deep breath.]
Can we (meaning you) please tighten that conversation up by a million and start off with, "Good morning. This is Steve Smith. I was wondering if Dr. Nelson has anything open late this afternoon?"
THEN all I gotta say is "have you seen him as a patient before?" (if I don't recognize your name right away. sorry) and we're good to go.
That way? I don't feel compelled to take up smoking again and you get to check your blindspot tomorrow without searing pain. Everybody wins.
We're all cool with this, right? I could write it down for you if you need. I've got sticky notes by the truckload over here.
Also, I'm still not smoking. Nearing on three weeks.
I will say a couple of things about not smoking at this juncture. Quitting smoking during Halloween Candy Season? poor planning.
Upside to slight weight gain? Boobs!
Another upside? Smelling vaguely of Snickers No.5.
Monday, November 8, 2010
RHBH
I sat through my first full episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills tonight. I don't know why I've missed it up til now. I'm really only committed to the New York and New Jersey housewives shows. But anyway, I watched RHBH and have to say this is the only Real Housewives cast that makes me feel appalled and inadequate at the same time.
Sixty thousand dollars for a 4 year old's birthday party? Twelve thousand even? I could hang my head in shame for even tinkering with the notion of becoming an event planner after looking at that. Mother Daughter Diamond Barbie Head Pendants! And Matching Favors for the Guests! Chandeliers Outside Just Because I Looked Up and Thought "oooo! A Chandelier!" And nothing says Happy Birthday Sweetheart like a photo shoot with Mommy Barbie standing on the party table looking whimsical while Nanny #1 pushes Birthday Skipper on a swing somewhere out of the way. cherish the moments.
Do they have beginner classes in Obnoxiously Jawdropping Decadent Extravagance? Luxe 101? I couldn't plan a party like that until I took that class. I'd have to take it twice probably.
The $12K party for the two year old was obviously way better. Although I can't think of specifically why other than it was about 5 times less pretentious. But I was worried when the planner dude said "French Fry Bar." All I could do was roll my eyes and think, oh honey, how low rent. It's just...I'm so conflicted. Almost makes me wish I had a retreat in Hawaii to go rejuvenate my spirit or something. Feed my soul by giving you one of my Escalades? Or I could at least shoot up a little botox so the pain wouldn't show. I'd maybe settle for just the collagen if there was a wait.
see...I'm learning already.
Sixty thousand dollars for a 4 year old's birthday party? Twelve thousand even? I could hang my head in shame for even tinkering with the notion of becoming an event planner after looking at that. Mother Daughter Diamond Barbie Head Pendants! And Matching Favors for the Guests! Chandeliers Outside Just Because I Looked Up and Thought "oooo! A Chandelier!" And nothing says Happy Birthday Sweetheart like a photo shoot with Mommy Barbie standing on the party table looking whimsical while Nanny #1 pushes Birthday Skipper on a swing somewhere out of the way. cherish the moments.
Do they have beginner classes in Obnoxiously Jawdropping Decadent Extravagance? Luxe 101? I couldn't plan a party like that until I took that class. I'd have to take it twice probably.
The $12K party for the two year old was obviously way better. Although I can't think of specifically why other than it was about 5 times less pretentious. But I was worried when the planner dude said "French Fry Bar." All I could do was roll my eyes and think, oh honey, how low rent. It's just...I'm so conflicted. Almost makes me wish I had a retreat in Hawaii to go rejuvenate my spirit or something. Feed my soul by giving you one of my Escalades? Or I could at least shoot up a little botox so the pain wouldn't show. I'd maybe settle for just the collagen if there was a wait.
see...I'm learning already.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
They Made That Into a Movie?
I just forced myself to finish reading Up in the Air. It's the book on which that movie with George Clooney was based. I never saw the movie, I just needed something to read and that looked like it could be interesting since wasn't the movie nominated for a bunch of Oscars or something? Eh, why not.
I read it. Airplanes. Corporate disenchantment. uh-huh, okay... I kept waiting for it to get good. Waiting for that je ne sais quois that would inspire anyone to make it into an Oscar nominated (winning? did it win anything?) movie. I kept waiting for the point. and waiting.
The most interesting part of that book was the character's drug addled overnight in Las Vegas. It came really close to having a point there. That was almost toward the end but I thought, "Okay, here we go. Epiphany time." But then it lost any trace of getting to a point. And never got it back. It wasn't even funny anywhere and there was no sex at all. And now it's over. And I feel all sneery. stupid book.
That character Vera Farmiga played in the movie? Never existed in the book. Totally created in the screenplay. Know why? Because the book sucked out loud. And again, never saw the movie but I suspect she was the most compelling part of it because there was nothing compelling about that damn book. I am Not. Pleased.
Of the books I read for entertainment I think some people do the book-to-movie transition way better than others. Some books just aren't meant to be digested in 90 minutes. There's nothing wrong with that. Look at Clavell...Shogun anyone? see? Anyway, there are some authors I read fairly regularly and I thought about this a little while drudging through my latest reading venture.
Michael Crichton, bless his soul, he could write a book-to-movie book. I read and saw just about everything he did. Every book was well written and the movies were made with a real sense of how things went down on paper. entertaining. My favorite of his books, and the first I ever read from him, was the autobiography Travels. That will never be made into a movie. Because even though he started out every experience as a skeptic throughout his earlier years, so much of his perception was stretched and elightened with New Age-ish philosophy. I doubt that would be well characterized on screen. Too easy to turn that into a dumbed down mess. Anyway, I have read that book so many times in the last 20 years. highly recommended.
John Grisham. Well, I can only either read the books of his or see the movies. But not both. Because I tried to read The Firm after seeing the movie and I kept picturing what Tom Cruise had done onscreen and it was just enough off that I got head-tangly and couldn't keep things straight so I put the book down. And I tried to watch one of the movies after reading another book and just got bored with watching. Now I just read him for fluff. but not often.
Tom Clancy. They cannot do his books justice on the big screen. Impossible. I've only read a few of his books but I remember seeing Clear and Present Danger in the theater not long after I'd finished reading it and my comparative knowledge made that movie horrible. Edited beyond reason. very disappointing. The books though, wow.
Nelson DeMille. I bet they could make some good movies with Nelson DeMille's stuff. The only movie I think they've done so far is The General's Daughter and that was, well, that was just okay. John Travolta...eh. DeMille's other books would translate better to movies. Action, spy stuff. fun.
Patricia Cornwell. Hers would be good too but those would actually be better turned into a cable series given the popularity of crime drama, Dr. G: Medical Examiner and the fabulousity that is Dexter. [dreamy sigh for Dexter]
Anyway, if They, the faceless media production machine, ever popped over here for my free opinion then that is what I would tell them. I would never have recommended Up in the Air for cinematic adaptation. But what the hell do I know, it got Oscar nominations. I'm pretty sure that was mostly about George Clooney though and what had to be some brilliant screenwriting.
All in all, I think the author is not terrible. He put words together like puzzle pieces throughout, they just didn't make any kind of a picture at the end. I like books that make me want to climb in and be a character. This didn't give me that. memorable only in its forgetableness.
The next book on my shelf is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I hear that is much, much, many times better and I am looking forward to reading and forgetting I ever read whatever that was I just finished.
I read it. Airplanes. Corporate disenchantment. uh-huh, okay... I kept waiting for it to get good. Waiting for that je ne sais quois that would inspire anyone to make it into an Oscar nominated (winning? did it win anything?) movie. I kept waiting for the point. and waiting.
The most interesting part of that book was the character's drug addled overnight in Las Vegas. It came really close to having a point there. That was almost toward the end but I thought, "Okay, here we go. Epiphany time." But then it lost any trace of getting to a point. And never got it back. It wasn't even funny anywhere and there was no sex at all. And now it's over. And I feel all sneery. stupid book.
That character Vera Farmiga played in the movie? Never existed in the book. Totally created in the screenplay. Know why? Because the book sucked out loud. And again, never saw the movie but I suspect she was the most compelling part of it because there was nothing compelling about that damn book. I am Not. Pleased.
Of the books I read for entertainment I think some people do the book-to-movie transition way better than others. Some books just aren't meant to be digested in 90 minutes. There's nothing wrong with that. Look at Clavell...Shogun anyone? see? Anyway, there are some authors I read fairly regularly and I thought about this a little while drudging through my latest reading venture.
Michael Crichton, bless his soul, he could write a book-to-movie book. I read and saw just about everything he did. Every book was well written and the movies were made with a real sense of how things went down on paper. entertaining. My favorite of his books, and the first I ever read from him, was the autobiography Travels. That will never be made into a movie. Because even though he started out every experience as a skeptic throughout his earlier years, so much of his perception was stretched and elightened with New Age-ish philosophy. I doubt that would be well characterized on screen. Too easy to turn that into a dumbed down mess. Anyway, I have read that book so many times in the last 20 years. highly recommended.
John Grisham. Well, I can only either read the books of his or see the movies. But not both. Because I tried to read The Firm after seeing the movie and I kept picturing what Tom Cruise had done onscreen and it was just enough off that I got head-tangly and couldn't keep things straight so I put the book down. And I tried to watch one of the movies after reading another book and just got bored with watching. Now I just read him for fluff. but not often.
Tom Clancy. They cannot do his books justice on the big screen. Impossible. I've only read a few of his books but I remember seeing Clear and Present Danger in the theater not long after I'd finished reading it and my comparative knowledge made that movie horrible. Edited beyond reason. very disappointing. The books though, wow.
Nelson DeMille. I bet they could make some good movies with Nelson DeMille's stuff. The only movie I think they've done so far is The General's Daughter and that was, well, that was just okay. John Travolta...eh. DeMille's other books would translate better to movies. Action, spy stuff. fun.
Patricia Cornwell. Hers would be good too but those would actually be better turned into a cable series given the popularity of crime drama, Dr. G: Medical Examiner and the fabulousity that is Dexter. [dreamy sigh for Dexter]
Anyway, if They, the faceless media production machine, ever popped over here for my free opinion then that is what I would tell them. I would never have recommended Up in the Air for cinematic adaptation. But what the hell do I know, it got Oscar nominations. I'm pretty sure that was mostly about George Clooney though and what had to be some brilliant screenwriting.
All in all, I think the author is not terrible. He put words together like puzzle pieces throughout, they just didn't make any kind of a picture at the end. I like books that make me want to climb in and be a character. This didn't give me that. memorable only in its forgetableness.
The next book on my shelf is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I hear that is much, much, many times better and I am looking forward to reading and forgetting I ever read whatever that was I just finished.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Two Hour WTF Moment Anyone?
A couple of months ago I came up with a Working Theory that men who act all big, bad and dickish are generally the ones packing the least amount of heat in the downstairs area to back up this obnoxious attitude. I may have received some confirmation on this today. Not with an eye (or any other body part) witness account thankgod but just through random conversation.
I went to the beach this afternoon. Flying solo. Trying to enjoy my freedom, read my new Dean Koontz, people-watch. Whatever. Just an afternoon on the beach. Okay, so this guy we'll call Steve decided that I was his object of prey for the day. I groaned and died quietly listening as Steve declared to his buddy Frank (in full voice 10 feet away from me) that I am his new girlfriend. After 30 seconds of conversation earlier that interrupted my reading. Yes. Love at first sight dear. Pardon me for not swooning earlier. The sun must have been in my eyes. I'm thinking he might be a stalker so let's all take a moment to wave to Steve. Hi, Steve.
Anyway, Steve decided to chat me up as he was leaving the beach. A leaving that would be delayed by approximately two hours of him not shutting the fuck up. He gave me his business card in the first minute of that round. Who brings business cards to the beach, you ask? Shady, aging, loudmouth men who specialize in Prosthodontics.
"Do you know what that means?" he asked. Can you leer at somebody with words? Whatever the fuck tone of voice that was, I'm pretty sure I heard drooling and fangs.
Anyway, I said, "You make fake teeth."
"oooo. You're a smart one. Mind if I sit down?"
Thinking, what the fuck, I need blog material I said, "Sure."
Two hours, people. He talked about sex and dating almost the whole time. I also found out a lot that he's originally from New York. Because he said that like 75 times. But the accent gave it away in the first word. But apparently he felt this was important to remind me. Over. And over. He's going back in two weeks for his high school reunion (I'm guessing 40th?). He doesn't like fake boobs. He plays tennis. Recently took up golf. Likes to be bossed around in the bedroom. LOVES sex. Doesn't drink. Doesn't smoke. Can't find a woman with candor. Had a long term booty call buddy in Manhattan. Twelve to fifteen years according to him. Lives with his mother. Who "breaks his balls" constantly. She used to beat the shit out of him. Sounds like a real peach. He is fascinated with the Tiger Woods scandal. Called Tiger Woods the N word. Lovely. Is writing a book. Mmm-hmmm, aren't we all. Lives around the fucking corner from me. Sleeps with his dog. Would probably fuck his dog. Possibly has fucked his dog considering the way he called her his "companion" in a really creepy way and is taking a picture of her to his high school reunion. In New York. Where he's from. Candidly hypothesized about what sex with me would be like. Several times. Described vomiting in graphic detail. Not related to sex though, that was some story from dental school. Is really pissed off that 25 year olds won't go out with him. Finds women in their 40s and 50s to be too jaded. He's a glass is half full kind of guy, you see, no time for negativity. And said, "So here's my question to you..." about 40 times but ended up talking about himself instead. And swore constantly, which I don't have a problem with I just thought I'd mention that.
Oh...and the reason I know he has a small penis? He said so. That's why he's so upset about this Tiger Woods business. Because, what chance does a guy like him have with "this little Jewish dick" if guys like Tiger Woods, Michael Jordan and somebody else I forget are "hung like horses and can pay for all this prime white meat." Way to sell yourself, dude. Don't ever say shit like that out loud. But he really doesn't like fake tits and hookers anyway. He's very spiritual too. He is also a visual guy, anybody who tells you different is lying of course, and doesn't want to be naked with a woman who doesn't take care of herself (said as he rubbed his VERY round belly). No time for liars either btw. And, hey, he has skeltons, he guesses I may have skeletons. So we should totally go out sometime. Oh, it's cool because he's not into pedophilia or incest or anything. Whew, good to know, thanks. And he likes feedback in the bedroom. Moaning, groaning, direction, general bossiness remember? Which I found interesting because I doubt he ever shuts his goddamn mouth long enough for anyone to get a word in. I'm guessing there would have to be a ball gag involved in order for Steve to be quiet. And that's territory I'd rather not cover with that guy. sorry.
Oh, there was so much more. So, so very much. I didn't even mention his views on family, divorce and parenting. There were too many contradictions to make any sense of that stuff. Or his opinion on Mel Gibson's latest horrifyingness. Which I am pretty sure he excuses for some reason but I can't be sure because I had to put him on mute for that minute.
Knowing men like Steve exist in the world makes me feel okay with being single for the moment. Also, I think that was a horrible generalization he made about the "little Jewish dick." I don't have any experience with Jewish guys in that way though so we'll really need to haul you guys into the lab for testing. I'm pretty sure the only Jewish guy I went out on a date with was to my 12th grade Homecoming dance and we never got to THAT moment. And now he's my optometrist and married and stuff. But he's super nice and the polar opposite of the big, bad, dickish type of guy so I'm guessing his wife is pretty happy either way.
Oh, Tomorrow. What crazy ass adventures will you send in my direction?
I went to the beach this afternoon. Flying solo. Trying to enjoy my freedom, read my new Dean Koontz, people-watch. Whatever. Just an afternoon on the beach. Okay, so this guy we'll call Steve decided that I was his object of prey for the day. I groaned and died quietly listening as Steve declared to his buddy Frank (in full voice 10 feet away from me) that I am his new girlfriend. After 30 seconds of conversation earlier that interrupted my reading. Yes. Love at first sight dear. Pardon me for not swooning earlier. The sun must have been in my eyes. I'm thinking he might be a stalker so let's all take a moment to wave to Steve. Hi, Steve.
Anyway, Steve decided to chat me up as he was leaving the beach. A leaving that would be delayed by approximately two hours of him not shutting the fuck up. He gave me his business card in the first minute of that round. Who brings business cards to the beach, you ask? Shady, aging, loudmouth men who specialize in Prosthodontics.
"Do you know what that means?" he asked. Can you leer at somebody with words? Whatever the fuck tone of voice that was, I'm pretty sure I heard drooling and fangs.
Anyway, I said, "You make fake teeth."
"oooo. You're a smart one. Mind if I sit down?"
Thinking, what the fuck, I need blog material I said, "Sure."
Two hours, people. He talked about sex and dating almost the whole time. I also found out a lot that he's originally from New York. Because he said that like 75 times. But the accent gave it away in the first word. But apparently he felt this was important to remind me. Over. And over. He's going back in two weeks for his high school reunion (I'm guessing 40th?). He doesn't like fake boobs. He plays tennis. Recently took up golf. Likes to be bossed around in the bedroom. LOVES sex. Doesn't drink. Doesn't smoke. Can't find a woman with candor. Had a long term booty call buddy in Manhattan. Twelve to fifteen years according to him. Lives with his mother. Who "breaks his balls" constantly. She used to beat the shit out of him. Sounds like a real peach. He is fascinated with the Tiger Woods scandal. Called Tiger Woods the N word. Lovely. Is writing a book. Mmm-hmmm, aren't we all. Lives around the fucking corner from me. Sleeps with his dog. Would probably fuck his dog. Possibly has fucked his dog considering the way he called her his "companion" in a really creepy way and is taking a picture of her to his high school reunion. In New York. Where he's from. Candidly hypothesized about what sex with me would be like. Several times. Described vomiting in graphic detail. Not related to sex though, that was some story from dental school. Is really pissed off that 25 year olds won't go out with him. Finds women in their 40s and 50s to be too jaded. He's a glass is half full kind of guy, you see, no time for negativity. And said, "So here's my question to you..." about 40 times but ended up talking about himself instead. And swore constantly, which I don't have a problem with I just thought I'd mention that.
Oh...and the reason I know he has a small penis? He said so. That's why he's so upset about this Tiger Woods business. Because, what chance does a guy like him have with "this little Jewish dick" if guys like Tiger Woods, Michael Jordan and somebody else I forget are "hung like horses and can pay for all this prime white meat." Way to sell yourself, dude. Don't ever say shit like that out loud. But he really doesn't like fake tits and hookers anyway. He's very spiritual too. He is also a visual guy, anybody who tells you different is lying of course, and doesn't want to be naked with a woman who doesn't take care of herself (said as he rubbed his VERY round belly). No time for liars either btw. And, hey, he has skeltons, he guesses I may have skeletons. So we should totally go out sometime. Oh, it's cool because he's not into pedophilia or incest or anything. Whew, good to know, thanks. And he likes feedback in the bedroom. Moaning, groaning, direction, general bossiness remember? Which I found interesting because I doubt he ever shuts his goddamn mouth long enough for anyone to get a word in. I'm guessing there would have to be a ball gag involved in order for Steve to be quiet. And that's territory I'd rather not cover with that guy. sorry.
Oh, there was so much more. So, so very much. I didn't even mention his views on family, divorce and parenting. There were too many contradictions to make any sense of that stuff. Or his opinion on Mel Gibson's latest horrifyingness. Which I am pretty sure he excuses for some reason but I can't be sure because I had to put him on mute for that minute.
Knowing men like Steve exist in the world makes me feel okay with being single for the moment. Also, I think that was a horrible generalization he made about the "little Jewish dick." I don't have any experience with Jewish guys in that way though so we'll really need to haul you guys into the lab for testing. I'm pretty sure the only Jewish guy I went out on a date with was to my 12th grade Homecoming dance and we never got to THAT moment. And now he's my optometrist and married and stuff. But he's super nice and the polar opposite of the big, bad, dickish type of guy so I'm guessing his wife is pretty happy either way.
Oh, Tomorrow. What crazy ass adventures will you send in my direction?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A Trip to the Bookstore
My foray out into the world this evening was a trip to the bookstore. Audrey and I were tossing around venues to scope for men and while I'm sure there's plenty of happy hour action going on nearby - I just don't feel like walking into a bar alone.
I have done that puh-lenty of times. I am absolutely not one little bit scared to walk into restaurants, bars or entire events flying solo. I can make friends anywhere. Not a problem. But it's nice to have a human buffer from time to time just in case the creepshows come out. And they always seem to come out around me.
I don't know why I just remembered this but one time Jan Brady and I were visiting Charleston, South Carolina...I think it was her college open house or orientation or something so it had to be '95/'96-ish? I must have been about 23 at the time. Jan would have been 19. We went to a bar one night and somehow managed to get her in without being carded. Obviously a rarity for me. Anyway, at some point some Canadian golfers on a guys trip, who were probably about as old as I am now, started hitting on us. One of them was quite persistent with my little sister Jan and I don't recall exactly how he transgressed but whatever he did caused me to punch him square in the center of his chest. After that? He left us alone. So, *I* don't really need a wing man but if you need a body guard, I am totally available. weird digression. okay.
So, back to the bookstore. Slim pickin's in the attractive, age appropriate, single male department. Although the guy who made my smoothie was awful chatty. I glanced around the cafe as he was explaining that RTD drinks meant "ready to drink" and how if I used my rewards card I could get one for free sometime. whatever. Scanning the room - too old, too homeless, too young, nice Superman t-shirt - still too young, and one attractive guy too engrossed in his book to make eye contact. crap. Oh well.
Walking around the store I saw a lot of stroller moms and 20-something goth guys. Neither are the demographic for which I was aiming. But I picked out a Dean Koontz novel and wandered around the Writing Instruction section. Realized that if you need a book to teach you about humor writing then you have a looong way to go. "Look at this bar stool cover. What else could that be? Frisbee for the physically challenged? (ha?) Oversized skull cap? (um?) Elephant slipper? (huh?)" Yeah, that was as far as I got before they lost me.
Then I went over to those cutesy pocket-sized books. One said something about how some people are like Slinkies - mostly useless except for a laugh when they tumble down the stairs. Which made me chuckle. But I'm pretty sure I saw that on facebook a couple months ago. eh.
Then another pocket-sized book had 38 things women should do before they die. Okay...whaddya got? Go a month without shaving your legs! what?!
Go gray for a while! Um - I am clearly not your target market here.
Practice telepathy with your cat! Are you fucking kidding me right now? What the hell is wrong with you - practice telepathy with your cat for god sakes. How the fuck did you get published again?
Another suggestion in the same book was to ride a motorcycle across the Nevada desert. alone. Which actually sounded kind of cool to me but I think the gray-haired, cat-whispering, woolly mammoth she's writing to probably isnt' going to sign up for that adventure. Hell, maybe she would; what the hell else has she got going on if she's buying that book already? I would not have been surprised to see some kind of Sapphic love recommendation in there as well. Or Georgia O'Keefe self portrait of your vagina. Oh! Wait! There WAS an entry about having a "sensitive female photographer" take a nude photo of you. totally not kidding! I believe I accidentally stumbled upon the pocket-sized, mid-life crisis guide to beginning lesbianism. No fucking way.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Lesbians don't typically go for me though so I doubt I'd have any better luck in that camp. Although I did have a good run of old ladies grabbing my ass during my first waitressing job in high school. I still don't know what that was about. They were more handsy than their husbands at times. really. Maybe when you get to be 80 years old you just say "fuck it" and grab the first teenage ass in arm's reach out of a sense of sport. Like when rich people shoplift for the adrenaline rush. If I'm still writing when I'm 80, I'll let you know.
Anyway, no luck at the bookstore but Cindy Brady and I are going to an event at one of her favorite artsy places tomorrow evening. fingers crossed
I have done that puh-lenty of times. I am absolutely not one little bit scared to walk into restaurants, bars or entire events flying solo. I can make friends anywhere. Not a problem. But it's nice to have a human buffer from time to time just in case the creepshows come out. And they always seem to come out around me.
I don't know why I just remembered this but one time Jan Brady and I were visiting Charleston, South Carolina...I think it was her college open house or orientation or something so it had to be '95/'96-ish? I must have been about 23 at the time. Jan would have been 19. We went to a bar one night and somehow managed to get her in without being carded. Obviously a rarity for me. Anyway, at some point some Canadian golfers on a guys trip, who were probably about as old as I am now, started hitting on us. One of them was quite persistent with my little sister Jan and I don't recall exactly how he transgressed but whatever he did caused me to punch him square in the center of his chest. After that? He left us alone. So, *I* don't really need a wing man but if you need a body guard, I am totally available. weird digression. okay.
So, back to the bookstore. Slim pickin's in the attractive, age appropriate, single male department. Although the guy who made my smoothie was awful chatty. I glanced around the cafe as he was explaining that RTD drinks meant "ready to drink" and how if I used my rewards card I could get one for free sometime. whatever. Scanning the room - too old, too homeless, too young, nice Superman t-shirt - still too young, and one attractive guy too engrossed in his book to make eye contact. crap. Oh well.
Walking around the store I saw a lot of stroller moms and 20-something goth guys. Neither are the demographic for which I was aiming. But I picked out a Dean Koontz novel and wandered around the Writing Instruction section. Realized that if you need a book to teach you about humor writing then you have a looong way to go. "Look at this bar stool cover. What else could that be? Frisbee for the physically challenged? (ha?) Oversized skull cap? (um?) Elephant slipper? (huh?)" Yeah, that was as far as I got before they lost me.
Then I went over to those cutesy pocket-sized books. One said something about how some people are like Slinkies - mostly useless except for a laugh when they tumble down the stairs. Which made me chuckle. But I'm pretty sure I saw that on facebook a couple months ago. eh.
Then another pocket-sized book had 38 things women should do before they die. Okay...whaddya got? Go a month without shaving your legs! what?!
Go gray for a while! Um - I am clearly not your target market here.
Practice telepathy with your cat! Are you fucking kidding me right now? What the hell is wrong with you - practice telepathy with your cat for god sakes. How the fuck did you get published again?
Another suggestion in the same book was to ride a motorcycle across the Nevada desert. alone. Which actually sounded kind of cool to me but I think the gray-haired, cat-whispering, woolly mammoth she's writing to probably isnt' going to sign up for that adventure. Hell, maybe she would; what the hell else has she got going on if she's buying that book already? I would not have been surprised to see some kind of Sapphic love recommendation in there as well. Or Georgia O'Keefe self portrait of your vagina. Oh! Wait! There WAS an entry about having a "sensitive female photographer" take a nude photo of you. totally not kidding! I believe I accidentally stumbled upon the pocket-sized, mid-life crisis guide to beginning lesbianism. No fucking way.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Lesbians don't typically go for me though so I doubt I'd have any better luck in that camp. Although I did have a good run of old ladies grabbing my ass during my first waitressing job in high school. I still don't know what that was about. They were more handsy than their husbands at times. really. Maybe when you get to be 80 years old you just say "fuck it" and grab the first teenage ass in arm's reach out of a sense of sport. Like when rich people shoplift for the adrenaline rush. If I'm still writing when I'm 80, I'll let you know.
Anyway, no luck at the bookstore but Cindy Brady and I are going to an event at one of her favorite artsy places tomorrow evening. fingers crossed
"Shoplifters will be prosecuted, fondled and embalmed"
My friend Kembrew made that sign a million years ago.
The shoplifting thing reminded me of it...always loved that sign.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Mirror Would Have Been Helpful
Any day you show up for work with the three middle buttons of your blouse unbuttoned, you should probably just scrap that day entirely.
In my defense - I did not look in the mirror after I got dressed. Which I probably should have. Because later I caught my full length reflection and realized that pairing a shirt with 3/4 length sleeves and capri pants makes it look like I grew 5 inches since I put on clothes. And I'm only 5'3".
Also - I buckle my seat belt immediately upon entering my Dad's car and then promptly close my eyes to avoid having a seizure because of his terrifying "driving" so the button placket was covered and I wasn't looking anyway.
And I'm pretty sure this is the final proof I needed that my father becomes legally blind behind the wheel of an automobile because certainly he should have noticed that my shirt was wide. the fuck. open. when I got in the damn car. god sakes, Dad! I'm your daughter. And your morning receptionist. What the hell kind of operation are you running here?!
Wouldn't you tell someone their clothes were hanging off? I would. Except for Lindsay Lohan I mean, I think that's the look she was going for. Anyway, I tuck tags in on people and mention toilet paper on the shoe. I even helped a bride bustle her dress once. Now, the fact that she was out at a bar known for its beer-soaked concrete floor still wearing her wedding gown probably indicates that maybe she wouldn't have a problem with cigarette burns and jello shooter stains on the train of her dress, but I didn't want anyone to trip over it either. Like me. maybe. So I was helpful but possibly a little self motivated as well.
As an act of reciprocity it is not uncommon for me to request a "tooth check" after a meal if I am in a location with no mirrors. And I don't care how well I know you, I want the truth, okay? If I have pepper in my teeth and you don't tell me about it? Even after I ask? Well then, I totally didn't notice your skirt was tucked into your panties either. I swear.
Betty agrees with me on this. She spent some serious time talking me off the ledge this afternoon. Not just about the shirt thing, I was 7 different kinds of hormonal today and after scaring the living hell out of a driver in the grocery store parking lot then coming home and eating a couple Pamprin because debating death by rifle blast to the face or a solid smack upside the head with the flat of a shovel seemed like a terrible way to spend my time and I needed a good talking to.
So Betty let me vent. Then she told me a story about going to Water Country USA, which is the white trash water park of choice and where everyone should go to feel a little better about themselves in a swimsuit.
She was people watching (by far the best spectator sport in the history of EVER) and noticed a 60-ish year old woman in a bikini. No problem with that, more power to ya, don't hide that light under a bushel, etc. Anyway, it was a white string bikini with hot pink strings and the jury was still out as to whether or not this woman was rocking said bikini because it looked like the bottoms might have been on inside out. Unlined suit. Hard to tell. Could have been just a tag issue. And while that's not a tag I'll discretely tuck back in on a close friend, I'll definitely mention it. Even to a stranger.
Then Betty reported that the fashion police were ready to slap a big, black "Glamour Don't" bar over the woman's face when she bent over. And revealed the "HYGIENIC PROTECTION - DO NOT REMOVE" panty liner sticker still clearly attached to the crotch of the suit.
Excuse me? Ma'am? Hold still a sec. *rrrriiiip!* got it. here ya go!
Okay, she didn't really pull the sticker off but I am happy to report that Betty is recovering nicely after nearly dying from laughter.
In my defense - I did not look in the mirror after I got dressed. Which I probably should have. Because later I caught my full length reflection and realized that pairing a shirt with 3/4 length sleeves and capri pants makes it look like I grew 5 inches since I put on clothes. And I'm only 5'3".
Also - I buckle my seat belt immediately upon entering my Dad's car and then promptly close my eyes to avoid having a seizure because of his terrifying "driving" so the button placket was covered and I wasn't looking anyway.
And I'm pretty sure this is the final proof I needed that my father becomes legally blind behind the wheel of an automobile because certainly he should have noticed that my shirt was wide. the fuck. open. when I got in the damn car. god sakes, Dad! I'm your daughter. And your morning receptionist. What the hell kind of operation are you running here?!
Wouldn't you tell someone their clothes were hanging off? I would. Except for Lindsay Lohan I mean, I think that's the look she was going for. Anyway, I tuck tags in on people and mention toilet paper on the shoe. I even helped a bride bustle her dress once. Now, the fact that she was out at a bar known for its beer-soaked concrete floor still wearing her wedding gown probably indicates that maybe she wouldn't have a problem with cigarette burns and jello shooter stains on the train of her dress, but I didn't want anyone to trip over it either. Like me. maybe. So I was helpful but possibly a little self motivated as well.
As an act of reciprocity it is not uncommon for me to request a "tooth check" after a meal if I am in a location with no mirrors. And I don't care how well I know you, I want the truth, okay? If I have pepper in my teeth and you don't tell me about it? Even after I ask? Well then, I totally didn't notice your skirt was tucked into your panties either. I swear.
Betty agrees with me on this. She spent some serious time talking me off the ledge this afternoon. Not just about the shirt thing, I was 7 different kinds of hormonal today and after scaring the living hell out of a driver in the grocery store parking lot then coming home and eating a couple Pamprin because debating death by rifle blast to the face or a solid smack upside the head with the flat of a shovel seemed like a terrible way to spend my time and I needed a good talking to.
So Betty let me vent. Then she told me a story about going to Water Country USA, which is the white trash water park of choice and where everyone should go to feel a little better about themselves in a swimsuit.
She was people watching (by far the best spectator sport in the history of EVER) and noticed a 60-ish year old woman in a bikini. No problem with that, more power to ya, don't hide that light under a bushel, etc. Anyway, it was a white string bikini with hot pink strings and the jury was still out as to whether or not this woman was rocking said bikini because it looked like the bottoms might have been on inside out. Unlined suit. Hard to tell. Could have been just a tag issue. And while that's not a tag I'll discretely tuck back in on a close friend, I'll definitely mention it. Even to a stranger.
Then Betty reported that the fashion police were ready to slap a big, black "Glamour Don't" bar over the woman's face when she bent over. And revealed the "HYGIENIC PROTECTION - DO NOT REMOVE" panty liner sticker still clearly attached to the crotch of the suit.
Excuse me? Ma'am? Hold still a sec. *rrrriiiip!* got it. here ya go!
Okay, she didn't really pull the sticker off but I am happy to report that Betty is recovering nicely after nearly dying from laughter.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Jesus Camp and Not Swearing
Thanks to my new favorite movie-watching outlet NETFLIX (and don't ask me why I didn't sign up for this 8 years ago...I have no idea either), I saw the movie Jesus Camp last night. It's the most disturbing movie I have watched on purpose in years. Have you seen this? Jesus Camp?
It automatically made me think all evangelical cult leaders were pedophiles even though there's no hard video evidence of that in the movie and I certainly haven't spent enough quality time around those people to know for sure myself. but...woof. yuck all around.
I went to Vacation Bible School with friends when I was younger. I don't think that was the same. I mean, inhaling gold spray paint while making macaroni crucifixes and singing clappy happy Jesus songs for few hours a week in August isn't the same as being commanded to pray for George HW Bush's Supreme Court nominee or speaking in tongues to your new, plastic Fetus for Jesus so legal abortions will become illegal. Right? They nailed the key cult markers of Isolation, Indoctrination and Letting Them Loose On Washington. It was almost like a low budget version of a what a good New England prep school does. Evangelicals clearly need better funding to get their point across. (Read: Sarcasm. Heavy. Sarcasm)
On the crazyass scale, Jesus Camp went right on over to 11.
Now, if you feel comfortable sending your 6 year old for a week or several at Sleepaway Cult Camp to dress in camo face paint and bang sticks together in a bizarro Christ-y version of Walmart Musical 3 to banish sin from his soul? It was nice knowing you. Can't WAIT for the lengthy Christmas newsletter updating me on how your family militia is coming along. (not really. I probably won't even read all the words of that. I'll just quote the insane parts here)
Anyway, Jesus Camp DID affect me profoundly. It made me want to take all the even close to religion-related swear expressions I use OUT of my vernacular. I use a lot of those. "Holy!" this and "Mother of!" that. And while I find, "Holy Mary mother of what the fuck?!" fun to say (because of all the syllables really), that just seems a bit lacking in creativity on my part. And I don't abide by using the church as a crutch.
So I was going to spend the day thinking of non-religious, non-expletive swears. I didn't come up with any. I got sidetracked by wondering if prostitution would be less illegal if proceeds went to charity. Look, I want to help the Gulf people too, this is for a good cause. Gah! (see? I gotta stop that) Anyway, when fundraising titles like "Muff for the Marsh" and "Going Down for the Gulf" are running through your head it is very hard to come up with something family friendly. sorry.
The only good non-swear swear I saw today was on facebook (of course). One of my friends called someone (probly a World Cup Soccer ref) a "possom [sic] faced mike foxtrot" which I of course instantly loved. That's what I'm looking for. Possum faced. Mike Foxtrot. perfect. I wonder if Dr. Phil has a glossary too.
It automatically made me think all evangelical cult leaders were pedophiles even though there's no hard video evidence of that in the movie and I certainly haven't spent enough quality time around those people to know for sure myself. but...woof. yuck all around.
I went to Vacation Bible School with friends when I was younger. I don't think that was the same. I mean, inhaling gold spray paint while making macaroni crucifixes and singing clappy happy Jesus songs for few hours a week in August isn't the same as being commanded to pray for George HW Bush's Supreme Court nominee or speaking in tongues to your new, plastic Fetus for Jesus so legal abortions will become illegal. Right? They nailed the key cult markers of Isolation, Indoctrination and Letting Them Loose On Washington. It was almost like a low budget version of a what a good New England prep school does. Evangelicals clearly need better funding to get their point across. (Read: Sarcasm. Heavy. Sarcasm)
On the crazyass scale, Jesus Camp went right on over to 11.
Now, if you feel comfortable sending your 6 year old for a week or several at Sleepaway Cult Camp to dress in camo face paint and bang sticks together in a bizarro Christ-y version of Walmart Musical 3 to banish sin from his soul? It was nice knowing you. Can't WAIT for the lengthy Christmas newsletter updating me on how your family militia is coming along. (not really. I probably won't even read all the words of that. I'll just quote the insane parts here)
Anyway, Jesus Camp DID affect me profoundly. It made me want to take all the even close to religion-related swear expressions I use OUT of my vernacular. I use a lot of those. "Holy!" this and "Mother of!" that. And while I find, "Holy Mary mother of what the fuck?!" fun to say (because of all the syllables really), that just seems a bit lacking in creativity on my part. And I don't abide by using the church as a crutch.
So I was going to spend the day thinking of non-religious, non-expletive swears. I didn't come up with any. I got sidetracked by wondering if prostitution would be less illegal if proceeds went to charity. Look, I want to help the Gulf people too, this is for a good cause. Gah! (see? I gotta stop that) Anyway, when fundraising titles like "Muff for the Marsh" and "Going Down for the Gulf" are running through your head it is very hard to come up with something family friendly. sorry.
The only good non-swear swear I saw today was on facebook (of course). One of my friends called someone (probly a World Cup Soccer ref) a "possom [sic] faced mike foxtrot" which I of course instantly loved. That's what I'm looking for. Possum faced. Mike Foxtrot. perfect. I wonder if Dr. Phil has a glossary too.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
WTF Moment: Church Carnival
Every year, the church across the street from my neighborhood has a carnival the first weekend in June. The boys look forward to it all year long. It's a fun time, lots of hazardous rides, overpriced games and teenage garage band entertainment. And like I said, it's just across the street, so the beacon of a Ferris Wheel is impossible to avoid. We went tonight.
I learned this evening that if you show up to such a carnival in shorts and a fitted t-shirt (+ Miracle Bra) and stand idly by, eating a cherry sno-cone, watching your boys hop on the Flying Swing ride...you will also be invited on the Flying Swing ride. Who? Me? No tickets...oh, no problem? Umm...'kay?
But the ride operator will insist on fastening your lap belt for you. Tightly. Safety first! yeahright. It was a fun ride anyway.
And after the ride is over, the ride operator will be so concerned for your safety that he'll walk all the way around to the back of the swings to help you and you alone out of your lap belt. If he misses that opportunity by two seconds then he will very politely hold up the safety bar and grab the swing in front of you. Effectively caging you in and preventing your forward exit. However, if you're quick, a dodge backward toward the center of the ride and a catlike navigation of the other swings will provide a hasty retreat. And will prevent whatever the fuck that guy was thinking from happening next.
I think he's seen Joe Dirt too many times. Great movie...and fiction! weirdo.
I learned this evening that if you show up to such a carnival in shorts and a fitted t-shirt (+ Miracle Bra) and stand idly by, eating a cherry sno-cone, watching your boys hop on the Flying Swing ride...you will also be invited on the Flying Swing ride. Who? Me? No tickets...oh, no problem? Umm...'kay?
But the ride operator will insist on fastening your lap belt for you. Tightly. Safety first! yeahright. It was a fun ride anyway.
And after the ride is over, the ride operator will be so concerned for your safety that he'll walk all the way around to the back of the swings to help you and you alone out of your lap belt. If he misses that opportunity by two seconds then he will very politely hold up the safety bar and grab the swing in front of you. Effectively caging you in and preventing your forward exit. However, if you're quick, a dodge backward toward the center of the ride and a catlike navigation of the other swings will provide a hasty retreat. And will prevent whatever the fuck that guy was thinking from happening next.
I think he's seen Joe Dirt too many times. Great movie...and fiction! weirdo.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Bizarre Moments in My History: Part 1
If you try to melt the ends of a snapped Silly Bandz and stick them back together then all you'll have is ashes instead. Silly Bandz are flammable. I found out today. Mentioned it on facebook because 1. helpful to know, B. I tell them about stupid stuff I do sometimes and Last, because it's funny. One of my friends suggested a series of PSAs on youtube about other stupid things I do that people should avoid because apparently I mention my stupidity a lot. But I don't carry a video camera around with me constantly so that would be impossible. These things happen often and they always come as a surprise. To me anyway. You probably would have seen them coming a mile away.
That made me remember a column in Young Miss I used to love called Boy, Was My Face Red. My mom got me a subscription when I was 9 because things were coming up that she didn't always know how to address with me and I'll get to that in a second. Anyway, the column talked about embarrassing things that happened to Young Misses across the nation and I didn't have a big sister to show me how to recover from having your tampon fall out of your purse in Alegbra class or hugging a boy who looks just like your boyfriend from the back, but isn't. OOPS! right? Instead I had Boy, Was My Face Red and I loved it because who doesn't love reading other people's [facepalm] moments? Well, video would be cool but you're getting words instead. sorry.
Alright, so my mother subscribed me to Young Miss and Seventeen when I was 9 because she didn't want me getting all my information from HBO's after 9 pm line-up. I will mention that William Hurt and Kathleen Turner certainly taught me a thing or two in Body Heat - holy lord. Anyway, Blue Lagoon was on one night and I have no recollection of why I would have been watching this with my mother at 9 years old. Dallas must have been in hiatus and I was being a brat about bedtime or something. I hated bedtime. Not the point. Point being, my mom, fortified with a couple white wine spritzers decided this would be the perfect time to have "the talk." And I don't exactly remember everything she said but parents? Listen up.
I implore you with every fiber of my scarred 9 year old psyche, for the love of all you hold dear, never and I mean never use descriptive words or noises, or expressive facial movements of any kind to explain what sex feels like when having "the talk" with your school-aged children. Or how much you love to do it. Even if you love it a lot. Maybe ESPECIALLY if you love it a lot...you should just skip those aspects entirely. Please. Really, just shut up. I said stop! talking! Never have I wished more for beaming technology than during that excruciating talk. I would have settled for deafness even and just covered my eyes.
Moving on to a different area.
You know what else you shouldn't do? Tell cops to fuck off. However much they deserve it. They HATE that. Hearing that so much is probably why they became cops in the first place. And you certainly shouldn't tell them to fuck off twice if you know what's good for you. Which I didn't, know what's good for me I mean. Because I was really upset and stomping back toward my apartment staring at the ground and crying after X and I had a fight in the parking lot (classy, I know).
A car pulled up asking if I was okay. My response? "Fuck off." And that's pretty much what you'll get from me to this day if you're a strange man and it's 11 at night regardless of my mood. But I really should have looked at the car first. Or the uniform. It had badges and everything. I just kept walking. Ponch over there decided to get out of the car and follow me up the stairs to my apartment. That will not only earn you another, "Fuck off" but this time I'll yell it. Because I don't care if you're a cop or not, I said leave me alone! you asshole. Which earned ME a ticket for Abusive Language to an Officer. $60. Money well spent in my opinion, but in this economy we have to cut back on luxuries like that.
And I'm actually more proud of that story than embarrassed by it...but run-ins with the law are usually pretty embarrassing in my experience. So...I may go into that more later. Or not at all. I haven't decided yet. Anyway, I've had so many of these bizarre moments over the years. I can see this being a weekly thing for sure.
That made me remember a column in Young Miss I used to love called Boy, Was My Face Red. My mom got me a subscription when I was 9 because things were coming up that she didn't always know how to address with me and I'll get to that in a second. Anyway, the column talked about embarrassing things that happened to Young Misses across the nation and I didn't have a big sister to show me how to recover from having your tampon fall out of your purse in Alegbra class or hugging a boy who looks just like your boyfriend from the back, but isn't. OOPS! right? Instead I had Boy, Was My Face Red and I loved it because who doesn't love reading other people's [facepalm] moments? Well, video would be cool but you're getting words instead. sorry.
Alright, so my mother subscribed me to Young Miss and Seventeen when I was 9 because she didn't want me getting all my information from HBO's after 9 pm line-up. I will mention that William Hurt and Kathleen Turner certainly taught me a thing or two in Body Heat - holy lord. Anyway, Blue Lagoon was on one night and I have no recollection of why I would have been watching this with my mother at 9 years old. Dallas must have been in hiatus and I was being a brat about bedtime or something. I hated bedtime. Not the point. Point being, my mom, fortified with a couple white wine spritzers decided this would be the perfect time to have "the talk." And I don't exactly remember everything she said but parents? Listen up.
I implore you with every fiber of my scarred 9 year old psyche, for the love of all you hold dear, never and I mean never use descriptive words or noises, or expressive facial movements of any kind to explain what sex feels like when having "the talk" with your school-aged children. Or how much you love to do it. Even if you love it a lot. Maybe ESPECIALLY if you love it a lot...you should just skip those aspects entirely. Please. Really, just shut up. I said stop! talking! Never have I wished more for beaming technology than during that excruciating talk. I would have settled for deafness even and just covered my eyes.
Moving on to a different area.
You know what else you shouldn't do? Tell cops to fuck off. However much they deserve it. They HATE that. Hearing that so much is probably why they became cops in the first place. And you certainly shouldn't tell them to fuck off twice if you know what's good for you. Which I didn't, know what's good for me I mean. Because I was really upset and stomping back toward my apartment staring at the ground and crying after X and I had a fight in the parking lot (classy, I know).
A car pulled up asking if I was okay. My response? "Fuck off." And that's pretty much what you'll get from me to this day if you're a strange man and it's 11 at night regardless of my mood. But I really should have looked at the car first. Or the uniform. It had badges and everything. I just kept walking. Ponch over there decided to get out of the car and follow me up the stairs to my apartment. That will not only earn you another, "Fuck off" but this time I'll yell it. Because I don't care if you're a cop or not, I said leave me alone! you asshole. Which earned ME a ticket for Abusive Language to an Officer. $60. Money well spent in my opinion, but in this economy we have to cut back on luxuries like that.
And I'm actually more proud of that story than embarrassed by it...but run-ins with the law are usually pretty embarrassing in my experience. So...I may go into that more later. Or not at all. I haven't decided yet. Anyway, I've had so many of these bizarre moments over the years. I can see this being a weekly thing for sure.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Parts War: I've Officially Lost It
This is the conversation that happens in my head when I can't find stuff:
You are so stupid I feel embarrassed for you sometimes.
What?
Don't even ask me that. What. Good lord. Who loses $400? In cash! You are such an idiot.
It's around here somewhere.
Oh sure. But WHERE?! That's the question, dummy.
Maybe I put it in my purse.
You already looked in your purse like 12 times already. It's still not there. Check again though. Just in case.
Dammit. Still not there.
*snicker*
Shut up. Maybe it's in my laptop case or something.
Uh-huh. You never put anything in there but your computer. Why would it even be in there? Check anyway.
Nope. Not there either. Where in the world?!
I can't even believe you did this.
I'm gonna find it eventually.
Yeah right. That cash is GONE. Idiot.
I'm just absent minded is all.
Absent minded my ass. Even the Big Lots dude knows you're stupid.
?
Oh, come on. You just stood there in the middle of the store staring at the damn ceiling for five whole minutes. And when he asked if you had a question you just looked at him dumbly and starting laughing. Then he walked away. He thinks you're stupid. And he works at Big Lots.
Well, he'd be a connoisseur of stupid, wouldn't he?
Exactly. And then you saw the irons in Kmart and remembered you needed a new ironing board cover and what did you do?
I walked right in the opposite direction to where the mop heads were.
My point has been made. Found that cash yet?
No. I even looked in the car. And the dryer. And the washer.
What were you wearing when she gave you the money?
How am I supposed to remember that? That was all the way back on Sunday.
Oh lord. You only ever wear the same three things over and over again. This can't be that hard.
I know. But I checked all those pockets already, like three times, and it's not there either.
Goddammit!
I know! I am so fucked right now. It's not like it's a check and she can write me another one. This was CASH.
You know what this means, right?
I know.
That post you wanted to write about how you, Audrey and NBF1 were gonna be super heroes but instead of fighting crime you'd fight stupid? You can't even write that now because of the hypocrisy.
Wha? But I was really looking forward to imagining that costume. Thigh high boots and stuff. Probably a skirted suit too.
Oooh, that's too bad. You can rock a mini skirt. Even though you're way too old for those.
Yeah, but I think I can get away with it because I still get carded for cigarettes sometimes.
Yeah, but you probably shouldn't even try to get away with it because people will think you're trying too hard.
Oh, fuck off. I'm not trying too hard. I can wear whatever I want and they're flattering.
But age inappropriate.
Stacy London does NOT have the last word in fashion, okay? The mini skirts stay.
Oh fine then.
Where the HELL is that money?
Look, the smart people called and they really want you to stop breathing their air, okay? Because you're obviously not doing it right because your brain is so starved for oxygen you've now given yourself a headache.
I know. Good thing I didn't misplace the aspirin.
Yeah. Great prioritizing there. [eyeroll]
Lord have mercy. Maybe if I stop looking so hard it'll turn up.
Really, it should be illegal how stupid you are.
You are so not being helpful right now. Quit being a dick and help me look.
Did you check the dryer?
Yeah, like 4 times already.
Crap. I got nothin.
Oh, no WAY. You're coming with me. Now get to lookin'.
Did you maybe throw it away?
I never throw anything away. I would not have thrown away money.
You really need to clean this countertop off. Maybe it's there. God it's like you're a hoarder but with blog posts. Why the hell haven't these gone in the binder yet?
I don't fucking know. Get off my case already. Did you find it?
No. goddamnit. Oh wait! What's this?! Aw. Two dollars.
Twoooo Doooolllaaaarrrs. *giggle* I love that movie.
You just love John Cusack.
*sigh*
ohmygod you're ridiculous. Go check the sofa cushions.
Sofa cushions. Check.
Anything?
Well, the mystery of what happens to all the homework pencils has been solved and...a kaleidescope? wtf?
Wait, what's that?
Nothin'. Monopoly money.
DAMMIT! Wait...what's going on outside? Is that fighting? Fuck.
"Hey! You do NOT punch your brother in...a sensitive area, alright! In fact, you should consider your entire brother a sensitive area! Knock it off!"
Check the laundry room. again.
Pocket. pocket. pocket. pocket. times infinity plus one. Nope.
Seriously. I can't believe anyone asks your opinion on anything ever. Ever.
Right now? Me either. Holy crap this is just...oh my god I cannot believe this!.
No really. Like, I can't even believe you have the ability to form words at all.
Look, you'll get no argument from me. I am not giving up though.
Fuck no, you're not giving up. That's four fucking HUNDRED dollars. Moron.
Just help me okay?
You're going to feel even stupider when you find it. You know that, right?
Probably. But I'll have found it and I won't give one good goddamn about your opinion. I'm checking the car again.
It's not in the car. You already looked.
Well I already looked every other fucking place 17 times and it's not there either. I'm checking the car.
Glove box?
Condoms.
*snicker*
Look, those were bought as a JOKE okay? I know I'm going to die never having sex again. Don't be jerk. Fuck. It's not in the car. Oh my god kill me please, immediately, now, please.
Don't tempt me.
Events like this are exactly why I will never own a gun.
Maybe you should check your purse. again. *snicker*
Are you....? I can't believe I'm even looking in this damn bag again. There's THREE pockets. ONE dollar. You fucking suck for making me do that.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That's how stupid you are. ruh-TARD.
Remember that one time Tasha phonetically spelled it wrong and we got into an fb face-off about that?
Seriously? You're bringing this up? You want to make a videopology to Tasha now?
What? Why not?
I just don't think you saying, "She dances exactly like a stripper." is going to come across as a compliment.
Maybe that's what she was going for...?
[raises eyebrow]
Okay fine. No hard feelings, Tash, k? Plz don't kill me? I swear. I was almost jealous when I saw that. Promise.
You are so stupid.
Oh my god. I know. I give up.
What?
Seriously, dude. This is... I just... I fucking quit, okay? Maybe it'll turn up later.
Maybe you're right. This is really fucking tiring.
I swear too much.
Duh.
Shut up and get me a beer, dammit.
You are so stupid I feel embarrassed for you sometimes.
What?
Don't even ask me that. What. Good lord. Who loses $400? In cash! You are such an idiot.
It's around here somewhere.
Oh sure. But WHERE?! That's the question, dummy.
Maybe I put it in my purse.
You already looked in your purse like 12 times already. It's still not there. Check again though. Just in case.
Dammit. Still not there.
*snicker*
Shut up. Maybe it's in my laptop case or something.
Uh-huh. You never put anything in there but your computer. Why would it even be in there? Check anyway.
Nope. Not there either. Where in the world?!
I can't even believe you did this.
I'm gonna find it eventually.
Yeah right. That cash is GONE. Idiot.
I'm just absent minded is all.
Absent minded my ass. Even the Big Lots dude knows you're stupid.
?
Oh, come on. You just stood there in the middle of the store staring at the damn ceiling for five whole minutes. And when he asked if you had a question you just looked at him dumbly and starting laughing. Then he walked away. He thinks you're stupid. And he works at Big Lots.
Well, he'd be a connoisseur of stupid, wouldn't he?
Exactly. And then you saw the irons in Kmart and remembered you needed a new ironing board cover and what did you do?
I walked right in the opposite direction to where the mop heads were.
My point has been made. Found that cash yet?
No. I even looked in the car. And the dryer. And the washer.
What were you wearing when she gave you the money?
How am I supposed to remember that? That was all the way back on Sunday.
Oh lord. You only ever wear the same three things over and over again. This can't be that hard.
I know. But I checked all those pockets already, like three times, and it's not there either.
Goddammit!
I know! I am so fucked right now. It's not like it's a check and she can write me another one. This was CASH.
You know what this means, right?
I know.
That post you wanted to write about how you, Audrey and NBF1 were gonna be super heroes but instead of fighting crime you'd fight stupid? You can't even write that now because of the hypocrisy.
Wha? But I was really looking forward to imagining that costume. Thigh high boots and stuff. Probably a skirted suit too.
Oooh, that's too bad. You can rock a mini skirt. Even though you're way too old for those.
Yeah, but I think I can get away with it because I still get carded for cigarettes sometimes.
Yeah, but you probably shouldn't even try to get away with it because people will think you're trying too hard.
Oh, fuck off. I'm not trying too hard. I can wear whatever I want and they're flattering.
But age inappropriate.
Stacy London does NOT have the last word in fashion, okay? The mini skirts stay.
Oh fine then.
Where the HELL is that money?
Look, the smart people called and they really want you to stop breathing their air, okay? Because you're obviously not doing it right because your brain is so starved for oxygen you've now given yourself a headache.
I know. Good thing I didn't misplace the aspirin.
Yeah. Great prioritizing there. [eyeroll]
Lord have mercy. Maybe if I stop looking so hard it'll turn up.
Really, it should be illegal how stupid you are.
You are so not being helpful right now. Quit being a dick and help me look.
Did you check the dryer?
Yeah, like 4 times already.
Crap. I got nothin.
Oh, no WAY. You're coming with me. Now get to lookin'.
Did you maybe throw it away?
I never throw anything away. I would not have thrown away money.
You really need to clean this countertop off. Maybe it's there. God it's like you're a hoarder but with blog posts. Why the hell haven't these gone in the binder yet?
I don't fucking know. Get off my case already. Did you find it?
No. goddamnit. Oh wait! What's this?! Aw. Two dollars.
Twoooo Doooolllaaaarrrs. *giggle* I love that movie.
You just love John Cusack.
*sigh*
ohmygod you're ridiculous. Go check the sofa cushions.
Sofa cushions. Check.
Anything?
Well, the mystery of what happens to all the homework pencils has been solved and...a kaleidescope? wtf?
Wait, what's that?
Nothin'. Monopoly money.
DAMMIT! Wait...what's going on outside? Is that fighting? Fuck.
"Hey! You do NOT punch your brother in...a sensitive area, alright! In fact, you should consider your entire brother a sensitive area! Knock it off!"
Check the laundry room. again.
Pocket. pocket. pocket. pocket. times infinity plus one. Nope.
Seriously. I can't believe anyone asks your opinion on anything ever. Ever.
Right now? Me either. Holy crap this is just...oh my god I cannot believe this!.
No really. Like, I can't even believe you have the ability to form words at all.
Look, you'll get no argument from me. I am not giving up though.
Fuck no, you're not giving up. That's four fucking HUNDRED dollars. Moron.
Just help me okay?
You're going to feel even stupider when you find it. You know that, right?
Probably. But I'll have found it and I won't give one good goddamn about your opinion. I'm checking the car again.
It's not in the car. You already looked.
Well I already looked every other fucking place 17 times and it's not there either. I'm checking the car.
Glove box?
Condoms.
*snicker*
Look, those were bought as a JOKE okay? I know I'm going to die never having sex again. Don't be jerk. Fuck. It's not in the car. Oh my god kill me please, immediately, now, please.
Don't tempt me.
Events like this are exactly why I will never own a gun.
Maybe you should check your purse. again. *snicker*
Are you....? I can't believe I'm even looking in this damn bag again. There's THREE pockets. ONE dollar. You fucking suck for making me do that.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. That's how stupid you are. ruh-TARD.
Remember that one time Tasha phonetically spelled it wrong and we got into an fb face-off about that?
Seriously? You're bringing this up? You want to make a videopology to Tasha now?
What? Why not?
I just don't think you saying, "She dances exactly like a stripper." is going to come across as a compliment.
Maybe that's what she was going for...?
[raises eyebrow]
Okay fine. No hard feelings, Tash, k? Plz don't kill me? I swear. I was almost jealous when I saw that. Promise.
You are so stupid.
Oh my god. I know. I give up.
What?
Seriously, dude. This is... I just... I fucking quit, okay? Maybe it'll turn up later.
Maybe you're right. This is really fucking tiring.
I swear too much.
Duh.
Shut up and get me a beer, dammit.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
FW: fwd: fwd: FW: fwd: FW: Just For You!
Are you a Forwarder? Do people send you cute stuff and luck chains and VERY IMPORTANT LIFE SAVING INFORMATION SEND THIS TO EVERY WOMAN YOU LOVE emails and then nothing will do but you are compelled to send these to every single email address you've collected in your emailing life just in case they might need some luck, or OMG HUGS!, or safety tips, or whatever?
If you are then I have a favor to ask. Please fucking stop it for the love of god immediately, right now, I said NOW! Or at least check Snopes first because that Amber Alert has been fake for the last two years now and it makes you look dumb.
And Mama, stop sending panicky *112 notices or whatever the hell that was because I courteously scrolled down the screen for the 10 minutes of the Idiot Collective's complete address list but as soon as I saw Comic Sans font size ENORMOUS, I mean as soon as I stopped rolling my eyes, I hit delete. So I don't exactly know if it was *112 but oh my god stop it! Seriously. And don't send it to my dad either because he's real panicky these days and two seconds later HE sent it to me too. dear christ.
And that one last night about the Brown Recluse? I only even opened that because I thought it might be funny. Because when X and I were married he used to yell IT'S A BROWN RECLUSE! in mock fear every time he saw a bug. Well, eventually it was mock fear but at first it was Real fear. I cannot explain to you how terrified that man is of bug-like creatures. But he got tired of me joking the shit out of him for that and he decided to turn it into self-deprecating humor. Wise. We still laugh about Brown Recluse even now. But secretly he's still very concerned that all insects will bite him to death. That makes me giggle.
So anyway, Brown Recluse = funny, right? Not this time. This time it was a photographic essay of a progressively worsening thumb that had been bitten and I don't know how it ended because once I got to the picture of a black swollen thumb with pus oozing out of it...all I can say is DELETE! and fuck you. Holy god that was foul. And the next shot may have been of a bloody unbandaged stump and that would have been a happy enough ending for me, but that email was the most hateful thing you've done since referring to me as "that hole he came out of." Totally true. Who says shit like that?!
She's done plenty other hateful things in the 9 years since that bit of hillbilly eloquence escaped her lips but they all run together in my head. And I really don't care anyway. But I can never unsee that thumb, lady. You are from hell.
So, Forwarders, does that sound like the reaction you were hoping for at the other end of the internet? Not exactly, huh?
Oh, wait, you were just sending along that cute collection of inappropriate things kids say in school that just cracked UP your whole bunco group and you thought I might need a chuckle? Sweet of you, sure, but I have seen that 37 times already. Seriously, stop. Or what about those with the Twelve Ways Men Suck at Everything! LOL, right?! You know what? I'm sure you're just tickled by however they bash what he does wrong with a toilet seat but maybe what you really want to bash instead is that one time when you were 6 months pregnant and you caught him in the bar parking lot at 4:30 in the morning about to kiss some trashy piece of business who actually tried to diffuse your fury by saying, "Look, woman to woman..." until she saw the death in your eyes and shut up. hypothetically. But yeah, what IS it with men and toilet seats?! That's way easier to poke fun at. And that's called displacement and you need counseling. No men-bashing forwards for me if you don't mind.
But anyway, email forwards directing me to pass this garbage on to seven friends in seven minutes if I want the luckiest lucky magic wishing star wish I ever thought of to come true in the next 24 hours? Oh, wait, it totally worked for your cousin's hairdresser in Michigan this one time? Uh, yeah. DELETE. Because I think the engineers are going to come up with beaming technology eventually and all these stupid Luck Chain emails are probably just clogging up the space we're supposed to be beaming through and what you're really doing now is just fucking up my wish. Mean wish killer. Really though, I hope they're close to getting beaming technology right. That would be so cool.
So, I think I've made a pretty compelling case for you to stop forwarding those emails. And if you just can't help yourself, please, I am begging you, take me off your address list.
If you are then I have a favor to ask. Please fucking stop it for the love of god immediately, right now, I said NOW! Or at least check Snopes first because that Amber Alert has been fake for the last two years now and it makes you look dumb.
And Mama, stop sending panicky *112 notices or whatever the hell that was because I courteously scrolled down the screen for the 10 minutes of the Idiot Collective's complete address list but as soon as I saw Comic Sans font size ENORMOUS, I mean as soon as I stopped rolling my eyes, I hit delete. So I don't exactly know if it was *112 but oh my god stop it! Seriously. And don't send it to my dad either because he's real panicky these days and two seconds later HE sent it to me too. dear christ.
And that one last night about the Brown Recluse? I only even opened that because I thought it might be funny. Because when X and I were married he used to yell IT'S A BROWN RECLUSE! in mock fear every time he saw a bug. Well, eventually it was mock fear but at first it was Real fear. I cannot explain to you how terrified that man is of bug-like creatures. But he got tired of me joking the shit out of him for that and he decided to turn it into self-deprecating humor. Wise. We still laugh about Brown Recluse even now. But secretly he's still very concerned that all insects will bite him to death. That makes me giggle.
So anyway, Brown Recluse = funny, right? Not this time. This time it was a photographic essay of a progressively worsening thumb that had been bitten and I don't know how it ended because once I got to the picture of a black swollen thumb with pus oozing out of it...all I can say is DELETE! and fuck you. Holy god that was foul. And the next shot may have been of a bloody unbandaged stump and that would have been a happy enough ending for me, but that email was the most hateful thing you've done since referring to me as "that hole he came out of." Totally true. Who says shit like that?!
She's done plenty other hateful things in the 9 years since that bit of hillbilly eloquence escaped her lips but they all run together in my head. And I really don't care anyway. But I can never unsee that thumb, lady. You are from hell.
So, Forwarders, does that sound like the reaction you were hoping for at the other end of the internet? Not exactly, huh?
Oh, wait, you were just sending along that cute collection of inappropriate things kids say in school that just cracked UP your whole bunco group and you thought I might need a chuckle? Sweet of you, sure, but I have seen that 37 times already. Seriously, stop. Or what about those with the Twelve Ways Men Suck at Everything! LOL, right?! You know what? I'm sure you're just tickled by however they bash what he does wrong with a toilet seat but maybe what you really want to bash instead is that one time when you were 6 months pregnant and you caught him in the bar parking lot at 4:30 in the morning about to kiss some trashy piece of business who actually tried to diffuse your fury by saying, "Look, woman to woman..." until she saw the death in your eyes and shut up. hypothetically. But yeah, what IS it with men and toilet seats?! That's way easier to poke fun at. And that's called displacement and you need counseling. No men-bashing forwards for me if you don't mind.
But anyway, email forwards directing me to pass this garbage on to seven friends in seven minutes if I want the luckiest lucky magic wishing star wish I ever thought of to come true in the next 24 hours? Oh, wait, it totally worked for your cousin's hairdresser in Michigan this one time? Uh, yeah. DELETE. Because I think the engineers are going to come up with beaming technology eventually and all these stupid Luck Chain emails are probably just clogging up the space we're supposed to be beaming through and what you're really doing now is just fucking up my wish. Mean wish killer. Really though, I hope they're close to getting beaming technology right. That would be so cool.
So, I think I've made a pretty compelling case for you to stop forwarding those emails. And if you just can't help yourself, please, I am begging you, take me off your address list.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
My Closet Door is a Rorschach Test
So, I was lying in bed trying to think of a topic because even though the social worker for the school system came over today to talk about Thing 2, I don't feel like boring you all to death with that. You are welcome.
So then I noticed my closet door. It is the same closet door as it's been for at least 12 years but I never looked at it before. I mean reeeealllly looked, y'know? And I'm sorry, closet door. I'll never neglect you like that again. You have opened my eyes to my inner soul and I cherish you. But I'm a little worried about my inner soul right now.
Because here's why:
Now, I'll let you take a look at that for a sec.
...
...
Ordinary enough looking door, right? BFD, you say? Yeah. Okay. I feel you. But in that antique walnut stained slab of luan I SEE stuff. And it might mean I'm truly crazy after all. Not sure yet. You decide.
Here's what I see. On the left. There's a face. Kinda looks like a smiley face, but a weird, melty one. Like a Munch Scream smiley face, which is plenty weird enough. But then I start thinking it reminds me of that burlap sack/hood thing from Batman Begins that creepy psychiatrist would put on before he'd spray the crazygas on people. Then I realize that's a pretty disturbing image to see every fucking time I look at my closet door from now on so I search around the wood grain hoping to turn it into something else. And I see the circle thing above it. Hmmm. And I see lines going up to the circle thing. And what do I make out of that? You're just dying to know, aren't you?
Skinny alien, wearing a burlap crazyhood, holding up a lighter like he's at some concert. But he's not at a concert. He is in my bedroom. Staring. Right. At me. fabulous.
Then I notice the big concentration of darker wood grain on the right. See that? Of course I know what that is right away. That is obviously a giant, veiny, uncircumcised penis. I mean, duh. You got that without my having to even tell you, right? Oh be quiet. You did too. Anyway, not that I have ever seen an uncircumcised penis in person before, but hello? Internet porn, people? I'm pretty sure there's no other legal way to kill time when facebook and twitter are being boring than to surf internet porn. I'm pretty sure that's a law. Well, not if you're a kid of course. For example, if you're a kid in MY house then you check out when the next meteor shower is scheduled or you surf youtube looking for ninja training videos. But if you're a grown-up in my house then you're going to be looking at porn at some point between emails, blogs, MamaPop and other stuff that in no way resembles folding laundry or dusting.
So ANYWAY, I have no idea what a torch-carrying, hooded alien or a giant penis means because I wikipedia-ed Rorschach Test and that just gave me a headache. But I doubt either of them means anything positive about my mental health at this juncture. And both of them together? Probably very troublesome.
I am thinking it means that I will always have one out-of-this-world fan who also reminds me I should be having regular sex. So he's looking out, but he is also kind of a jerk.
On a slightly related note, Mayopie tweeted the other day that he would be renaming the vagina Lynda Carter. I felt pretty flattered because I can only assume he was thinking of vagina, Wonder Woman AND ME in that moment. Since I was the one who pointed out the Lynda Carter/Linda Evans thing, I mean. Not because I think he spends time obsessing over my vagina. He's never even met it. Unless Jan Brady is up to some super sneaky photographic stunts again that I haven't heard about yet...and if that's true you should all wave goodbye to Jan Brady.
I bet he would obsess about it if he did meet it though. It's no stranger to compliments. I say nice things to it all the time. Not the point though. Point being that I can't, in good conscience, call my vagina Lynda Carter. Because it lacks the most mesmerizing feature of everyone's favorite Amazon princess. Breasts? Shiny red boots? No. Not that. It lacks the most striking collar bones in television history. And I don't condone false advertising. But I am actually not sad about the collar bone thing because I think it would make those Flamingo Pants fit really weird.
Hold on, there's somebody at the door. Oh, look! It's those nice young men in their clean white coats! Be right back...
Monday, May 10, 2010
My Well of WTF Has Not Dried Out
So, this morning started out with an epic flip of the kitchen light switch and TWO bulbs exploded in a shattering, cacophonous event of sparks and glass raining down upon the general kitchen area in a portentous display, like THIS:
 |
| Don't you hate it when that happens? Me TOO! |
Or maybe I just hit the switch and both bulbs simultaneously lit up then decided to say, "Fuck you!" and went *pop* in about a nanosecond. And then I had to make breakfast in the dark because who has time to get on a step ladder and change light bulbs when you're getting kids ready for school? Certainly not me. Seconds COUNT here, people. If you don't know this...you should really know this. I now I have actual evidence that I can make Eggo's and coffee with my eyes closed. I am not as excited about this confirmation as you might think. But anyway, two more light bulbs? goddammit. The Things just roll their eyes at me about this now. God, MOM! Like I can fucking help it. I have a surplus of electrical energy. I blow shit out. I don't know how to control this yet. Training to be a Jedi Master is such a fucking hassle sometimes.
Anyway, blahmorningroutineblah. I got to work and read THIS and Mayo Pie had me laughing so loud at work that Dad actually asked, "What's so funny?" But I CANNOT, under any circumstances, turn the computer around and show him a JJ Walker vagina picture. Sorry, Dad, you'll have to stumble across that on your own. And I fear for everything I know to be true and good about the world if you somehow manage to search for JJ Walker and vagina at the same time. But only slightly, because holy hell that was funny. I wonder if I sent Mama the link to that post if she would stop forwarding me prayer chain emails and cutely inappropriate things toddlers say in school for the 75 millionth goddamn time. I should probly wait til after I get the shed for that. Saturday? Game. On.
And another anyway, I fully did NOT expect to get any kind of editorial credit in that post for correcting him that Lynda Carter was Wonder Woman and not Linda Evans who played Krystle Carrington on Dynasty and I don't care how funny you are, don't fuck with my childhood memories. Although I never watched Dynasty. I was a Dallas girl all the way. Used to dance around the living room to the theme song like I knew what I was doing. Which I didn't. My dancing skillz at the time were based on watching American Bandstand. Not the greatest tutorial if you'll recall. I digress, THANK YOU for the mention, Mr. Pie. You, sir, rock.
Okay, getting back to real life for a second. I mentioned Mama earlier. I came home from work and was greeted with this:
There were six bottles in a case outside my front door. Mama Apple Juices me today. She gave me four last week. Dear Big Lots, your sale needs to fucking end immediately, right now and in all other ways YESTERDAY. The Things don't even like apple juice. Limeade, dude, is where it's AT. Apple juice? Apple juice is the weird friend who isn't allowed to leave the house without a helmet.
I asked the Things, "What should we do with all this apple juice?"
Pour some out and put mentos in and see what happens. (This is not diet coke, it won't be the same)
Pour them out and make a raft. (Clever. Just might work. I could get behind that suggestion)
Pour them out and make an apple juice bottle necklace? (Dude, you do see how big those bottles are, right? I cannot logistically accomodate that kind of bling)
Pour them into apple juice water balloons so they'll be all sticky. (WIN!)
As you can see, they have zero interest in apple juice as a beverage. Mama. Really. Know your audience here.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Accidental Pin Up?
Alright, I'm all for cutting to the chase and stuff - but seriously? Guys? Propositioning me for sex in the middle of a perfectly non-sexual conversation? This has got to stop. What the hell?! I'm not standing on a street corner. I'm not wearing the hooker uniform. None-a that. I'm saying hi at a family freakin' barbecue.
Me: He-ey. How've you been?
Him: Great. I waved to you earlier but you didn't wave back.
Me: Oh, sorry. I didn't see that. Busy taking pictures.
Him: Who're you here with?
Me: Just hangin' with the fam like regular.
Him: Don't tell me you didn't at least bring a male companion.
Me: Dude, I couldn't get a date with a taser and a net. (This has been my standard line for the last four years. It's not entirely true. I probably wouldn't need the net, just an accomplice for lifting purposes. Audrey?)
Him: That can't be true. I'm sure there's a ton of people here who'd...y'know....
Me: [Surveys the crowd. Redneck, overweight, married, senior citizen or some combination thereof. Sees where this is headed]
Him: One in particular...hint, hint
Me: [Raises eyebrow. Yeah, because I might have missed your debonair subtlety a second ago?]
Him: You know, I'm just sayin'. I'm married and all but...I've been a fan for a while. Ever since Jan Brady gave me those pictures of you laying out in a bikini on your deck in high school.
Me: She did what?!
Him: Yeah. You remember that white bikini...?
Me: [grimaces] mm-hmm
Him: I guess she took those pictures through a window and gave me some. Oh, don't worry, they were very...uh...flattering.
Me: [Waits for earth to open up and swallow me. Knows everytime I see him now, I will imagine him whacking off to my bikini pictures. great.]
And then people came over to chat thankgod. I made a polite but hasty exit.
WHAT THE FUCK, JAN BRADY?!
By the way, she is probably reading this right now and laughing herself to tears thinking, "Well, you do need to get laid..." No shit. Thanks for the reminder. But god DAMMIT - who the hell else did she give pictures to? There were quite a few hot surfers in our neighborhood (that guy wasn't one of them) that I used to walk down to the beach and watch back in the day. Did they have my picture between their mattresses too? Was I the super-secret neighborhood pin-up? I think that would have been helpful to know at the time.
So now I don't know whether to feel flattered or creeped out beyond all human imagination. But, whatever, bygones and all. Do NOT do that again, please? I am perfectly capable of taking my own soft core photos these days thankyouverymuch.
But anyway, back to the balls-out propositioning. It has recently been brought to my attention that I've got the ewwy-gooey seduction, lava lamp thing going on, right? Okay, but could we please, universe, find a balance between social siberia and super-secret sex kitten?
I am perfectly willing to accept that this may be a muffin of my own design. Sort of. But it's not like my only two speeds are elbow-deep-in-laundry and swinging-off-a-pole. I don't slut it up when I go out with friends or to a family freakin' barbecue. I usually look like some variation of this:
And while that may inspire a "Let's just skip the restaurant..." kind of evening for some...it's doesn't necessarily for me. And at least put in some EFFORT for chrissakes. Courtship? Anyone? No? Gah!
And don't be married.
This is not too much to ask.
Me: He-ey. How've you been?
Him: Great. I waved to you earlier but you didn't wave back.
Me: Oh, sorry. I didn't see that. Busy taking pictures.
Him: Who're you here with?
Me: Just hangin' with the fam like regular.
Him: Don't tell me you didn't at least bring a male companion.
Me: Dude, I couldn't get a date with a taser and a net. (This has been my standard line for the last four years. It's not entirely true. I probably wouldn't need the net, just an accomplice for lifting purposes. Audrey?)
Him: That can't be true. I'm sure there's a ton of people here who'd...y'know....
Me: [Surveys the crowd. Redneck, overweight, married, senior citizen or some combination thereof. Sees where this is headed]
Him: One in particular...hint, hint
Me: [Raises eyebrow. Yeah, because I might have missed your debonair subtlety a second ago?]
Him: You know, I'm just sayin'. I'm married and all but...I've been a fan for a while. Ever since Jan Brady gave me those pictures of you laying out in a bikini on your deck in high school.
Me: She did what?!
Him: Yeah. You remember that white bikini...?
Me: [grimaces] mm-hmm
Him: I guess she took those pictures through a window and gave me some. Oh, don't worry, they were very...uh...flattering.
Me: [Waits for earth to open up and swallow me. Knows everytime I see him now, I will imagine him whacking off to my bikini pictures. great.]
And then people came over to chat thankgod. I made a polite but hasty exit.
WHAT THE FUCK, JAN BRADY?!
By the way, she is probably reading this right now and laughing herself to tears thinking, "Well, you do need to get laid..." No shit. Thanks for the reminder. But god DAMMIT - who the hell else did she give pictures to? There were quite a few hot surfers in our neighborhood (that guy wasn't one of them) that I used to walk down to the beach and watch back in the day. Did they have my picture between their mattresses too? Was I the super-secret neighborhood pin-up? I think that would have been helpful to know at the time.
So now I don't know whether to feel flattered or creeped out beyond all human imagination. But, whatever, bygones and all. Do NOT do that again, please? I am perfectly capable of taking my own soft core photos these days thankyouverymuch.
But anyway, back to the balls-out propositioning. It has recently been brought to my attention that I've got the ewwy-gooey seduction, lava lamp thing going on, right? Okay, but could we please, universe, find a balance between social siberia and super-secret sex kitten?
I am perfectly willing to accept that this may be a muffin of my own design. Sort of. But it's not like my only two speeds are elbow-deep-in-laundry and swinging-off-a-pole. I don't slut it up when I go out with friends or to a family freakin' barbecue. I usually look like some variation of this:
And while that may inspire a "Let's just skip the restaurant..." kind of evening for some...it's doesn't necessarily for me. And at least put in some EFFORT for chrissakes. Courtship? Anyone? No? Gah!
And don't be married.
This is not too much to ask.
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