Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned I'm neglecting this blog.

This blog, which saw me through many, many difficult times at work; which stood by me while I suffered through endless days chained to a desk; which comforted me in my darkest hour.

Now, this blog sits, dusty and sad while I'm out there living my life.

Do I feel bad? Yes.
And no.

You see, I start thinking about this blog and the lack of attention I have been giving it as of late, and I start to feel guilty. Like, "old-school, Catholic guilt" kind of guilty. I start to wonder if I was wrong in believing that I lived and breathed to write. I start to fear that I'll never go back; that I'll never blog again or finish my novel (which has screeched to a halt at 11,000-ish words).

But then, I remember that it's the Holidays. That Brian has been here, spending some quality time with me. That I was forced to stare at a screen, day in and day out, for 5 plus years.
And then I'm all, "Yo, calm the fuck down." And I drink a glass of wine and admire the tree (which will not be taken down until after New Years day), and I allow myself to enjoy the time away from the computer.

Will I be back?
Most definitely.

When the Holidays are over and Brian is back at work, and my freelance projects are rolling in and I've settled into my post-corporate hell routine, I have no doubt that entertaining posts will come at fairly regular intervals.

And of course, if something funny happens...if Brian sets himself on fire or my pants fall down at the grocery store...have no fear that you, my readers, will be the first to hear of it.

But for now, I'm going to enjoy my time with my husband and the horses and my dogs and my family, and thank GOD that from here on out, sitting at a computer will happen not because I'm required to, but because I CHOOSE to.

Happy New Years, everybody.

Monday, December 28, 2009

If You Have An Actual Job, You Probably Don't Want To Read This

Brian asked me to take care of his FarmVille today. It's not that I don't mind helping a brotha out, but his farm is, like, really really big and time consuming, and for the record, this is the third day in a row he's asked me to farm that sombitch.

All of this aside, what's really deterring me from volunteering my farming time and skills is the reason he's unable to farm his land.

Brian, it seems, has discovered a new computer game: Wine Tycoon. So essentially, Brian is unable to play his one computer game because he is too busy playing another computer game. see my dilemma here.

So allow me to present to you,

Acceptable Reasons to Ask Your Spouse to Farm Your Farmville Crops:

- You are vacuuming out the water in the basement

- You are in a coma

- You are being mauled by a bear

- You are making and/or purchasing a cake (for me)

- You have been arrested

- You broke both your wrists in an unfortunate snowboarding accident

- You are too busy checking out my fine, fine ass

- You have actual, income-generating work to do

- You are on fire

- You are busy buying me a present

And while we're on the topic,

Unacceptable Reasons to Ask Your Spouse to Farm Your Farmville Crops:

- You are busy playing another computer game

- You are napping

- You are on the couch, and the laptop is waayyyyy over there

- See above

But on the bright side, THESE, now, are the types of problems I'm encountering. Not "I'm going to shank my coworkers," or "If I have to sit through one more of these awful meetings I'm going to throw myself out of this third-story window"....

Now, it's just all, "Baby, can you farm my crops?" and I'm all, "Do it yourself, bitch."

I may be broke, but at least I have finally prioritized my life.


Sunday, December 27, 2009

On Sump Pumps And Infomercials

Another short one today (TWSS).
We have to leave soon to head to my dad's out in PA, because apparently, this is the christmas that will never end.

Dude, I'm so festivitied out, it's not even funny.

Add to that the flooding. You see, I'm starting to learn that every time I say, "wow, this is the highest the water has ever been" time, it's higher.

So today, I will not be saying that this most recent flood was the highest it's even been (even though it most certainly is). I will only say that the basement is flooded despite a fully functioning sump pump (well, one of them, at least), and leave it at that.

Lesson learned.

Last night, Brian and I spent our time desperately trying to prevent our sump pump from frying out by running an industrial pump for 5 minute intervals every 20 minutes or so.

Good times, good times.

And while I'm super impressed that our ultra-expensive new sump pump with bells and whistles is still going strong despite running practically non-stop for the last 24 hours, I'm still kind of lamenting the fact that staying awake, in shifts, throughout the night was not enough to keep our basement floor from getting completely saturated.

And unfortunately, having taken the 2:00 to 5:00 am shift early this morning, I've also developed a compulsive need for the Slap Chop.

So there you have it. Lessons learned in the wake of a flood that was NOT the highest we've ever seen (see that? I just went all reverse-psychology on your ass). When it comes to sump pumps, you get what you pay for, and when you're up all night on support-pump duty, it's best to avoid infomercials.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Christmas Recap, And Another Pet. Or, A Thousand Reasons Why I Might Very Well Murder Someone (Or Thing) Today

I know what you guys are thinking.
You're thinking, "Hey, now that Bluefish is gone, Lily could probably use another animal."

Well, surprise surprise, we now have another cat.

Luckily, this is only a temporary situation, but I'm going to give you a moment to imagine the chaos that 2 dogs and 3 cats can inflict, even if only temporarily, at Christmastime.


Breathtaking, isn't it?
In an apocolyptic kind of way?

You see, my sister came to visit a few days ago.

And she brought this cat, who belongs to her ex-roommate, who had nobody to watch it while she was with her family. So Emily brings this cat here because, hey, what's one more animal when you're already overrun with 'em?
So the cat is here. His name is Monty. He gets along with everybody. Including the tree. And the ornaments. And the muffins I baked for brunch yesterday. (he REALLY gets along well with the blueberry muffins, as I found out this morning).

But it was a small price to pay to spend some quality time with my sister.

Imagine, if you will, a woman who is like me, but more dramatic, and with a greater love for pastry.

That's Em.

She and I went into the city on Wednesday to criticize Cezanne and marvel at medieval weaponry at the Philadelphia Museum of Art (and note to self: I'm pretty sure the world does not want my sister to get her hands on a medieval battle axe). Thursday, she came with me to a particularly entertaining riding lesson in which I was just about launched head first into a wall when the horse I was riding decided to have a complete mental breakdown.

It was fun.
Moreso for her, than for me.

After that, we headed to my inlaws for dinner with aunts, uncles, cousins, and miscellaneous children.

And yesterday.
Yesterday, when our first Christmas had to be equally divided between about a million family members.
Yesterday, when I had to pull together a brunch for 10 people, which was then decreased to 8 people when my grandparents decided, 1 hour before go-time, that they didn't want to come over afterall.
"Why," you ask?
Why do they do anything?
Because they're old.
And that's pretty much the only excuse I can use with them.

So it was my mother and sister in the morning. And then we were joined by Brians' parents, aunt, and uncle for brunch. And then his parents, Brian and I drove to to PA to have dinner with his other aunt and uncle and cousins.

And then his parents came BACK to our house to do presents.

So the whole evening wrapped up at around 10:30 or so.
And I think we can all imagine how cranky I was by this point.

So today, there will be a whole lot of nothing going on in our household.
And it will be fabulous.

Except, of course, for the fact that we have 3 cats and 2 dogs that are all trying to simultaneously harass each other.

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas.
I'm back, bitches.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

You Were Taking Bets, Weren't You?

Hey guys
No, I'm not dead. Nor have I abandoned the blog for good.
I promise.

It's just that, well, there's so much stuff to DO now that I'm not chained to a desk 24/7.
Houses to clean
Horses to ride
Family to visit with

All that good stuff.

So, let's just say that I'm taking a Christmas Vacation away from the blog. My first vacation, actually, since I started this thing in August of 2008 (no joke).

Except, my Christmas Vacation will not include Clark Grizwold, humping dogs or crazy relatives showing up in broken-down trailors.

(...okay, maybe some humping dogs).

I hope you all have a very Happy Holidays.
See you soon

Friday, December 18, 2009

A Viking Funeral For 2

Me: Hey Bluefish, how ya feeling today?
BF: …..
Me: Bluefish? You okay?
Me: *tap tap
BF: ….

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Bluefish has officially gone to that big aquarium in the sky. I know that a lot of people though he died earlier this week when I posted my conversation with him (although, I don’t know how I’d have a conversation with a dead fish) (then again, I guess it’s pretty remarkable that I have conversations with fish, in general).

Poor Bluefish.

So of course, I had to contact his grandmother (via text) and break the news to her.

Me: RIP Bluefish
Mom: OMG! (how can you tell?)
Me: what do you mean how can I tell? He’s lying at the bottom of the tank and not moving when I tap on the tank.
Mom: So sad! Will you have a service?
Me: We’re thinking more like a Viking funeral
Mom: Oooh! So cool! Of course the fireman would think of that
Me: No, his barbarian wife thought of that
Mom: You 2 go so well together!

Awww, isn’t that cute?

And at this point, I'd like to recall another story that comes to mind. The year is 2004 and I am an intern in the office where my mother works. In that office, we all had these cool combination fishtank/plant arrangements on our desks, complete with our own individual beta fish. Of course, most of the fish died earlier that year, but mom's held out longer than the others.

Did I mention that she named him Ivan Analitch?
Think about it.

At any rate, eventually, he passed away. So of course, my mother sent around an email (it was a small office full of pretty cool people) saying that Ivan had passed away and we would be gathering around the pond out back to send him off at lunch.

Did I also mention that we had hired, like six new people THAT VERY DAY?

So of course the new people, thinking that Ivan is some sort of...well...person....are confused.

Eventually, one of them came up to my mother and wanted to know the address of the family so she could send a condolence card. My mother was like, "WHOSE family?" And the woman was like, "Ivan's. Who is he, by the way?"

Apparently, the new people had been talking and had decided that Ivan was the janitor or something, and that his last wish had been to be sunk in the corporate pond out back.

Of course we all had a good laugh over it, and to this day, every time I see a beta fish, I think of good old Ivan.


In other news, today is my last day at work. As of 12:30 this afternoon, I will be a free (read: unemployed) woman.

Holy crap!

So tonight, we will be saying goodbye to both Bluefish and “Corporate Lily” in the ways of our ancestors. Namely, drinking beer and setting things on fire before shoving them out to sea.

I think Ivan would be approve.

Happy Weekend, everybody!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Mystery Box

No, not MY mystery box, you sick perves!
(and lets be honest, 4 years of college experimentation took ALL the mystery out of THAT box, if yanno what I'm sayin')*

*I don't know what I'm saying

Anygirlsgonewild, yesterday, a box arrived at our doorstep.
That, in itself, isn't unusual. After all, it IS Christmas-time.

What was unusual about this box, after I took it inside and attempted to determine whether it might be one of my christmas gifts by shaking it vigorously, was the address:

In case you're having a hard time reading it, it was addressed to
JERICHO OR THE [INSERT LAST NAME HERE for those of you who didn't already figure it out when I stupidly posted my wedding invitation on this blog a few months ago] NOT SKITTLES.

Needless to say, I was perplexed. A package that is addressed to either my dog or both me and my husband, but not my cat?


So I opened it.

And this is what was inside:

And I was all, "Ooh, look, a bonsai tree!" And Brian was all, "No, stupid it's a grape vine."
And he was right! It WAS a grapevine.
...which makes sense, in that Jericho is a highly sophisticated man who appreciates a good Chianti now and again, and Skittles is a manic, homicidal cat who likes to eat anything of the plant variety, even while knowing full well that she will throw it up (on my shoes) later.
Knowing that Brian and I are experienced and budding wine connoisseurs, respectively, my brother-in-law and his girlfriend got us a grape vine from California. other words, the coolest gift EVER.
Now, I just need a name for him.
Any sueggstions?

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

We've Got A Floater...

Me: Hey, Bluefish, what’s crack-a-lak-in?
Bluefish (BF): Hey. *sigh
Me: What’s the matter, bro? You look depressed.
BF: I am
Me: What’s wrong?
BF: I can’t swim
Me: Dude.
BF: What?
Me: You’re a FISH…
BF: So?
Me: I’m pretty sure you know how to swim.
BF: Not anymore.
Me: You’re insane.
BF: I’m NOT! Look!
[Swims furiously to the bottom of the tank and then floats to the top like a buoy]
Me: OOOOh.
BF: See what I mean? I’ve forgotten how to swim.
Me: Hmmm, how do I put this? Do you want the good news or the bad news?
BF: What? Good news.
Me: You haven’t forgotten how to swim.
BF: Awesome. I'm so relieved. What’s the bad news?
Me: You have that floaty condition that fish sometimes get.
BF: That floaty condition?
Me: Yeah. All of a sudden, they just sort of…float. Like, every time they try to swim down, they float back to the surface. Just like you.
BF: Oh, so I haven’t forgotten how to swim?
Me: No. You just have the floaty condition.
BF: That’s great news!
BF: What?
Me: Nothing.
BF: WHAT?!? Tell me.
Me: The floaty condition isn’t so great.
BF: Uh-oh. What do you mean?
Me: I mean….geeze…um…the last fish I had who got the floaty thing kind of….er…
BF: Don’t say it…
Me: …died
Me: Dude, I’m SO SORRY, but I couldn’t not tell you.
Me: Well, maybe not…
Me: Well, yeah, probably….
Me: Jesus, calm down.
Me: Well, let’s be honest here – you’ve been on your way out for a long time now.
Me: Uhhh…it is. I’ve been watching you sleep ON YOUR SIDE at the bottom of the tank for, like, 4 months now.
BF: So what?
Me: Well, it’s usually not a good sign.
BF: Jesus Christ, I’m going to die.
Me: Speaking of which, do you have a soul?
BF: A what?
Me: A…oh…nevermind.
Me: Who wants dinner?!?

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

In Which It Ends With A Sexy Danceparty

It’s a scatter-brained kind of day, so you’re going to get a scatter-brained kind of post. Don’t like it? Complaints can be emailed to Icouldn’

· Somewhere around the 867th time my new coworker asked me if I had lunch (you know who I’m talking about – the enthusiastic, freshly-minted PharmD with the IQ of a dill pickle), I decided to stop being nice to her. And I know that you guys must think that I’m some sort of monstrous human being, I’m actually pretty nice to people’s faces, so this is a lot harder for me than you’d think. However, I’m finding that, much like learning to play the didgeridoo, when it comes to being mean, practice makes perfect. And I, for one, am no quitter. So I keep a list of thinly veiled insults handy and practice making “incredulous snob eyes” in the mirror in the ladies’ room. I expect to be a full-on bitch by the end of the week. Wish me luck!

· It would appear that I have little-to-nothing to do here at work for the next four days. Expect multiple daily posts and, if you’re lucky, a vlog. Aah, who are we kidding? Technology and me go together like an Oklahoma fisherman and Twilight (oops, sorry Travis. Did I just blow up your Twilight spot? You can email a complaint to me at Icouldn’ There will be no vlogging of any sort.

· Do the kids still say “psych?” I dunno, I’m so out of touch. The other day, I was in the mall, and some teenager walked by with his hair all combed forward and to the side and eyeliner and skinny jeans and I was like, “Christ, kid, can you get that hair out of your face already?” And my friend was like, “I think they call that ‘emo.’” And I was all, “Why would they call it that? He doesn’t look anything LIKE an emu!” and she was all, “Not emu, EMO. Jesus, can you get your hearing checked all ready?” And I was like, “No, I’m pretty sure they call that the GAY.” And she was like, “Not these days.” And I was like, “I know. Everything is so PC anymore. Fine, HOMOSEXUAL, okay?” And she was like, “No, I mean, that style isn’t just for gay guys anymore.” And I was all, “You mean HOMOSEXUAL guys.” And she was like, “I hate you so much.”

· We have to go to Brian’s new boss’s swearing in ceremony tonight. Which means I get to see Brian in his “dressy” uniform (or whatever they call it, which I’m 99% sure doesn’t involve the word “dressy”). Needless to say, I’m a happy girl. Giggidy. I’ll try to get a pic, even if it means busting in on him in the mens’ room. Let it be said that I am dedicated to the cause.

· If I could stop trying to eat everything in sight, that would be great. Christmas cookies do not a healthy breakfast make. Diabetes just called to tell me that I’m easy. I don’t know whether to be offended or impressed.

· I just realized that I only have to wear business slacks for two more days (Not including today. And Friday not being counted, in that we are allowed to wear jeans). Holy Hand Grenade! That freaking rocks!
Sexy Danceparty.
My place.
Friday afternoon.
Be there. (No pants allowed).

Aaah, who doesn’t love a sexy danceparty? That’s it for now. Stay tuned for more ramblings….

Monday, December 14, 2009

Water, Water Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink

I think we all here at Tapdancing in the Dark know that while I am quick to criticize, I am also quick to eat some humble pie.

Or any type of pie, for that matter.

mmmmm. Pie.
I digress…

So despite my recent rantings and ravings about my overall job satisfaction (or lack thereof), I must admit that perhaps maybe I spoke a bit too soon...

I know.
You’re shocked.
I am too.

You see, this whole time I truly believed that the company had an overall disregard for its employees happiness (and access to healthcare) (and ability to retire). Of course, there were a number of examples to support this conclusion, which I will not get into here for the sake of my blood pressure, but needless to say, a mildly disgruntled employee I was.

But then I got this email from the HR Department, and I have to say, I've really put my foot in my mouth complaining about how callously we employees were being treated.

Take a look-see:

Hello everyone,
Over the weekend both of the water fountains were fixed. We have had several requests to look into why they were not working, and we responded. Enjoy the water! Evidently there are filters that need to be changed as they get clogged.

Humble pie, serving of one, please.

I mean, here I was, going on and on about how abused we employees were, and then the company goes and does something as groundbreaking and progressive as allowing us access to clean water.

FOR FREE, people!

I mean, it’s one thing to provide vending machines that supply bottled water for the first 15 days of the month (or until it runs out) at the low, low price of $1.25 per bottle. After all, we are all so generously paid, the concept of shelling out more than $35 a month is a small price to pay to stay hydrated with water that doesn’t taste like you’re sucking on a lead pipe.
(That’s what she said.)

And it’s another thing to provide us with no-cost water that is seasoned with a healthy helping of E. Coli, because what do you expect for free? Plus, everybody could use a little more excitement in their lives, and what’s more exciting than playing a game of Russian Roulette with your drinking water?

Well, maybe a monkey knife fight.
NOTHING is more exciting that a good monkey knife fight.

But providing us with water that is both safe AND free?
…I’m at a loss for words.

WORDS CANNOT DESCRIBE the feelings that are welling up in me at this moment…

And it only took several requests for them to look into this! Only, like, three people had to get seriously dehydrated before they took a look at the water fountain filters. How's THAT for a quick response?
I mean, you can’t really blame them; who could have possibly anticipated that filters in the water fountains would get clogged? Who has ever heard of a filter that needs to be replaced? They should seriously write to the filter manufacturer and get their money back. AND THEN contact the Better Business Bureau because this manufacturer is clearly out to swindle the public.

Regardless, it is THIS type of problem solving that makes me proud to be an employee at this company.

It almost makes me sad to think that I’m leaving in 5 days.


Friday, December 11, 2009



Thursday, December 10, 2009

I'm Not Above Eating a Coworker

You know how a person, when stuck in a survival-type situation (like they get separated from their guide on an Amazonian hike or their plane crashes into the side of a mountain and they have to survive for a ridiculous amount of time by eating people and wearing seat covers), can be amazingly strong? Like, they just put their nose to the grindstone and keep going and it doesn’t really matter that a jaguar ate half of their leg, they’re just positive they’re going to get out of this, so they keep pressing forward until they reach civilization?

But then later, when they recall the tale, they get all weepy and can’t believe that they really survived? Like, all that repressed emotion that was useless and therefore suppressed during the emergency comes bubbling to the surface?

Well work, to me, has kind of gotten to this point, in that work was something to be survived, and now that the end is near, all of the emotions that would have compromised my ability to survive are now free to be expressed. Also, in that I would have no qualms eating a coworker if it came down to it.

But these emotions…they’re really out of control.

As in, if I pass you in the ladies’ room or get stuck with you in the elevator, there is a 4 out of 5 chance I’m either saying something derogatory to you or seeing you meet some horrible death that involves any combination of fire ants, helicopter blades, Medieval-times catapults, ninja throwing stars (obviously), or pianos hanging out of two-story windows.

In my head, of course, because can you seriously imagine how that would go down in real life?

Coworker: Good morning. Did you enjoy your day off?
Me: Not as much as I’m about to enjoy THIS, motha-fuckah.

And then I whip out the ninja stars and throw them octopus style, and they’re all Why? Why would you do this to me?, and I’m all THAT’S for forgetting to put the project ID number on the folder, ass-face. And by the way, that top makes you look fat.

And then I would walk out of the elevator and exit the building into a glorious sunset, never to return again.

But instead, I just say “yes, thanks.” And as soon as they turn their backs, I give them a dirty look, because the last time I threw my ninja stars, things ended badly for me, and I’m not going back, man.

And it doesn’t help that I get these RIDICULOUS emails from coworkers with way too much time on their hands, who mistakenly believe that I truly appreciated the ingenuity of their crocheted cornucopia last month (with individually crocheted pumpkins and eggplants 'n shit), when really, I was only saying I liked it to point out the fact that I really felt to the contrary, like when somebody gets an awful haircut, and when you see it, the first thing out of your mouth is “wow, I like your haircut,” when they actually look like a retarded poodle because really, what else are you going to say? The damage has already been done…

So I got this email today:

From: [stupid coworker]
Subject: You are invited to a private unveiling

Crocheted penguin and reindeer in my office.
Stop by any time :-)

Which means that – oh my god – I’ve been officially placed on the “People who think my crocheted shit is totally awesome” list.

And I SO want to take those little crocheted penguins and reindeers and shove them down her throat, but instead, I’ll have to go all the way down to the first floor and “ooh” and “aah” at them, because when you work in an office, this is what you do: You pretend that you have things in common with people who have absolutely nothing in common with you to the point that they are practically a different species in order to keep the peace.

And an unfortunate side effect of keeping the peace is not being able to roundhouse kick certain individuals in the face.

Which is why His Lordship Chuck Norris, a man, nay, a LEGEND who is celebrated for a number redeeming personality traits, is not known for keeping the peace.

Because in the real world, roundhouse kicks to the face are the answer to everything.

So this is essentially what has been going on in my head since my first internship at my first corporate job all those years ago. Except I didn’t really know I felt so strongly about it, save for the occasional bouts of corporate sabotage and daydreams of throttling a meeting planner or two.

Which just goes to show that the mind is an amazing thing.

But that whole “not above eating a coworker” thing?
Yeah, I knew that from day one.

Pass me the salt, bitches.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

A Christmas MIRACLE

Oh my god, you guys.

So I woke up today to a monsoon. No joke, a freaking monsoon, with the wind and the rain and the flooding and the dogs not so much wanting to go outside so that I had to literally poke milo outside with my umbrella.

It was one of those days where you want to call out sick and walk around in your bathrobe and imitate the scene from Risky Business where Tom Cruise slides across the floor, before he went all gay and crazy and got himself a beard out of that poor Dawsons Creek chick with the unfortunate wardrobe and engineered himself a baby named after a style of indian dress, and started believing that unhappiness is the result of alien ghosts inhabiting your body or whatever those Scientologist wackos believe.

And on a day like today, if you were to ask me, "Lily, what would make your day better?" I'd say well, it'd be great if it could stop raining so hard so I wouldn't have to worry about the sump pump failing and our basement flodding, and if I could somehow lose about 4 pounds so that these dress pants could apppear a little more "business casual" and a little less "office skank" (insomuch that I'm forced to wear them with a thong, which is a crime in itself), that would be stellar.

And then the Baby Jesus, in all His mercy, shone His face upon me. And the birds sang and a rainbow appeared, and what did I encounter, after a hellish commute that lasted more than an hour, other than the office parking lot, flooded with 4 feet of water, rendering entry impossible without the assistance of some sort of flotation device.

And I looked upon it.
And it was good.

So I said to myself, "Self, today is clearly your lucky day." And then Crystal and I went out for breakfast at Panera, because nothing says impromptu day off like a delicious pastry and hot coffee.

In other words, why am I sitting on a computer on my day off?

Peace out, yo.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

A Big, Fat Nothing

I’m not funny today.
I’m dealing with a retarded new coworker with a shiny, brand-new PharmD degree, not a single ounce of job training, real-world experience, or useful skills, and a total lack of the good sense god gave a doorknob.

(and trust me, if I wasn’t bustin’ out of this joint in 8 workdays and 2 workhours, I wouldn’t writing this, but guess what mother-effers? I AM. So you will TAKE this load of crap that I am giving you and YOU WILL LIKE IT)

/explosive, rage-filled rant.

So rather than fulfill my urge to give the finger to about 80% of the office and take a crap on at least 3 different cars in the parking lot, I was going to provide you with this funny email that was forwarded to me.

Trust me. It was hysterical.

But OF COURSE, it had to be in a PDF format, and for the love of Christ, I can't figure out how to transfer the PDF into something that will be accepted by google Blogger.

So would you believe I actually wrote the entire thing out on Microsoft Word?
The whole thing.
Because THAT is how much I love you guys.

But of course, the single time I WANT MS Word to ask me if I want to "save the document" before X-ing out of it, the prompt is nowhere to be found.

So there goes about 35 minutes of my time, right out the window.

And now I've got an empty blog, a lack of inspiration, and a stupid coworker who for some reason keeps asking me if I've had lunch.
Like, every day, she walks back from wherever she's taken her lunchbreak, and the first thing out of her mouth is, "Have you eaten lunch?"

.....Why are you asking me this?
What are you, the lunch police?!?
Last time I checked, I'm a college-educated adult who is capable of deciding for herself whether or not she is going to eat lunch.


So there you go.
I've managed to waste an entire blog talking about nothing except for the fact that I have nothing to talk about.

Sorry guys. I'm a big disapointment today.

And yes, just in case you were wondering, I've eaten lunch.

Monday, December 7, 2009


Brian and I went all, “Deck the Halls” this weekend, which typically consists of the following:

Taking Jericho (but not Milo, who shall henceforward be referred to as “Milo The Bedwetter” and no, I don’t really feel like talking about it) to go pick out a Christmas tree at probably the most expensive Christmas tree farm in a 50 mile radius. Unfortunately, it’s also the CLOSEST Christmas tree farm in a 50 mile radius, and with me, laziness usually wins out over cheap-skatedness (yes I make up my own words. I was going to say “inner Jew,” but I thought that would be offensive, so next time, try not to complain about the fact that I just used a nonsensical word, because it’s probably standing in place of a moderately offensive one. You’re welcome). And spending an hour picking out the nicest tree in the whole fucking place, only to realize that the tree has already been taken by another family (since when can you call dibs on trees? Next year, I’m claiming that bitch in OCTOBER), and the whole process starts over again. And then Jericho takes ANOTHER dump, because the last three dumps weren’t enough to clean him out, plus, the owner of the tree farm is right over there staring at us, so, awesome, and does anybody have a bag? Because you’d think that three plastic bags would cover you in the whole “cleaning up crap from a single dog,” department, but clearly we underestimated the tenacity of Jericho’s bowels.

Taking the tree home, dragging it into the house, and fiddling with it for half an hour while we try to get it absolutely straight in the stand, all the while screaming at the animals who are circling it like sharks and taking bets about who is going to knock it over first and yanking pine branches out of Milo’s locked jaws.

Watching Brian yell and curse while he meticulously places the 5,000 strands of lights that he deems necessary to give said tree the maximum amount of Christmas “cheer” (otherwise known as a $500 electricity bill and a “light pollution” fine from the township), typically with a beer in hand, and playing the “you missed a spot” game, which happens to be one of my most-favorite and Brian’s least-favorite games, at which point he gives me “the look” (like, if you point out ONE MORE AREA that needs extra lights, I’m going to pee in your shampoo bottle, hahahaha, I’m kidding, but seriously, shut your freaking pie-hole), at which point I mosey off to harvest my Farm-vizzle pumpkins because, after all, I know how to prioritize.

Going through our 18 boxes of hand-me-down Christmas decorations, with me desperately trying to throw out the ugly ones (from his side of the family, and the ones that his Ex had any sort of sentimental attachment to, natch), and him desperately trying to save them from the trash, because he’s a closet hoarder, and I’m not going to say that he likes ugly Christmas decorations, but let’s just say that one of the few benefits of being raised by a gay father is having extremely good taste when it comes to decorating, and I’m sorry, but I don’t do porcelain Santas with “fuzzy” beards, and Disney figurines? Are you freaking KIDDING ME?!?! Get that shit out of my house.

Cleaning up the puke from Milo ingesting and regurgitating 18 pounds of Christmas tree branches and needles, and then losing my mind after realizing that the single Christmas CD that we own has been playing on repeat for the past 6 hours and the songs are permanently burned into my brain.

Passing out, exhausted, with an appropriately festive house, a dog that has pine-needle gas, and a husband whose back will be now out of whack for the next two days thanks to all that time spent on the ground sawing and applying lights to a tree that is going to be thrown out in three weeks.

So yeah, that was our weekend.
It was magical, in a "National Lampoons" kinda way.

Up next? The Baking of the Christmas Cookie, which is guarenteed to be full of wonder and excitement...

...and generous use of our fire extinguisher.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Bonus Saturday Post: My Pets Have A Rough Life

This morning, after waking up, stretching, going out to take a massive dump each, eating a leisurely breakfast, and taking turns humping each other, Jericho and Milo went to the dog park.

They tore ass around the park for a good 30 minutes (Milo knocked a person down and Jericho rolled in something), and then came home, spent, to rest in front of the fire.

Meanwhile, I caught the fat cat tending to her lady bits in the middle of the kitchen floor.

And I'm including this picture, taken after the wedding before we had moved the sectional back into the house, when Milo and Skittles had to *gasp* share the same piece of furniture.

These animals are clearly abused. Someone should take them away from me.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Farm-vizzle, Fo’ Shizzle (My Nizzle)

So, I was harvesting my soybeans last night when I realized that the game was starting to take over my life, like when you first start drinking and you’re all “oh, just this once, because I’m bored out of my mind and CSI doesn’t start for another 40 minutes” and pretty soon you’re drinking regularly, like, almost every weekend, and even though you say you’re doing it “socially,” because everybody else is doing it, you really would do it whether other people were doing it or not. And then, before long, you’re rearranging your life around alcohol, making sure you’re free every night of the week so you can drink, and sneaking drinks in at work when they clearly have a No Alcohol policy, but, then again, they also have a Sexual Harassment policy and the guy who just felt you up in the elevator didn’t seem to get in trouble, so why would you?

Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

And it’s so freaking addictive! I only started because Brian started a farm on my facebook account so he could be “neighbors” with me (something about expanding his land, but he wasn’t talking about cake or being a ninja, so I wasn’t really paying attention). So he planted some strawberries or something, and then the next day, I found out that they had wilted.

And then I felt guilty.
Like, “what’d those poor strawberries ever do to you?”
And then I found out he had spent my hard-earned (and by “hard-earned,” I mean “given for doing nothing absolutely nothing”) Farmville money on them and I was all, “Oh HELLZ TO THE NO, you did not just waste $160 on wilted strawberries!” So I grabbed the mouse and kind of butt-scooted him off the chair and was all, Momma’s back, poor little dead strawberries, don’t you worry no mo’.

So I planted some more shit.
And changed the sex of my character for good measure.
And adopted a reindeer because, awww, it’s so CUTE.
And then it was harvest time.


Guys, I’m not going to lie.
I probably had the most successful crop in the history of Farmville.
Several thousand (yes, I said thousand, try not to pass out from your excitement, disbelief, and obvious jealousy) dollars later, I decided that I was way better at harvesting strawberries than writing.

So quit my job.

Okay, so that’s not entirely how it happened.
But I DID quit my job.
And I DO have more Farmville money than real money, so what does that say?

I’ll tell you what it says:

It says I’m a pro, baby.
(man, if I had a nickel for every time somebody called me a pro…)

And you guys – the animals LOVE YOU. Did you know that when you pet them, they bounce up and down and little hearts come floating out of them?
The last time I pet Milo, the only thing he emitted was flatulence that was so rank, the cats were climbing on top of one another trying to flee the room. I'm not even kidding. The little mean cat kind of rode the fat lazy cat out of the room like she was in the Kentucky Derby.

It was a sight to behold, Ill tell ya.

But regardless, I’m convinced that Farmville is the only reality that I want to be a part of.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be at my farm, harvesting my avocado tree, petting my reindeer, and resting under my tent.

Oh yeah...
I gotz me a pimp tent.

Try not to hate...

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Old Country Buffet: Where Dreams Go to Die

Holy crap, you guys, this shit is funny!
I was visiting my friend Jamie’s blog, and she produced this notable piece of algorithm excellence:
Click for enlargement (that’s what she said)

Where amI supposed to eat, according to this amazing choose-your-own-food-adventure icon?
Red Lobster.
Not sure if it’s entirely accurate (although no doubt, I will eat the SHIT out of a cheddar biscuit), but I found I was greatly limited by the fact that A) I don’t live near the “good” mall, and B) I’m not obese.


And then when I realized that there was a ninja question at the end, I automatically changed my destiny restaurant to Benihana.
Because everybody knows that ninjas can’t be contained by algorithms.
Too bad they didn’t ask that question up front, or I could have skipped all that extraneous bullshit about whether I’m high (I wish…) or can stand Guy Fieri (Who?...

…okay, now that I’ve googled him, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!? What’s with the hair? His head looks like an albino porcupine that is having a serious static cling problem.
Guy Fieri? Try GAY Fieri! *rimshot*)

You might find it surprising that ninjas eat at Benihanas, because, duh, isn’t that kind of obvious? But that’s exactly what we WANT you to think, because ninja codes states that the best place to hide is exactly where people expect to find you.
Admit it…I just blew your mind.
Thus, we ninjas dine on reasonably priced hibatchi, safe in the knowledge that everybody thinks we’re hiding out at the Olive Garden.

And seriously, guys.
Dude, my grandparents totally used to take me to that place back in the day when they would drive me and my sister down to Florida to visit our cousins. Man, I thought that place was da BOMB, mostly because my grandparents would let us eat all the donuts we could bring back in one trip to the buffet. Honestly, with all the sugar they used to let us eat, I’m a little surprised she and I don’t have type 2 diabetes, but hey…whatever. They’re the ones who had to put up with two over-stimulated children in the back seat of their car for 16-plus hours.

So there you have it:
A helpful, truly informative blog by yours truly.
Here’s hoping that today’s blog is better received than yesterday’s blog, and note to self: novel excerpts go over like a lead balloon.

No, seriously, guys, I don’t mind AT ALL that I only got 3 comments yesterday. Not ONE BIT. I certainly DIDN’T lose all confidence in my writing ability thanks to your less-than-stellar response, and IN NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM went home and cried into a tub of cookie dough.

I’m cool.
Not feeling insecure AT ALL.

Too bad they don’t have a restaurant option for “are you a terrible writer?”

It’d probably lead me to Old Country Buffet, because everybody knows that Old Country Buffet is where dreams to go die.

Well, that, and old people...

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

I'm Lazy, So Here's A Novel Excerpt

Okay, I’m tired today.
But in my defense, I rode a horse last night who was so freaking wild, “it was like riding,” as I said to Brian (who was enjoying the show from the sidelines) “a stick of dynamite that had just done a line of coke off a hooker’s ass.”

And you might think that’s a wild exaggeration (albeit a funny one), but have you ever tried to stop an 1,800-pound animal who is really in the mood to *not* stop?

Well, I’ll tell ya…
It’s hard.
Very hard.
So hard, in fact, that I’m still tired today.

So in lieu of an original blog post, I’m just gonna throw up another excerpt of my novel.*
It’s probably overkill to remind you guys of how delicate my ego is when it comes to this sort of thing, so let’s just leave it at
be nice, or face the consequences.”

Allrighty, here we go…

Once they had moved in, she found that she was entirely in her element. Ensconced in silence, she padded about in a worn pair of scuffs, sippingg tea and gazing out of the windows, any one of which displaying a combination of tangled wood or open, untended field that flanked the rear of the house, starting at the base of the concrete steps that descended from the back door and expanding out to a neat wall of trees standing several hundred yards in the distance. A lopsided, weathered barn set squarely in the middle of this open expanse. A connect-the-dots pasture was outlined in rough, grey posts that had once stood vertically but were now succumbing to gravity and leaning at odd angles. Several of these posts were interconnected with wide, flat boards that had been half eaten away by time and the elements, but most stood displaced, like ancient stones positioned to help keep time; a bucolic Stonehenge smack in the center of New England.

She had been out to explore the barn on a few occasions. When they first bought the house, she was eager to determine whether the barn could be transformed into a sort of free-standing workshop; a place where she could write, uninterrupted, surrounded by the smell of seasoned wood and old straw.
How romantic, she thought, to write a book in a barn. And she imagined the passage of time—pillows of snow and hot August sun—how they might be viewed from a barn-turned-studio; cozy in the winter and cool in the summer. But upon further inspection, the barn was clearly beyond hope of inhabitance. The wood that comprised the walls was half-rotten and marred by great chinks through which keyholes of landscape were visible. The floor was unfinished; earth that was tamped hard and dusty and tended to slope towards the south, separating from the far wall in a gap that was large enough to roll a baseball under. Although the poles that supported the roof seemed strong enough, gaps between the boards of the ceiling shot slivers of light in which particles of dust floated lazy and thick. A loft—for hay, seemingly—perched above the skeleton remains of several large animal stalls. A ceiling beam had collapsed onto this second story at some point, breaking through the slatted flooring to jam against the wall 5 feet above the ground. If at once there had been a ladder mounted to one of the crossbeams for access to this area, it was long gone. A pile of hay, baled at one time but long since freed of its twine, slumped into the walls in the far corner of the building. It smelled of mold, and she shuddered to think of the hundreds of rodents who had likely made their homes in this pile; a rat condominium, hiding hundreds of whiskers and claws and twitching, snake-like tales. Aside from the hay pile, the barn was largely empty. A pitchfork here, a rusted can there, were all that was left to indicate that the structure once held a purpose.

Sighing in disappointment, she had trudged back to the house. The barn was pretty from a distance, perhaps, but useless, none the less. Still, stepping onto the soft shag bathmat after a hot evening shower, she routinely dragged the palm of her hand across the fogged window glass to find the abandoned structure; a deeper shade of black against a midnight canvass. During the day, the barn stood docilely, supervising the tilting posts and crows who occasionally came to rest on them, cawing and hopping, unfolding and folding their wings in the cold morning sunlight. Over time, the structure took on the personality of an grandfatherly old man in her mind: gruff, perhaps, but always with a watchful eye and good intent. So she took to glancing at the barn whenever she happened to pass a window that faced the backyard. It was a companion, of sorts. A second construction that lent its company to the first. One house in the middle of the woods, after all, was a lonely thing. But a house and a barn? Coupled together, they could be no more lonely than a man and his wife.

Okay, that’s it for today. Imma get me some mo’ coffee now and start counting down the days ‘till I’m a free agent.
(15, but who’s keeping track?)

*Copyrighted, bizeatches, so back the hell off. Word.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

The Mind-Body Disconnect, Now With Better Dialogue!

Mind: Woah, that was some holiday, right? One for the record books...
Body: Shut up – I’m not talking to you.
Mind: What? What did I do?
Body: You know exactly what you did, and I hate to tell yah, but it was approximately 3,000 calories
Mind: Oh, you’re talking about dinner, right?
Body: What else would I be talking about? Why would you do that? What’s WRONG with you?
Mind: Hey, don’t blame me! They design an entire holiday around eating, and I’m not supposed to overindulge a little bit?
Body: I think “overindulge” is a gross understatement, don’t you?
Mind: Oh, it wasn’t that bad. Look on the bright side! I gave you fruits! And veggies!
Body: Hooray, I’ll be full of essential vitamins when I keel over from a heart attack!
Mind: Okay, okay, I get the point. Too much food. Got it. Next year, I’ll tone it down a bit.
Body: You said that last year.
Mind: But this time I promise. Hey, what was I supposed to do? The in-laws were coming. I had to put on a good show…
Body: That doesn’t mean you have to EAT the show…and while we’re at it, we need to talk about the alcohol.
Mind: What about it?
Body: Well, it was a bit much, wouldn’t you say?
Mind: Oh, I don’t think it was THAT bad. A few drinks maybe…
Body: A FEW drinks?!?
Mind: Okay, more than a few drinks. But it was Thanksgiving weekend…
Body: That’s no excuse. You know, Liver is never going to be the same. He’s having nightmares and flashbacks…
Mind: Oh gimme a break…
Body: We think he might have post-traumatic stress disorder…
Mind: It wasn’t THAT bad…
Body: He’s been barely able to function…
Mind: I’ll make it up to him.
Body: With Christmas around the corner? HAH! Don’t make me laugh.
Mind: I will, I swear.
Body: You know, the Kidneys aren’t in too good shape either, what with all that salt.
Mind: Jesus, let it go already.
Body: I’m just saying…there are consequences to these sorts of things.
Mind: Point taken. Next year, I’ll cut back on the eating and drinking. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go back to sleep…
Body: Oh no you don’t! We have to go to work.
Mind: Well you go on ahead and I’ll catch up. Say around 11:00 or so…
Body: Okay, but promise you’ll show up eventually? Last Tuesday you totally baled and I had to write half a newsletter without your help. It was pretty rough…I kept confusing “Pathology” with “Pathophysiology” and I might have gotten a dosing scheme wrong.
Mind: I’ll be there. Promise.
Body: Okay, see you at work
Mind: Yep. Just a few more hours…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Body: Idiot...

Monday, November 30, 2009

The Big Change (No, Not The One With The Hot-Flashes, The Other One)

So, I had a funny post ready to go today.
And then…well…some stuff happened. Some information went around that I wasn’t quite ready to share with the world, but hey, isn’t life just one giant game of Telephone, anyway?

I’ll extrapolate on this in a minute, but first, allow me to refer to this post. It was a seemingly benign and short-lived inspiration. But it was a pivotal post for me, and it marks the day when I decided to take my life by the proverbial horns and try my damndest to make it a happier one.

So today, despite my intention to delay the sharing of certain knowledge with HR until Friday, it would appear that I officially put in my three weeks’ notice.

In other words, I quit this bitch.


That’s right folks.
I quit my job.

Because, let’s face it: I wasn’t cut out for the corporate world.
I wasn’t cut out to while away my hours in a cubicle, making small talk with people I hate and attending pointless meetings and trying to be all “Rah, Rah, Go Team” when on the inside, all I wanted to do was stab someone.

And the business-casual dress code?
This girl was never meant to prance around in a pair of slacks and smart, sensible loafers.
End of story.

So I’m quitting my job to go freelance and try to make some sort of life for myself wherein I can work from home, make my own hours, and spend more time living and less time staring at the clock, which I have been doing since about the moment I graduate from college.

Of course, as with any big life-changing decision, there is potential for failure of epic proportions. And I’m not going to lie, this possibility scares the ever-loving crap out of me. And to make matters worse, not only am I gambling with MY life; now that I’m married, I’m gambling with OUR lives.
Somebody hand me a diaper, because I am about to seriously poop my pants.

But what’s that saying about how it’s better to try and fail than live with a bunch of regret? Or is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? Or beer before liquor, never been sicker? Hang in there?

I dunno.
Something you read on those posters that show tranquil scenes of waterfalls or a kitten hanging to a branch, with words underneath that are supposed to make me want to go out and achieve shit.

All I know is that, as of December 18th, I’ll no longer be employed.
And this could be either the best or the worst decision of my life.

…well, except for that whole “first marriage” thing, but you know what I’m talking about…

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

I Am A Credit To My Species

So, I punched myself in the face the other day.

I was trying to uncork a bottle of wine so my friend Jamie and I could drink the shit out of it.
It’s kinda our thing.
So I go to open it with the corkscrew and Jamie’s all, “you guys don’t have a fancier bottle opener than that?” And yeah, I guess that is a little weird considering how Brian is all but a certified wine expert and I’m all but a certified wine drinker (Wino is what they used to call them, I believe, but I do it much classier in that I always drink FROM THE GLASS and never FROM THE BOTTLE, plus, I try to wear jewelry when doing so).

So I say something about the art of opening a bottle of wine being a timeless tradition…yadda yadda yadda…and DESPITE the fact that I used to waitress in a fancy restaurant and had to open about a thousand bottles of wine a night, I promptly punch myself in the face trying to pry the last quarter-inch of the cork out of the top.

Like, put-a-bag-of-frozen-peas-on-your-face-and-tell-people-you-fell-down-the-stairs-so-he-doesn’t-beat-you-again punch in the face.

And then Brian walks in and is like, “Oh, that’s just great. Just over a month married and they’re already going to open an investigation to determine whether or not I beat you.”

And I was all, “Puh-leeze, like you would really be able to beat me. I’d drop you like a sack of potatoes, sucka,” at which point I referred to the Great Wedgie Incident of 2008, and the pair of ripped boxers that will forever go down in infamy.

But really, when you think about it, isn’t that some sort metaphor for life? Like, everybody is running around looking for the cause of things, like trying to hold the car manufacturers responsible for global warming, when really, it’s just people being idiots and punching themselves in the face, except in this case, “punching themselves in the face,” is a metaphor for “ruining the only inhabitable planet in the neighborhood.

That’s so ghetto

So there you have it. One woman punches herself in the face while trying to get drunk on a Sunday afternoon, and suddenly, we’ve all learned a valuable lesson about saving the environment.

You’re welcome.

In other news, I got this sweet award from Kim over at Perfectly Cursed Life, which is a great blog, but I have a hard time reading it at work, because sometimes the internet filter won’t let me on it because it says it’s porn, which is pretty ridiculous, but then again, so is the concept of trying to block me from surfing the web at work.

I’m supposed to give this award to other people, but to be honest, I’m feeling pretty lazy today so I think I’ll kind of half-ass it and give this award to everyone.
Yes, everyone.
If you’re reading this blog right now, and you have a blog of your own, then you, my dear friend, just won yourself an award.
But, seriously, I’m way grateful that there are so many bloggers out there. No joke. I’m truly thrilled that blogging has become this sort of cult phenomenon, because I’ve met so many cool people and had so many laughs and killed so many hours at work (oops, did I say that out loud? I meant LUNCH hours) reading your blogs, I can’t even tell you.
Thanks to each and every one of you for exercising your right to complain about your latest restaurant experince and recall the latest funny thing your kid did on a public forum. My life wouldn’t be the same without you guys.

And on that note, I hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday full of family and friends and enough turkey to sink the Titanic. This year, may your plates, glasses, and hearts be full.

Just be careful opening those bottles of wine...

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Today’s Rant Was Brought To You By The Letter “O,” For Outrage

There is a mentality out there which I find not only to be inaccurate, but also highly offensive.

I call it the “Any Idiot Can Write” mentality and you writers out there, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I’m referring to the mindset that writing is not a necessarily a talent, but an inevitable off-shoot from some other skill set. For example (and I am in no way, shape, or form referring to my job here), people who practice medicine should inherently be able to write about the practice of medicine, just as a mechanic should be able to write about car engines and a Wall Street executive should be able to write about the Dow Jones.

As a professional writer, I find this ideology to be not only ignorant but highly patronizing and insulting to those who have spent years honing their capacity to express themselves by way of the written word. Despite what these bandwagoneers would have you believe, writing is not some unavoidable conclusion drawn from the ability to speak. Believing that anyone who can speak can also write is akin to believing that anyone who can speak can also sing. If one can argue that singing requires vocalization above and beyond the extent of day-to-day communication, than allow me to debate that writing requires expression above and beyond the extent of day-to-day communication.

A recent UCLA study concluded that that up to 93 percent of communication effectiveness is determined by nonverbal cues. Essentially, what was found in the study is that the vast majority of our communicative efforts are focused on gestures, facial expressions, and body language; a measly 7 percent of what we are trying to communicate is accomplished through vocalization and the use of language.

If it is the case that spoken words are indeed only a small aspect of our overall ability to communicate effectively, is it any wonder, then, that communication through written words can be so easily misinterpreted? To communicate as successfully through writing as through speech, words (and to a lesser degree, punctuation) must be utilized to compensate for what is not being stated through nonverbal cues. This is achieved through vocabulary; through nuance; through flow and rhythm that, when crafted satisfactorily, can mimic the environment of dialogue in the flesh.

So why is it that writing is often approached as some base-level skill analogous with walking or eating? Why is it that writing is frequently viewed as the fall-back plan; the ability to be relied upon when all other skill sets fail? Since when has writing become the “worst-case scenario” strategy for a person who has no other talent with which to succeed in life?

And the art of writing? The ability to use words to not only communicate, but to depict images and conjure sensations? It is indeed a sad day when any given fool, without a lick of raw talent or creative experience, believes he or she can “write a novel” as if it were enough to plunk common adjectives down on a piece of paper and wait for the royalties to roll in. “How hard can it be?” they say, as if art were merely paint splashed on haphazardly on canvas.

It is with these individuals that I have a proverbial “bone to pick.” Not with those who strive for improvement or write out of sheer joy. But those who view writing - not as an art form or even a natural gift - but a right to greatness as intrinsic as the ability to breathe. Those people who read the words and fail to see the expertise that goes into their selection. Those people who truly believe that “any idiot can write.”

If you by chance find yourself inspired to take pen to ink (or finger to keyboard, as it were), by all means, do so. Never would I dream of discouraging people of any ability to find solace through writing, as this practice can be liberating, even therapeutic. And if you never feel the urge to write, I can openly accept that as well. Not everyone desires to write, just as not everyone desires to take brush to canvas.

Nor do I claim to be a great writer. My skills are mediocre, at best, but hard-earned none the less and loved fiercely for the comfort that they offer. But whether you are an aspiring beginner or the next great writer of our time, never, for an instant, take for granted the effort and ingenuity that is required to construct well-written piece. Always respect writing for the art that it is, for to do any less is indeed a disservice to all of the great writers who have moved mountains and molded generations to come from behind a humble desktop.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Brought To You By A Person Who Is Funnier Than Me

Okay, so I have a lot of work to do.

AND I have to spend my lunch break hitting up like it's my job and try to figure out how I'm going to pull off Thanksgiving, considering the fact that I'm about as domestic as Chuck Norris.

So I'm gonna half-ass it and post something that my mother forwarded to me (which is reason number 9389054624020649 why she is an awesome lady).

It's hysterical.
In fact, I'm mad jealous that I didn't write it myself (Can I say "mad"? Are the kids still using this term these days?).

Regardless, allow me to share in the laughter brought to you by this guy.

- - - --->
I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I'm going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, "Aren't those gourds straining your neck?" And I'm just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, "It's fall, fuckfaces. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not."

Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff'rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn't it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they're both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that's upsetting, but I'm not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

The next thing I'm going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I'm going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it's not summer, it's not winter, and it's not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it's fall, fuckers.

Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you're going to fucking love my house. Just look where you're walking or you'll get KO'd by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you're going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.
Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!

I couldn't have said it better myself.
Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!

Friday, November 20, 2009

Funny Is Overrated Anyway

You know how you kind of go through phases? Like, one month you’re all, “Wow, peanut butter and banana is the best combination EVER. What have I been DOING all of my life? Why haven’t I been partaking in this awesome snack on a semi-regular basis?”

And then the next month you’re all “Eeh. I’m over it. But you know what’s kick-ass? Hummus.”

That’s kind of what’s going on with me lately.

Like, last month I was a seriously funny mother fucker, if I do say so myself. Who could forget about the breakdancing post? Or the homage to Shark Week ? (which I just re-read and OMFG I think I was on crack that day. Feel free to click on that link, but don't expect to respect me in the morning)

But ya see what I mean? I was fucking riot.

And this month?
…yeah…not feeling so funny.
I mean, I’ve been trying to be funny, yanno? But I’ve only been moderately successful. This month, I’m the Billy Baldwin of comedic blogging.

And that’s just a shame.

So I figure, why force myself to be funny if I’m just not feeling it? What’s the worst that can happen? Lose a reader? Lose 20 readers?!?
Yeah, that could definitely happen.

But I’d rather write quality blogs of a different variety than write sub-quality blogs of the same nature.

Did that make sense to anyone? Because it barely made sense to me.

Bottom line is, when I start to feel funny again, I’ll start to write funny blogs again. Trust me, It always comes back. I’ll have a crazy weekend and a Dunkin’ Donuts crack-coffee and suddenly I’m fucking Richard Pryor except for the fact that I’m white and don’t really look good with a ‘stache.

(See? That was a little funny. It could be coming back already!)

But until then, I’ll be writing about whatever the hell I end up writing about. Probably all artsy-fartsy-like, on account of the fact that I’m rocking and rolling with this novel I'm trying to write. I’m ALL ABOUT the metaphors lately, so this is likely to get annoying.

My blogs could become a cheese grater raking across your skin.

(Jesus, should I just start apologizing now?)

But in the end, I guess I just need to be true to myself. Will I lose some readers? Probably. But better to lose them because I changed styles rather than because my failed attempts at comedy were just too painful to read.

I mean, being the Billy Baldwin of comedic blogging is one thing, but to be reduced to the Kathy Griffin of comedic blogging?

Well, then I’d just have to shoot myself.

Happy Friday, folks!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Milo Times

I love my husband.

And this isn’t even going to be followed by a BUT…

I just really, really love that dude.

I woke up this morning ready to punch babies. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it was a gray, drizzly morning, or maybe it’s because I had to face yet another day of soul-sucking desk work, or maybe it’s because Milo was stretched out across the bed snoring and I was pushed to the edge of the mattress with a square of blanket that barely covered my shoulder and two paws in my back.

That dog can take up more space than you would believe

So after I hit snooze for the eleventh time and shoved Milo off of me (much to his protest) and sit up and realized that I don’t have a thing to wear to work today, I'm already fixing to become an alcoholic. I was just about ready to crawl back in bed, when I realized that Milo had taken the brief opportunity to curl up on the warm spot I left when I sat up. Shit outta luck.

So yeah.
Cold dreary morning + having to go to work + dog paws crushing spine = irrepressible desire to punch myself in the face repeatedly until I knock myself out.

But instead, I got dressed in a kind of ugly sweater (with a hole in the armpit) and a pair of pants that kind of don’t fit as great as they used to since I got a life and stopped going to the gym 6 days a week.

So for those of you who are just joining us, here’s this morning’s equation:

Cold dreary morning + having to go to work + dog paws crushing spine = irrepressible desire to punch myself in the face repeatedly until I knock myself out.

Cold dreary morning + having to go to work + dog paws crushing spine +ugly top + pants that are a bit too tight = X

Now, I’m no mathematician (clearly), but I’m assuming that X probably equals “would rather dip myself in honey and play volleyball with a bees’ nest than continue forward with this day

So I, in my ugly, holey sweater and pants that dig into my tummy, drag Milo and Jericho out of the bedroom so they can go out and use the bathroom.

What I think is going to happen: Milo and Jericho walk onto the lawn, poop and pee, and come skipping back into the house.

What actually happens: Milo takes off like a bat out of hell trying to chase squirrels while Jericho pees on my euonymous bush and takes a dump in the middle of the driveway. Milo attacks Jericho mid-dump and they start running around like crazy on my driveway, getting dangerously close to the busy road in front of my house. I scream at them both and start chasing them down until they both make a mad dash for the front door. I finally catch up with them to let them in. I open the door and Jericho goes in, but Milo runs off with that “have to poop” face. 5 minutes later he’s still pushing out the latest toy that he’s ingested and I’m going be officially late for work.


Once everybody is inside and accounted for (except for that one toy, which is lying in a pile of shit in the yard), I stomp to the bathroom to finish getting ready for work.

*Stomp Stomp Stomp (mutter grrrrr “fucking dogs” grumble)

And then…
There is a card.
Resting against the mirror, with my name on the front of it.

And suddenly, a sunbeam shoots through the clouds…

My honey left me a card this morning.
For NO REASON WHATSOEVER other than to remind me that he loves me.


And the best part? Was what he wrote on the inside…

Something along the lines of "I love you and I’m so happy to be married to you…blah blah blah." But the best line was this:

I will always be there for you through the good time and the bad times. Also, the Milo times.

Did ya catch that last part?

…the Milo times


Dude, I have the best freaking husband in the world…
Not to mention a dog who has redefined the definition of a bad time.

So I guess you could say that I was having a "Milo time" this morning. Until I read that card.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love my husband.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Reasons Why I Should Not Be Allowed To Read Chuck Palahniuk

So I’m reading Fight Club.
And it’s getting me a little wild.

I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that as an adolescent, I lived in constant terror of getting into a fight (and we all know that teenage girlfights are the worst, right Travis?). Nevermind that I was a quiet, goofy-looking quasi nerd who sang in choir and took AP Biology and never bothered anybody. For some reason, I was convinced that some girl was going to hear from some other girl about me hitting on her boyfriend and go all Maury on my ass. Like, with shrieking and hair pulling and nail scratching and all that jazz.

Thing is, now that I’m an adult, I kind of wish it would have happened. Because once you turn 18, there are consequences and repercussions to those types of things.
Like jail, instead of detention.
And fines, instead of being marched down the street to the offender’s house to apologize.

I kind of feel like I had my chance and I blew it. Nowadays, I’d willingly get into a fight with the first woman who swerved her SUV into my lane, if it weren’t for all those pesky legal ramifications.

At the next light I'd be all, "Yo, whatchu do that for bitch"
And she'd be all, "I'm sorry, what?"
And I'd be all, "Why you be up in my lane, ho?"
And she'd be all, "I don't know what you're talking about."
And I'd be all, "Get out the car, skank, cause I'm gonna kick yo' ass"
And she'd be all, "I'm calling the police."

And maybe I'd get in a good right hook, which would be totally sweet, but at the end of the day we all know that I'd be sitting in a jail cell wondering how I was going to let work know that I wouldn't be in tomorrow.

Hi [manager]? This is Lily. I wanted to call to tell you that I'm not going to be in today. It's nothing serious - I just have some things that need to take care of. Oh, and if the police show up and start asking questions, just tell them that I have an identical twin. I'll explain later. Thanks!

Still, you know what?
If I ever was in a fight? I’d win, hands down.

Because I am one strong mother-effer.
Don’t let my size fool you. I may be five-foot-five, 130 pounds (okay, 135, but in my defense, I’ve been too busy to work out lately), but I’m jacked.
And resourceful.
And I’ve been known to fight dirty. (never doubt – I WILL punch you in your babymaker. Just ask my sister).

So here I am, itching for a fight and absolutely loathing my corporate job, and what do I do? I go and read Fight Club.

Like an ass.

And you think I was disgruntled and dissatisfied before?!?
Well let me tell you.
I am not…I repeat….I am NOT my fucking khakis.

*insert tribal yell here*

I guess I get like this once in a while.
All “anti-establishment” and “rebel without a cause” and “space monkey” now and again.
It might have something to do with my hormones. Or the fact that I was married to a crazy conspiracy theorist. Or the fact that I really do hate khakis (they make my butt look big).

But whatever the reason, I’m daydreaming about blowing up hummers and getting into fistfights and peeing in rich peoples’ soup and generally wreaking havoc on society.

[sidenote: I’m also daydreaming about doing naughty things to Brad Pitt in his Tyler Durden days, before he got all puffy and grew that ridiculous beard. YUM]

So what do I do now with all this pent-up angst? Shall I super-glue a quarter to the floor? Tamper with the soap dispenser in the ladies’ room? Take a bite out of someone’s lunch?

As a responsible, working adult, my options are severely limited. But let it be known that given the right circumstances, I would totally..TOTALLY... be down for some serious mayhem.

Anybody wanna fight?

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Bonus Tuesday Night Post: I'm Drunk!

There are some nights when a fastidiously cooked meal by one's dear husband requires a glass or wine.
Or two.
Or three (give or take).

And here we are.
It's a Tuesday night and I'm three (give or take) glasses deep and I'm thinking, "Why not write a fucking blog?" Because, yanno, I'm on the computer ALL DAY LONG, so the natural thing would be for me to log in on my time off and write.

You guys...I think I might have a problem.

Hello, my name is Lily and I'm addicted to staring at computer screens.

Or maybe I just like to blog, and hell-ooo, I think blogging is a preferable way to spend one's time as compared to, say, playing Rollercoaster Tycoon.

Because I definitely did not just spend the last two hours playing Rollercoaster Tycoon.

Moving on...

Some shit went down tonight. Between certain individuals and me, but found out through a third party.
High-school style.
And I now have a knot in my stomach and am worrying about this ridiculous drama.
High-school style.

If I was in highschool right now, I'd throw myself on my bed and call my best friend and eat a pint of ice cream and write sad, moody poetry.
But I'm not in highschool, my bed is covered with laundry that needs folding, my best friend is sleeping on account that she has to work tomorrow, ice cream will make me fat, and poetry ain't my gig no mo'.

So I blog.
And drink wine.
And try to be exostential and shit, because I'm an adult.

This drama will likely be last weeks' news soon enough.
But for tonight, I'm all worked up.
And drunk.
Let's not forget about that. (it's the best part)

Oh, you guys...
I've been having a rough go of things.
I know it's kind of hard to tell, what with the retarded posts and goofiness and general merriment that my blog is known for. But it's true.
I've been finding myself in unfamiliar territory in several very large aspects of my life.

So I'm kind of wobbly, like a table with three legs, or a hooker with a broken stiletto (beause that image is not only way funnier, it's also more appropriate).

Sometimes I wish I could just pour my heart and soul out on this blog. To let loose and stop trying to be so god-damn entertaining and just be ME, yanno?

But this thing - this blog - has morphed into something else. And as grateful I am for it, sometimes it's not quite enough.

But it's all I have right now, so it'll have to do.

I'll continue with the song and dance because honestly, 9 times out of 10, it makes me feel better. But let it be said for the record that despite what I'd have you believe, there is more of me behind the curtain, and some seriously heavy shit weighing me down at times.

And tonight?
It's definitely dragging me down a bit.

Okay, I'm flagged. Three glasses (give or take) and five paragraphs later, I think I've shared enough for one evening.

Thanks for listening.
It means more to me than you'll ever know...

Awards, And A Shitty Novel Excerpt

You know what?
You guys fucking rock.

Once again, I’ve been awarded with a couple of very fine awards, and because of this, I’m happier than a pig in shit (or milo, unsupervised, with no muzzle on).

I got this beaut from Adrienzgirl over at Think Tank Momma.

And really, I couldn’t think of a more accurate award. I AM bad-ass. And how do I know this? Because I was sitting in the tub on Sunday night and I remember thinking to myself, “It takes a special kind of woman to read the SAS Survival Guide while taking a bubble bath.”

I’m not even making this up.

So thanks to Adrienzgirl for this bad-ass award. From one bad-ass to another, I salute you (in my pants).

I was also the recipient of this lovely little gem from Travis over at I Like To Fish.

Am I a scribbler?
Perhaps, before everything went all techno and we used to use things like pencils and paper. Jesus, you guys, remember pencils? Hand-writing essays? Having to trek to the god-damn library on a Tuesday night to research a report because there was no such thing as the internet?!?!
Aaahh, those were the days. But you know what? Scribbler or not, I’ll take it, ‘cause mamma likes her awards.

And as a thanks for receiving these two wonderful awards, I’m going to really put myself out on a limb for you guys.

Like, seriously out of my comfort zone.

Although I’m not officially participating in NaNoWriMo, (underachiever, anyone?) I fancy myself a writer with loftier aims than educating physicians on proper ways to treat hospital-associated diarrhea

(again, I’m not making this up, people. This is my life)

So I’ve been ever so slowly working on a novel, which I’m finding that A) I’m not suited for, because my writing style changes drastically from day to day, and it reads like the author has multiple personality syndrome, and B) I’m my own worst critic, because I’ve probably scrapped three times what I’ve kept.


Below is one short excerpt from my book. Go ahead and read it, but I warn you, I’m sensitive as shit about it, so if you try to make a joke about it, I’ll probably cry.
And then hunt you down.
You know that saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
Yeah, that kind of applies here.
Constrictive criticism?
Telling me that a third grader can write better than me?
Not okay (and probably hazardous to your health).
Are we all clear on the rules?
Here goes…

When she steps over the doorframe, the air hits her face like a cold, wet blanket. It seeps past her collar and wraps itself around her legs and slings itself under her nose so that each breath is icy and smothering. It makes her eyes water and her head ring and she instantly regrets the decision to leave the reassurance of her bedroom.

It has become winter overnight. Or, what seems like overnight in the timeless chasm of her grief. When she buried her husband, it had been a brilliant, dazzling autumn day, much as it had been on the day he collapsed. The sky had been a bare, raw shade of indigo, and the leaves, freshly liberated from their limbed captors, scurried on the pavement ahead of crisp breezes. The weather had tormented her, joyous and playful when she was suffering so wretchedly. She was indignant; outraged at the lack of empathy displayed by nature. The affront seemed intentional, and she seethed with insult. Now, it is as if the entire earth has been stripped of its life by the rain that taps persistently on the windows and renders the ground spongy under foot. Her porch is strewn with dead leaves, most from the maple that guards the front walk, but others—aspen, birch, oak—that were at one point ensnared by the rough wood while riding the wind. They lend the impression of a porch ill used and long forgotten, of silence beyond the windows, and of mourning deep within.

The tandem wooden rocking chairs balance as they always did, about three feet apart, and tilted slightly towards each other, like lovers indulging in a scandalous secret, afraid that others might hear of their desires and indiscretions. They had sat in these chairs often on gentle summer nights, rocking mechanically, sometimes full of conversation, other times barely speaking. These chairs have born witness to their most fanatical dreams and ridiculous banter, their loving, casual caresses and their heated lively debates, ever pitching, forward and back, warming placidly to their rear ends and shoulder blades.

Sitting in these chairs, one is afforded a view the front yard. Beyond the porch rail, an expanse of tentative, spotty lawn descends gradually to the little-used street, potholed and all but forgotten by the township, save for thrice-weekly deliveries from the mailman. Their drive is little more than two parallel ditches that tend to puddle in low spots and threaten to steal the traction of tires during rainy spells. The truck sits impassively, barely used since that day, serenely enduring the rain that beats incessantly on its pocked and dented frame. Dark slate hints at a walking path towards the front porch. It is losing a battle against the roots of the maple, and is thrust at awkward angles where the root system is expanding to meet the nutritional demands of a flourishing tree. The steps of the porch are worn and sag a little more each year. One is held aloft on a brick; a yet unfinished project.

It is in one of those battered rocking chairs that she now lowers herself, carefully guarded, as if the chair might bow under her weight. Without thinking, she begins to rock. The chill is invasive and she wraps her arms around herself, rubs her shoulders half-heartedly, and wishes she had brought out a blanket. A brown leaf scratches across the boards in front of her foot, and instinctively she reaches out a toe and crushes it against the wood grain, the skeleton crunching satisfyingly against the planks.

She tries to remember the last time they had sat in these chairs together. Her brain is slow to ignite, but she finally unearths a time, earlier in the season, when the air was still soft and kind, where they had shared a glass—a bottle, in the end—of cheap wine and talked about the varied, inconsequential frustrations of his job. He was having a hard time keeping his men to task; wondered if others in his field dealt with the same level of incompetence that he endured day in and day out. He had been bristled and agitated when he first sat, rocking hard and bitter until the first glass blunted his sharpest edges. By the time they stumbled to bed, he was pliable as a kitten. She had listened, sympathized, even offered a quick suggestion or two as he hashed through the day’s minutia. That night, like so many nights, she was his confidant. She was his compass. And in return, once his blood had slowed and his speech had thickened, he courted her. He cooed out praises and spoke hotly of past moments of pleasure. His touches became firm and insistent, and, heads heavy with alcohol, they retired to the bedroom to satisfy the urges that had crept up between them.

And there she sits still. The same chair that she had occupied on that night of drunk romance and hasty pleasure.
And still she rocks.
And still she breathes.
But the chair beside her sits immobile and empty.

There she is.
Copyrighted and shit, although the concept of someone stealing this passage is utterly ridiculous.
(See how I’m fishing for a compliment here?)
So now that that’s over and done with (and I've just lost half my readers because they no longer respect me as a writer or even as a person), let me pass on these bad boys.

I pass along the scribbler award to the following people for updating every single mother fucking day, and we all know that shit is hard work.

My Masonic Apron
How? Why? And Other Abstract Questions
The Daisy Chronicles

And I give the bad-ass bog award to the following people for being…well…bad-ass.

Island of Reality
Brick City Love
Stacie's Madness

[Sidenote: I had a dream that I showed up at Stacie's house because I happened to know her address. So I introduced myself and we ended up hitting it off. It was a weird dream. Stacie, if you're reading this, I apologize for stalking you in my dreams, although you seemed very nice and we probably could be friends if I wasn't so busy dream-stalking you.]

Okay, I hope you all enjoy your awards.That’s it for today. Have a good one!

Monday, November 16, 2009

The Devil Ain't No (Facebook) Friend Of Mine

Does anybody else think that Bridal Showers are the less preferable alternative to a fiery eternity in the depths of hell? Because I swear to god, when I sat through a bridal shower this weekend, I totally would have sold my soul to Satan himself if I could have jus t gotten up and walked out of that thing.

And if I could have punched the Bride-to-Be in the face on the way out? Not only would I have sold my soul to the Devil, I would have gift-wrapped that beeyatch in a basket with some overly-priced chocolates and a smoked salmon.

But I guess that’s another story for another day, involving an honest, hard-working man and a woman who is, literally, ruining his life (but maybe I’ve said too much)

In fact, I distinctly remember a point during the shower when I squeezed my eyes shut and conjured up Beelzebub and said, “Now’s your chance, big boy. Take it or leave it.”
And then I felt this draft of air behind my right shoulder and I was SO CONVINCED that he had taken me up on the offer.

But instead of the Devil, it was the creepy maid of honor. She caught me with my legs crossed, and according to the game, that means she gets to “steal” my gift.

Damn, I really could have used that crappy hand lotion.

You see, for those of you who are not aware, at a Bridal Shower you are forced to play games.

Horribly stupid games like, “if you get caught with your arms or legs crossed, the person who catches you gets your gift.”

At this particular shower, this game was followed by “guess how much toilet paper it takes to wrap around the bride.” Which was trailed by “I’m going to call out an item, and the first person who digs this item out from their purse and gets it to me wins.”

Me? I didn’t play the games.

I sat in the back and drank mimosas and attempted to make a pact with the Devil to trade my soul for freedom and possibly an opportunity to physically assault on the guest of honor.

And when they handed me a card to write advice for the Bride-to-be, it was all I could do not to write, “Don’t throw any more stupid bridal showers, or I will cut you, bitch.”

Of course I didn’t. I wrote something along the lines of “treat your husband how you want to be treated” in a thickly veiled attempt to accuse her of taking advantage of him.

Because if have to play nice, I should at least be able to throw in some coded messages, right?

Thankfully, I had come with the baby.
Not my baby – the baby of my friend, who thankfully was invited too or I might have stabbed myself in the eye with a salad fork.
And when the baby needs a nap, you HAVE to leave, right?
And if they’re my ride, then I have to leave too.

What a shame

So I managed to leave just as she was settling in to open the 43095433492094387 gifts that she had received for doing nothing other than forcing a good man to support her fat, lazy ass for the rest of her life.

Wow, congrats on being a piece of shit. Here’s a toaster.

So that was my Saturday.
Being surrounded by adult women playing childish games and oohing and aahing over the crappy Bride and not once – not ONCE – did the Devil show up to bail me out.

Wow, I knew he was mean and all, but that’s just CRUEL man.

Dear Satan,
Good job dropping the ball on that one.
Don’t bother leaving me a Facebook message – I already deleted you as a friend. And I blocked you phone number too.
So the next time you need help harvesting your tomatoes on Farmville, find someone else to do it.

Yeah, that’ll show him.

How you like THEM (rotten Farmville) apples?!?