It's A Good Thing

Sometime last night, between hot-gluing dried hydrangea blossoms to raffia ribbon and trying to decide between the waved and the scalloped crinkle-cut scissors, I realized I was turning into Martha Stewart.

Except with more alcohol and less elasticized mom-jeans.

I’ve always been an artsy-craftsy type but usually, way more emphasis is laid on the “artsy” side as opposed to the “craftsy” side.

As in, okay, I’ve been caught decoupageing before, but in my defense, I was very drunk and anyway, isn’t that what college is for? Experimenting?!?

But I give you my word that the only time I ever went down the scrapbooking aisle was when I got lost one day while looking for paint.
Acrylic paint, bitches.
Black.
Like my soul.
To paint bad-ass things.
(Because CLEARLY I am way too hardcore to scrapbook.)

So there I was last night, using crinkle scissors and raffia and a hole-puncher in the shape of a teeny, tiny leaf, and I was completely torn.

Half of me was happy as a pig in shit, and half of me wanted to punch myself in the face for being as happy as a pig in shit.

It was like, instead of having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, I had Martha Stewart standing on my right and Chuck Norris wrecking shop on my left (because Chuck Norris doesn’t stand on the floor; he bends the floor to his will).

Martha: You know, a little gold sparkle spray paint could really make those hydrangea blossoms stand out.
Chuck: This is ridiculous. You need to go round-house kick something. Immediately.
Martha: And these doilies here? You could fold them into paper birds and hand-write little notes on each of them to give to your guests as a way of saying thanks.
Chuck: I once killed a man with a doily. I can show you how.
Martha: And what doesn’t say “fall wedding” like hand-woven wreaths made from wheat? You could even incorporate indigenous wildflowers to add some color and a pleasant scent. Let’s go research which flowers symbolized fertility to the Native American tribes that were known to inhabit this area!
Chuck: You know what really says “fall wedding?” Decapitated human heads on stakes by your front door. Let’s go get some.

Suffice to say, I was torn.
(And a little freaked out)

Is it wrong that I was enjoying making pretty things?
Is it wrong that I wanted to manipulate delicate materials with my hands to create something both beautiful and personal?

Is it wrong that at the same time, I was drinking a beer and screaming obsenities at my dogs for repeatedly humping each other?

You call it contradictory; I call it well-rounded.

My therapist?
He calls it Dissociative Identity Disorder

Featured Follower

Okay folks.
Today, we’re going to do something a little different.

Since I’ve been all, “wedding, wedding, wedding” and “whine, bitch, complain” and “me, me, me” as of late, (even though really, isn't that what blogs are for?) I thought it’d be cool to send a little love back to the folks who support my daily bitch/whine/me-fest.

As a result, this is the first of a series of posts, called “Featured Followers,” in which I fluff my loyal readers’ egos and tempt anonymous readers to publicly follow my blog with offerings of fame, fortune, and sexual favors.

Because anybody can love their followers, but only I *love* my followers (if you get my drift).

Confused? Turned on? A little of both?
Excellent.

Anyhoodle, these followers are picked kind of at random, but also based on A) whether or not they have a blog (not to hate on those of you who don’t, but it’s hard to feature somebody based on their picture alone), 2) whether or not they update fairly regularly with quality blog posts, and III) whether or not I’d do them.

Just kidding about that last one.
Sort of

So, today’s Featured Follower is Erin over at Dharma Drama.

Why I want to do sexy times with her blog:
Erin rocks. I mean, first off, how many Buddhists do you encounter in your day-to-day life? And of those, how many of them are pretty and smart, yet self deprecating almost to a fault? Erin is a self-proclaimed Buddhist, trying steadily to incorporate the philosophies of Buddhism into a world where, let’s face it, material possessions are pretty much da BOMB (yes, I said “da bomb.” Now excuse me while I put on my Hammer pants and watch some Arsenio Hall.) One day she’s comedian. The next day she’s a philosopher. The next day she’s just a girl, trying to make things work with a boy, all the while taking a pint of Ben and Jerrys to the head. And the whole time, you’re reading the post and thinking to yourself, “Now THERE is a girl I’d like to get to know better.”
Because you can just tell that there’s a whole lot of awesome going on underneath the surface, and you can’t wait to hear what she says next.
In short, I kind of have a girl-crush on her.
Interpret that as you will…

One of her most memorable posts:
On July 21, she came out with this gem.
And. Blew. My. Mind.
Not so much in a “path to self-enlightment” way, but more in a “Nessie exists” kind of way.
This bizarre-yet-logical kind of thinking? Is right up my alley.
If you’re too lazy to click the post (and seriously, you’re going to be THAT lazy?), she pretty much makes a convincing argument why aquatic dinosaurs could and probably are still living in the ocean (which, by the way, we know less about than the surface of the Moon. How crazy is THAT shit?). But that’s all I’m going to say, because if you really ARE too lazy to click on the link, then you clearly don’t deserve to receive the knowledge that she’s dropping on you in that post.
All I WILL say is that you probably shouldn’t ever go in the ocean again. But then again, your ass is probably too lazy to even get in the ocean to begin with. You probably just sit on the beach like a lump and stare at the water, listening to your unreasonably loud radio, and chain-smoking upwind from that 2-year old.

For shame.

Anyway, there you have it.
Erin over at Dharma Drama is first-class all the way. Stop by her blog and earn some good karma. You might even been enlightened in the process.

Who will be my next Featured Follower? Stay tuned to find out.

And if you want to be in the running, you’d better hit that “follow” button right quick, and it probably couldn’t hurt to leave me a comment or two.

Because I am very, VERY susceptible to flattery.

Let's Talk About How Much I'm About to Suck

Boy, that blog title could go in a couple of different directions, couldn't it?
Heh.

Well, guys, we didn’t blow the bees up this weekend, although we DID pour about 5 gallons of gasoline in down the hole last night and I swear to god, if they’re still alive after getting a petroleum-based monsoon I will fucking MOVE TO DELAWARE because they are obviously zombie bees bent on destroying the earth as we know it. Yes, just like my zombie Lymes Disease. My world is filled with zombies - isn't yours?


So instead of pyrotechnics, this weekend was full of backbreaking manual labor, kind of like a Soviet gulag but with more snack breaks (and bees, obviously). But the whole “moving tons of rock using only manpower and a waning desire to live?” Oh yeah, we definitely had that going on.

It was concentration camp-tastic.

To update you newbies (of which there are several, and HELLO! Welcome to my nightmare!), we’ve been working on the backyard every weekend for the past two months now in preparation for the impending “wedding” (and I use quotation marks because that is exactly what the “wedding” has become to me. A thing. Not a special day, or a reason for celebration; a thing that all other things must be finished before. In case you’re wondering? Yes it sucks, and yes, I’m probably going to lose my shit somewhere in the next 12 days. Prepare yourselves; it won’t be pretty. WOW this is a long statement to be housed in parentheses. Should I have made it into its own paragraph? I dunno. Is it lunchtime yet? What was I talking about?).

So this weekend was the culmination of 2 months worth of digging and raking and weeding and replanting and moving rocks from Pile A to Pile B. All the while running from zombie ground bees with an inflated sense of entitlement and indistinct property borders. Oh, and spending money.

Can’t forget that part.

On Saturday, we dug, hauled, and repositioned 1.5 tons of 3/8-inch river rock and 5 yards of root mulch (which doesn’t seem like a lot, until you realize that 5 yards of mulch takes up the same space as a California king bed). And yes, the yard looks spectacular, but mostly? I’m just glad that the big projects are finished, and I can now start working on the 39547205429456103 other little projects that need to be finished by next Saturday.

[Begin freak-out mode in 3…2…1…]

So I’m going to be straight with you guys, because we have nothing if not an honest relationship, right? Right.
The posts this week and next are kind of going to suck.
And by kind of, I mean without a fucking doubt.
Yep
Big time suckage.
Suckus Maximus.

Because at this point it’s really all I can do to show up at work every day while knowing that I have more important things to do, like make name-tags for wine glasses and clean the bathroom. My mind is elsewhere. It’s everywhere, and it’s nowhere, and it’s definitely in no condition to suck the humor out of life and regurgitate it back onto this blog.

But don’t worry – if we DO end up blowing up the zombie bees (and perhaps the entire backyard)?
I’ll post pics.
Trust.

Missing: One Sense of Humor, And a Healthy Respect for Fire

You guys, I have some bad news.
I think I lost my funny.

But man, it was a great week, right? Like that time I got all cracked out on Dunkin Donuts coffee and started talking about breakdancing on my kitchen floor. And that other time when I had an imaginary conversation with Milo? Brilliant.
What? That was yesterday?
Whatever. Don’t interrupt me.

I’m not quite sure when exactly I lost my funny. It might have been last night, when Brian announced that the bees – the ones who have built a ground nest right in the goddamn center of where I’m trying to have my wedding and have been getting increasingly aggressive and may or may not have swarmed Brian the other night when he was working in the yard (it’s hard to get answers out of him; he’s such a bad-ass, macho DUDE when it comes to admitting that he got assaulted by insects). Anyway, last night he tells me all nonchalantly that he’s planning on blowing them up.

I’m not even kidding.

And I know he’s a firefighter in all, which in theory makes the fact that he’s planning on saturating the ground with gasoline, lighting a match, and running like hell a teeny, tiny bit safer, but I’m starting to learn that firefighters are actually kind of obsessed with fire in a not so safe, “hey, lets get liquored up and burn things” kind of way, and on top of that? A little cocky when it comes to an accurate assessment of their own personal flammability, which actually makes it less safe in the end and their chances of getting burned are actually increased by, like 34% or something.

[sidenote: he tried to brand me once over the summer. “What am I, a piece of meat?” I said to him. “NOW you’re finally getting it,” he said. Our relationship is totally magical.]

So, yeah, I’m concerned.

“Can you at least do it when Chris is over tomorrow?” I ask.
Because Chris is the guy who is good at everything construction/yard/ home improvement-related and is really, really practical to boot, and even talked Brian out of getting up on the roof that one time.

“No, I have to do it at night, when they’re all in the nest.” He said.

Then,
“Hey, wanna hold the flashlight for me while I do this”

And yeah, I’m not going to lie. Being an accessory to insecticide by fire and brimstone kind of floats my boat, especially when these insects are likely to sting me on the day when I’m supposed to look my prettiest and – importantly – NOT start cursing like a sailor, flailing my arms and probably rip out my veil while swatting away their kamikaze strikes.
(Call me old fashioned, but I’ve always imagined a wedding that didn’t include anaphylactic shock.)

Also, really, who DOESN’T like to blow things up?

But then my mind started playing back all the times that Brian has hurt himself since I’ve known him.

And when I was remembering the 12th or 13th incident in which he almost very nearly died, I had to admit that despite my desire to kill the bees and despite my love of all things explosive, I sudden realized that there was no way in hell that I was going to let him play with gasoline and matches.
No way.
Not on my watch.

So we went back inside and he watched me paint a couple of kitchen cabinet doors that he had removed and sanded about 2 years ago in an admirable effort to re-do his kitchen and then kind of…stopped? And since I’ve lived in that house, three cabinets have been doorless, which is all fine and good, but you can’t really host a wedding at your house with missing cabinet doors, now can you.

I dunno.
It must be a men are from Mars, women are from Venus thing, except replace “Venus” with “a world in which common sense and rationality prevail.”
Or something like that.

How Things Went Down:

Milo: Hello
Me: Hi
Milo: How was your run? It appears that you encountered another dog. Smells like a lab mix.
Me: I dunno. Maybe. Whatcha been up to.
Milo: Oh, nothing much. As you can see, I brought your T-shirt into the living room. I figured you might need it later.
Me: Hey, thanks. You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You know, bringing my clothes out of the bedroom and leaving them all around the house…
Milo: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah. The thing is, it’s not so much helpful as it is really annoying.
Milo: Well that sweatshirt over there? That was totally Jericho.
Me: I highly doubt that.
Milo: Or maybe it was me; I can’t remember.
Me: Uh-huh.
Milo: Okay, I’ll take that into consideration.
Me: I’d appreciate it. So, what else is new?
Milo: Oh, nothing much, really. It’s hard to have a lot to talk about when you’re locked in a crate for 8 hours a day.
Me: Well, maybe if you’d stop eating everything in sight, I could leave you out more often.
Milo: Well, maybe if you’d play with me more, I wouldn’t get so goddamn bored and be forced to find ways to amuse yourself.
Me: Jericho does just fine out by himself all day. He just sleeps. It’s not a bad idea.
Milo: Jericho is clearly depressed.
Me: If he is, it’s only because you give him such a hard time.
Milo: I do not!
Me: I saw you shove him out of the way when he was eating last night. You just pushed right in front of him and started chowing down on his food.
Milo: He was done eating!
Me: No he wasn’t.
Milo: Okay, whatever. Geeze. Wanna play?
Me: No, I think I’m going to go take a shower, but thanks anyway.
Milo: Uuuh, you sure? C’mon, let’s throw the ball. You don't even have to stand up!
Me: Nah, thanks, I really need to shower. Maybe Jericho will play with you?
Milo: Nah, he’s no fun. All he does is sleep, what with his crippling depression and all. Hey, how ‘bout a game of tug instead?
Me: No, seriously, I’m going to hop in the shower.
Milo: Wait! Don’t go. Uhhh. I think I have to go to the bathroom.
Me: You just went out 30 minutes ago. You’re fine. Go bug Jericho.
Milo: But I’m out of food!
Me: What the hell, Milo! Leave me alone.
Milo: Don’t go back there!
Me: What? Why?!? What’s your problem?
Milo: It’s just that…I think there’s a burglar in the bedroom. You shouldn’t go in there. Let’s go for a walk instead.
Me: There is no burglar in the bedroom. What’s wrong with you?
Milo: Just…don’t go back there. Please?
Me: You’re insane.

[walks to bedroom]

Me: See? There’s no burla…WHAT THE HELL!?!?!
Milo: What?
Me: MY BRA!
Milo: What bra?
Me: THIS BRA!!! THE ONE THAT’S ALL CHEWED UP!!!
Milo: Oh, wow. Weird. I wonder how that happened.
Me: MILO!!!!! WHY DID YOU EAT MY BRA?!?!?!?!??!?!?
Milo: I didn’t. Ask Jericho.
Me: DON’T GIVE ME THAT BULLSHIT. WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!?
Milo: I didn’t do anything! Maybe the burglar did it.
Me: THERE IS NO BURGLAR, MILO! YOU ATE MY BRA!!!
Milo: Okay, okay, I ate your bra. Are you happy now?
Me: NO! I AM MOST DEFINITELY NOT HAPPY. WHY DID YOU DO THIS?!?!?
Milo: I dunno. It was there. You know, if you played with me more often, things like this probably wouldn’t happen.
Me: DON’T GIVE ME THAT SHIT. YOU ATE MY BRA!
Milo: I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got in to me. It’ll never happen again.
Me: You said that LAST time!!!!
Milo: I did? Huh. Don’t remember it…
Me: YOU DID, ASSHOLE
Milo: Well, this time, I PROMISE I won’t eat another bra.
Me: I think you should leave.
Milo: Okay, I’ll just grab this sock and get going…
Me: DROP THE SOCK
Milo: Okay, okay, sheesh. Maybe you should lighten up a little. Oh, and by the way, somebody had an accident in the living room. I think it was the cat.
Me: Oh, for the love of…

/scene.

Lily Presents A Second Moment of Heightened Frustration, and a P. Swayze Reference

This week is ALL about the moments that make me want to throw things, in which I mimic the motion of flipping over a table wtih my two hands, while looking outraged.[1]

So, my phone died on Monday. Granted, I’ve had that phone for about 3 years now but seriously, since when is 3 years considered to be a long lifespan for any sort of technology? Remember VCRs? Those bitches lasted for decades. I’m willing to bet that if you went to your local dump (and really, who doesn’t enjoy a good visit their local dump?), found a VCR, and plugged it in, that shit would work.
Guaranteed.[2]

With my phone having gone the way of The Swayze (may he rest in peace, I would have carried his watermellon anywhere, if you know what I mean), it was time to visit the Verizon store, aka, Satan’s Doorway to Hell be added to Brian’s plan for the low, low price of $92374355930235904576593504854786908.99, minus the $50.00 rebate.

So we walk in. We check in on the screen (never a good sign), and are told to wait until our name is called.
While we wait, we peruse the phones.

Brian: How about this phone?
Me: It’s nice. Sure. Let’s get that one.
Brian: Don’t you want to look at any of the others?
Me: Does this one call and text people?
Brian: Yeah, but…
Me: Then it’s fine. Why the fuck haven’t they called your name yet?

I’m a joy to shop with, let me tell you.

FINALLY, they call us up. We go to the counter, explain why we’re there,[3] all the while the scumbag Verizon salesperson is nodding eagerly.[4]

“So, what kind of phone can I get with the plan?”
“Well, you can get the blah…blah..blah or the blah…blah..etc”

Whatever.

He mentions the EnV Touch, and I LOVE to touch things (get your head out of the gutter), so…perfect.

And then he rings us up and says the price and I’m all, “woah, woah, WOAH there, cowboy, why is it so expensive?!?!?”

And he says, “Well, you chose the EnV Touch, which is an extra $50.00”
“You didn’t TELL ME that it was an extra $50.00. Is there a cheaper phone?”
“Yes. You can get the EnV3 for $50.00 less.”
“Okay, I’ll take it.”

And then Brian’s all, “Um, don’t you want to at least look at it first to make sure you like it?”
And I was all, “Does it call and text people?”
...

He just stared at me. I’m sure he was wondering if it was too late to ask for the ring back.

So I choose the EnV3 in red, because it comes in either red or blue (aaah, the illusion of choice). And the guy starts to ring it up.

“For $50.00 more, you can get the accessory package.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“But it comes with a car charger, a headset, and a protective plastic case. You’ll save $30 compared to buying each item separately.”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s a really great deal. Don’t you talk on your phone in the car?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“Never. I got tired of hitting people.”

The guy just stared at me. It was the same look Brian just gave me.
I’m getting really sick of that look.

“How about internet service. It’s only an extra $15.00 a month”
“Nope, thanks, I’m good.”
“You sure? It comes in handy.”

I just stared at him.
HAH! Two can play at THAT game, mister.

“This phone also comes with 1 month of free GPS service. After the month is up, you can continue your service for only $9.99 a month.”

“Thanks. That’s…nice…of you.”
“You sure you don’t want the internet service?”
“I’m sure. Just ring me up.”

And but in my head, I’m screaming STOP TRYING TO TAKE MY MONEY YOU SOULLESS, BLOODSUCKING VERIZON BASTARD!!!!!!!!!1!!!!1!!!!! [5]

So I left the Verizon store, an hour and a half later, with a new phone, but no accessory package or internet access.

And as far as I can tell, the world is continuing to spin on its axis.
At least, that’s what my 1-month complimentary GPS service is indicating…



1. Action copyrighted by my friend Pam. All rights reserved
2. I guarantee nothing, bitches
3. Brian explained why we were there. I just stood there looking bored.
4. Actually, he was pretty nice. But he works for Verizon, which automatically makes him a scumbag. Hey, I don’t make the rules up; I just follow them.
5. Verizon makes me all shoutey.

Lily Presents: A Moments of Heightened Frustration, and Gummi Bears.

Right.

Today’s post was supposed to be a ginormous vent regarding the wedding and how little time I have left (eighteendaysbutwho’scounting), and, importantly, the giant “to do” list I created yesterday that took up an ENTIRE legal pad-sized page (and I write in tiny Lilliputian handwriting)

Vague Jonathan Swift Literary references?
Oh yeah, I went there.

BUT…
Since I've drawn a few more readers to my blog as of late…or…at least I think I did, but it’s hard to tell because Google Blogger apparently can’t get its shit together and display my followers…It would appear that I have to bring my A-game.
Or at least my B- or C-game.

Okay…D-game, minimum.
(And trust me, you DO NOT want the E-game, which I’m pretty sure is illegal in 7 states).

Luckily, I stopped for coffee at Dunkin Donuts this morning, which inevitably brings me a whopping dose of coffee euphoria and associated comedic nuance, so I think we’re golden.

Moving on…

Everybody needs at least 1 good arch nemesis; a Duke Sigmund Igthorn to their Gummi Bears, if you will.
What, you never watched Gummi Bears?
You were missing out, my friend. BIG TIME.

According to Wikipedia…
Ahem…
“The series focuses on the escapades of the eponymous "Gummi Bears," anthropomorphic bears who are the last remnants of a once-great civilization of Gummis that fled the land centuries ago when humans, jealous of the advancements and magical skills of the Gummi Bears, forced the species into exile.”

It’s true; we humans are a covetous people.

Jesus, I’ve digressed again.

ANYWAY…
Arch nemeses.
Get some. You won’t regret it.

One of mine?
Human Resources.
Ugh, I got a shiver up my spine just typing it.

I’m at that unfortunate time of year when my Annual Review is nigh. The problem is, if you have a somewhat functioning manager-employee relationship, Annual Reviews are 100% pointless.
She tells me to do shit, and I get ‘er done.
End of story, right? Everybody gets paid, the company stays afloat, and at the end of the day, we can each can go home and drink ourselves into comas in peace.

And yet, HR has come up with a million and one forms to dissect this relationship down to the most infinite detail.

This form has instructions like “What do you consider your strengths that you bring to the company?” and “Describe one area of your work where you feel immediate improvement is needed.”

And I’m all, “What’s the most diplomatic way of saying I'm infallible?”

So I complete the forms, all the while being filled with vile, putrid HATE for The Establishment because I’m a rebel without a cause, man, and you can’t bring me down.
And then I send them and sigh with relief because I can FINALLy get back to blogging…oops…I mean work.

But it’s never that easy when it comes to HR.
We know this, right?

So I get a call this morning from “HR Lady.” After the customary greetings, the conversation goes something like this…

HR lady: So, I got your Annual Review forms and they’re great, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.
Me: [lips curling in disgust while sounding surprisingly chipper] Sure, what can I do for you?
HR lady: Well, in the Performance Self Evaluation section where you’ve rated your performance in different fields, I noticed that you only left comments in some of the areas.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that you needed comments for each individual section.
HR lady: We don’t. It’s just that we encourage employees to explain why they’ve rated themselves a 3 or a 4 or whatever.
Me: Uh…so am I supposed to fill in each section with comments?
HR lady: Well, it’s not required, but we like to give employees a chance to explain their personal rating systems.
Me: So I should fill in the missing comment sections…..?
HR lady: We’d like you to, yes.

….

I really don’t think this conversation requires further explanation. If you can’t see how ridiculous this conversation is, then you MUST work for HR, and at this point, I’d like you to stop and desist reading this or all further blog postings, because you are, essentially, The Enemy.

*No, I’m not actually PLANNING on killing my HR representative, so don’t get your legal panties in a twist. Unless looks really CAN kill, in which case maybe she should be nervous. But if I found out I could actually kill people with my looks, I’d up and quit this bitch anyway to become an assassin, so there’d be no point in killing HR.

For the most part…

They're Baaaack

When I was a kid, I had this doll collection.

To be honest, I have no idea why I collected dolls. I think I was just at that age where somebody gives you a present, and you’re all “Thanks Great Aunt Gladys, that’s pretty cool” (even though it really isn’t), all of a sudden your parents are telling your friends, distant relatives, and strangers on the street that you “collect” this item. So you start getting said item for birthdays and Christmases and its fine and all but honestly, you just can’t wait to play Mousetrap.

Remember Mousetrap? That shit was OFF THE HOOK.

Regardless, I suspect it was from the above chain of events that I started collecting dolls.

These dolls were amassed on a high shelf across the room from my bed. They were pretty, albeit dusty ‘cause it was hard as a mother to get up there and dust those bad boys. In other words, I didn’t really do anything with them or even pay attention to them, to be honest.

During the day, at least.

Night was another story.

Once the sun went down, I would lie in bed and look at the dolls.

And they would look back at me.

And the whole time I was staring at them (and they were staring at me), I was rigid with terror, hoping and praying that they weren’t going to come to life and devour me.

And then I would swear to god that one of them winked at me or moved a finger or shifted ever so slightly, and it would be over.

I would lose my shit and hide under the covers and listen while they were undoubtedly communicating in their creepy, dollish ways about how and when they were going to hop off the shelf, skitter across the carpet, climb my bed, and do something hellishly gruesome to me, like eviscerate me and fill me with stuffing and replace my eyes with glass ones. Just. Like. Them.

Yeah, I had a pretty dark side, even at the tender age of 7.

And then the sun would come up and they were just harmless dolls again and I was 100% okay with them being in my room, lined up in a row, staring at my bed.

I can only explain this by concluding that I was a “special needs” kid and to this day, my parents haven’t had the heart to tell me.

Which explains a lot…

So yeah, I had a doll collection.

And then I found out this weekend that, due to the fated “thanks, Great Aunt Gladys, that’s pretty cool” statement described above, my mom – 20 years, a divorce, and 3 moves later – kept the dolls.

“I though you liked them,” she said.
“Sure, if you LIKE the kind of toys that come to life at night and plan on stabbing out your eyes,” I replied.
“Oh, Lil, you always were a strange child.”

[I KNEW IT – Special Ed all the way. WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME, MOM?!?]

And how did I find out that she had kept this creepy doll collection?
Because she brought them over – to the place where I SLEEP - for me to store.

That’s right.
They’re back.

And for those of you who are saying, “why don’t you just throw them out?”
To you, I say “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND?!?!??!?!?”

If I throw them out, they’ll get mad.
And the only thing WORSE than a bunch of dolls that come to life at night are a bunch of dolls that come to life at night and realize that you tried to pull one over on them.

Uh-uh, no thanks.
No way in HELL am I pissing the doll-army off.

So what else could I do? I had to take them. I took the two cardboard boxes and stacked them gently in the garage.

And then? I had a talk with them.

I told them that they could stay, but I had to lay down some groundrules:
1. No moving around
2. No crying blood
3. No whispering or making other creepy noises
4. No plotting my or my significant other’s demise

If they can play by these rules, then we’re going to get along just fine.
But SO HELP ME GOD if either of those boxes are moved even a centimeter I’m going to get an old priest and a young priest and shit will go down.

You hear me dolls? I will TOTALLY go old-school on your ass.
That is...er...
...uh....
please don't be mad. You're not mad, are you?

Are you?!?

My Ass Wins Again

I am so sick and goddamn tired of the limitations set on me by my own body.

So what if I want to breakdance?
Is it really that much to ask that I be able to pivot on my hands and spin like a dreidel* on my head?

(btw, my spellchecker is totally anti-Semitic, because it’s telling me that “dreidel”* isn’t a word. Interestingly enough, it totally recognizes “KKK,” but only when I type it with capital letters. Proper noun, indeed, you Jew-hating Nazi bastard piece of technology!)

But where was I?
Oh yes, spinning like a dreidel*.

I’m aware that breakdancing takes a certain amount of practice. Hey, if everybody could breakdance, then it would probably just be called “dancing,” and then instead of dance floors, there would just be flattened cardboard boxes taped together, which at minimum would be a tripping hazard and worst case scenario? Everybody comes back from weddings with black eyes because they took a foot to the grill while trying to get to the dessert table.

Not cool, man.

So okay, I’ll practice.
And by practice, I mean get hopped up on a couple of Naddy Ices, put on my slippery socks, and slide around on my kitchen floor for a while (football helmet not included).

And I can honestly say that after 5 or 10 minutes of practice, I’m no god-damn better at breakdancing than I am ice sculpting, and everybody knows that ice sculpting is child’s play compared to the ancient art of breakdancing, known in the old days as Sho-sæn, or “he who bends himself into a pretzel as the drum beats”

So I’m convinced that even if I practiced for hundreds of thousands of years, I’d be no better at breakdancing because my body just won’t allow it.

Mind over matter, my ass.
Or should I say, ass over matter, and mind?

Whatever.

Moral of the story? My ass wins.

Again.

Other things I’d like to be able to do?
Fly
And maybe punch through a concrete slab, like Mr. Miyagi.

[Did he even do that in the movie? I don’t really know…Actually, I only first saw the movie, like, a couple of years ago. It wasn’t bad. That toothy chick was in it and I always appreciate a good musical montage, but really? Karate? With the headband and everything?!? I guess karate used to be the “in” thing, but now it’s more about recycling and "going green." Oh well, to each his own…]

To be honest, I haven’t practiced either flying OR punching through concrete slabs, but does thinking that practicing is futile in these situations make me a negative person?

Is the glass half empty?
(yes, because it WAS full until you half-emptied it into your gaping pie-hole, you jerk).

Anyway, I don’t really know where I was going with this post other than to say that I can’t breakdance, fly, or punch through concrete and that really kind of pisses me off.

Don’t judge.
You’d be pissed off too if you practiced this shit and all you got was a bloody nose and a bunch of empty Naddy Ice cans.

Word.

*I originally spelled this "dradel" like a dumb-ass mo fo. Mr. Apron corrected me. And guess what? spell checker STILL didn't recognize the word. So there you have it. Proof positive that Spellchecker is an anti-Semitic Nazi bastard. Isn't science fun?

que fait ce moyen?

So, I got this award over at Stacie's Maddness:





Which is awesome and you know what? That totally made my day.
THANK YOU Stacie and your apparent Maddness. Great minds think alike ;-)

But, not being French and all, I didn't really know what it meant.
que fait ce moyen?


I had to babelfish that bitch.


Apparently J'Adore tien means I adore yours.

And then I forgot that the word "blog" was on the end of that phrase and I was all, "she adores my what?"


And THEN my mind immediately went into the gutter, and I had to agree that I adore mine too.


What?


Nevermind. Long story short, she adores my blog (and possibly my vajayjay).


This is a NSA-type of award (No Strings Attached, for those of you who don't troll the "Casual Encounters" site on Craigslist. Not that I do. Wait...)


BUT, seeing as I'm at a loss for blog content today (story of my life since Operation Countdown To Wedded Bliss), I'm gonna make me some rules for this here fancy schmancy award.



Ahem...



10 Things I'm Adoring Today


1. Baby carrots
When I'm hungry and not in the mood to weigh ten gazillion pounds, baby carrots come to my rescue. I can munch away without the unfortunate caloric side effects. I owe my sweet badonkadonk to those little guys.

2. Access to the company credit card
Not nearly as cool as it sounds. I'm not buying Jimmy Choos or anything, but being able to purchase a review article that will give me all the information I need on one convenient PDF file makes my job SO much easier. Like I said - not nearly as cool as buying designer shoes, but handy, none the less

3. Pirates Booty.
It's out on the counter and it's amazing.

4. Texting
I was a little slow to jump on the texting bandwagon, but now that I'm a "texter," I really enjoy being able to text dirty...oops...I mean sweet things to my honey for him to read at his convenience.

5. My space heater
My company must have the most spastic air conditioning unit on the planet. Not only is it one man's FULL TIME JOB to manage this hunk of junk, but I'm pretty sure that right now? It's stuck in the "on" position. Despite the fact that it's 65 degrees and cloudy out. If I had balls, they'd be retreating into my cavity right now. But the space heater is totally keeping the room at "ass cold" whereas the rest of the building is experiencing "nuclear winter," so needless to say, I adore it.

6. Milo
Can you believe it? Despite all the crap he's pulled in recent months, today, I'm adoring him. We were snuggled up together this morning and I'll be damned if he can't be the cutest little shit when he wants to be. His saving grace, apparently...

7. My comfy work pants.
They're brown. They fit loosely while still looking stylish. When I'm wearing them, I feel like I'm wearing my pyjamas. I heart them.

8. Lunchtime.
T minus 3 minutes. I'm a hungry hungry hippo today (which is why this is the THIRD TIME I've mentioned food on this list).

9. My car.
I don't usually adore my car. In fact, most days, I despise it. But when I got to work this morning I casually glanced in the back seat and saw my air filter. The air filter that's supposed to be IN my car, filtering air or some shit. Brian and his friend Chris took it out last week when it broke like a little bitch, and they forgot to put it back in. BUT. My car is still running, despite the lack of air filter. Since my car usually punks out at shit like that, I have to admit, I'm grateful for it today. But now that I've said that, chances are, it's going to break down again, so I'm already adoring it less in anticipation. Huh.

10. YOU GUYS
Yes, you. I can see you there, reading my blog (stop picking your nose). THANK YOU for reading my nonsensicle tirades day after day. YOU GUYS are the reason that I write. Well, that and a need for psychotherapy coupled with a lack of cash, but mostly it's YOU GUYS that keep me coming back day after day. Please accept this internet pat on the bum as thanks for your patronage

*pat pat pat fondle..."

Oops, sorry. My hands have a mind of their own.

And now, I give this award to:

Elise (for the newbie blog)
and f8hasit (for being my 33rd follower and having a clever title that took me a minute to get, because, let's face it, I'm not all that bright).

Have at it, guys!

High-Dive Confessions

So, I had this funny post lined up for today.
Something about dumb horses and dumb humans interacting with each other, which is always good for a laugh.

And then my friend Elise sent me a message on Facebook.
(Oh, Elise, you and your stimulating conversation and links to interesting articles. DAMN YOU)

So I’m reading this article.

This woman – she’s a lot like me.
28 years old, stuck in a dead-end rut of a job. And then? She quits and follows her dream to be a therapeutic riding instructor.
Just like that.

And I’m all, “if she can do it, why can’t I?”

The thing is, there are certain things in my life that I can’t just let go of; that I keep coming back to over and over again; that I excel at; and that I want to share with others.

Horseback riding is far and away one of those things.
I can’t get enough of it. And you know what? I’m damn good at it too.

Which makes me start to wonder why I can’t pursue some sort of equine-related business, just like that woman from the article.
What’s really stopping me?

Well, there are a number of barriers, but a big one, that starts with “health” and ends with “insurance,” will be overcome oh, say, October 10th or thereabouts.

Three cheers for government employee health benefits!

And another barrier has the potential to be overcome, thanks to several key industry contacts and a job that only requires a computer with internet access.

And another three cheers for modern technology!
Let's give them both a round of applause, folks...

In other words, in 24 days I will have my husband’s benefits and the ability to work on my own schedule.

In theory, at least.

Which, in theory, frees up a significant amount of time to pursue a business venture of my own, or at least throw myself back into my riding hobby and see where it takes me.

So right now I’m standing on the edge of the high-dive, kind of rocking from one foot to another, staring at the water (waayyyyy down there), and wondering…

“Am I really going to jump?”

And today at least?
I think, deep down, I already know the answer.

ShopRite? More Like ShopWRONG! (otherwise known as The Worst Blog Title Ever)

Dear Second-Shift ShopRite Manager

You, sir, are a genius.

I am aware that this is an obvious statement, for clearly anyone who aspires to be a second-shift manager at ShopRite must have spent their scholarly years at the top of their class, always striving to be ahead of the curve, but I feel that this quality bears further mention, as I am completely blown away by your competence and depth of foresight.

For who else but a genius such as yourself would think to close all registers but one at 15 minutes to nine o-clock on a busy Sunday night, thus keeping us (20 customers, at least) trapped in the store for and indeterminable length of time. I can only guess at the method behind your madness, for a person of average intelligence like myself is unlikely to grasp such advanced methodology as yours. Perhaps it was to keep us shopping – and purchasing – for a long as possible. Perhaps you feared a late-night stampede towards the exit, and desired to slow our departure to prevent the inevitable crushing of bodies and certain death. Maybe you are just lonely in your ivory tower of superior intellect and wished to draw out your contact with the human species for as long as possible before you retired to your basement apartment to dine on Spaghetti-O’s and play World of Warcraft ‘till the wee hours of the morning.

I daren’t guess your motives.

All I know is that you succeeded in your aims (as you have succeeded in life), by keeping us 20-some-odd customers trapped in the store for upwards of half an hour while a single check-out person struggled to scan and bag groceries for an entire bus-load of customers stopping in to pick up critical items such as toilet paper and baby formula and dishwasher detergent.

Only a person of superior managerial skill would allow 3 other cashiers to stand around with you and observe this lone check-out girl as the line of customers grows to gargantuan proportions.

Only a person of unequivocal managerial excellence would forbid customers to use the self-checkout lanes, despite the back-up.

Only a person of advanced authority such as yourself would stand with these other check-out persons, observing the consumer pile-up, and have the gumption to announce that the store will be closing in 5 minutes and all purchases must be completed by nine o-clock.

Bravo, Mr. ShopRite Second-Shift Manager.
Bravo.

I can only hope to one day achieve the level of distinction that you have achieved by so skillfully driving your workforce to the upper echelon of customer service.

Until then?

I hope you get AIDS.

Sincerely,
A woman who mistakenly thought that running out for dish detergent on a Sunday night would take less than 30 minutes to accomplish.

THAT girl

Did you ever have one of THOSE friends?
You know who I’m talking about…
That friend who you don’t really like but you put up with because for some reason you’re going to be obligated to hang out with him/her on a pretty consistent basis, so you suck it up and smile at them while saying mean things to them in your head?
(Don’t act like you’ve never done it).

Well, there’s this girl I knew in college. She was THAT girl.
I never really liked her.
It was nothing personal; she and I were just from two different worlds. I, being from a world where rationality and common sense prevail, and she, being from a world where hissy fits and tantrums and drama reign supreme, it was pretty fucking obvious that we were not going to get along.

But lo and behold, my junior year of college, we ended up living together with two other women in a tiny 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom apartment.

College:
Forcing you to eat, sleep, shit, and breath in close proximity of 42894390256320430 complete strangers since 1775.

Good times, good times.

So anyway, the year actually went pretty smoothly, despite having to live with this girl who was on, like, 3 different medications for anxiety and depression and went to bed around 10:00 every night and screamed at anyone who dared to make noise in the living room after that hour. At first, I kind of sucked it up and tried to see the good in her, but by the end, we were all grumbly and bitchy and I’m pretty sure I told her off once or twice, but whatever.
We got through it.

The three of them moved across the street our senior year and I stayed to acquire three new roommates of better compatibility
After senior year? I Never heard from THAT girl again, which was fine with me.

I pretty much figured she’d end up on the business end of an electro-shock therapy unit anyway.

But then I reunited with one of the other roommates, with whom I’d been very close before I kind of lost it (on account of co-habitating with the shitty Ex), and ended our friendship, which was totally awful on my part and thank god she is forgiving by nature.

She and I have been chatting on Facebook and have hung out several times and, much to my delight, appears to be returning as a permanent feature in my life.

Huzzah!

But whilst messaging on Facebook, our third roommate (not ThAT girl, but the other one), jumped in and expressed a desire for a reunion of sorts, to also include that other, less pleasant character. She wrote:

Hey guys, I was thinking about it and it doesn't fell right to do this reunion without [THAT girl]. I know she and I were talking about it and she really wants to see you guys but she has a family reunion this weekend. Can we take a raincheck and pick a weekend when all of us can be there? Let me know what you think...

Now, as far as seeing that girl again? I figure sure. Why the hell not. It’s been 7 years since college, and chances are, she’s finally grown up, right?
Wrong.
So I said this:

Well, I'd still like to get together this weekend too because, let's face it, it would be a blast. Can we do a 2-part reunion, involving Sunday night and then another weekend later with [THAT girl]?Another option is Friday (tomorrow) night. [other roommate], I don't know what you've got going on, but the only things I had planned for tomorrow night were the gym and the grocery store.Boo.Would [THAT girl] be free then? How 'bout you, [third roommate]?

And she responds with this whammy:

Ugh, I don’t know what to do. I really want to hang out but I mentioned it to [THAT girl] and she got upset. So if I go she'll be mad, but it seems silly not to because we will all be in the same hood. She will be at her parents house all weekend for the reunion, its an all weekend event. Doesn't this feel just like college again??

Uhhh……

…..*crickets chirping*

....Yes.
This feels EXACTLY like college.
Good call on that one.

What I really wanted to write? Was that there was a reason why I haven’t spoken this immature, needy C-word since college and yanno what? She’s not invited!

But instead, I calmly acknowledged that I was free to get together and if she wanted to join me, great, and if not? No sweat.

Because I am an adult, and as such, I exercise control over my infantile urges.

So, it would appear that THAT girl is still THAT girl, despite being 27-some-odd years old.
I guess with some people, it doesn't matter how much time goes by.
Once a child, always a child.

So I say good riddance to that.
If I wanted that much drama in my life, I would have stayed with my Ex.

(Speaking of electro-shock therapy...)

Weddings, Funerals, And A Stinking Gypsy Thief

Well hello there!
Wow, I think that was the first time that I’ve missed a blog post (well, two, really, if you want to be honest about it) in the better part of a year. Is the fact that I have a month until my wedding and had to go to a funeral yesterday a good enough excuse?
No?
Well forget you then, fool!

At any rate, yeah, it’ been a hectic couple of days. Wednesday night I successfully purchased a wedding dress that is THE dress for me. I love it. Picture me in the most perfect dress you can think of, and that’s what I’m wearing.
Awesome.
But no pics, because Brian is a sneaky Mo-Fo and he just might log on to this blog to try to catch a peak of it, and that is not cool.

Yesterday was Brian’s grandmother’s funeral (and an unpaid work day for me, but I’m not still bitter about it. Nope. Not bitter at all). So needless to say it wasn’t the best circumstances under which to meet some of his family, but whaddya gonna do? Funerals happen. We are both very sad that Nana will not be able to attend the wedding, but we can only hope that somehow she will still be there.
Or whatever.

I don’t really believe that people have souls, but it’s a nice thought anyway.

Regardless…There has been a whole lot of wedding going on in this blog, and I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to go all bridezilla on your collective asses, so let’s move on, shall we?

I’m excited to announce that Brian and I had a major discovery this weekend.
You see, when we adopted Milo The Destroyer of Worlds from the shelter, we had no idea what breed he was. He was kind of like the mystery meat of dog breeds; he had no real defining characteristics, and while he greatly resembled a dog, there was a small part of us that wondered if we weren’t obtaining the offspring of some sort of large, mutated sewer rat and a hyena that escaped from the zoo.

Okay, he was cuter than that, but you get the idea.

In fact, when we first saw him, I wanted to keep going because he was (if I recall correctly), “too goofy looking.”
Yeah, I’m that heartless.

But in the end, we brought the litter bastard home and for the most part, I haven’t regretted it (except for when he eats my shit, and then I go postal and threaten to send him back to the pound.)
Because once again, yeah, I’m that heartless.

His breed though? Was still largely unknown.
This is Milo’s picture from the animal shelter website, where they described him as a “Black-mouth cur mix" (whatever that is):

And here are more updated pics taken over a 4th of July camping trip:

As you can see, his breeding doesn’t really stand out. People see the brindle and think he’s a Pit. People see the long tail and rounded haunches and think he’s a Whippet or Greyhound. He’s been called part Doberman, and part Hound and part Catahoula Leopard and everything else under the sun.

And based on his penchant for eating just about anything he can get his mouth on, Brian and I personally pinned him as part hyena and part goat.

And then this weekend, we saw the movie Snatch. In the movie there was a scene where “Pikies” (Irish gypsies) were Hare Coursing a.k.a setting dogs on a hare and betting on whether or not the hare would get away or be eaten. (gross). And just at that moment, when the hare was released, we saw a shot of Milo running across the screen.

Well, not literally, but you get the idea.

Of course, Brian and I got all excited because that’s the first time that we’ve seen a dog that even resembled Milo, let alone could have been his twin. So we looked up Lurchers online and got pictures like this:

And this:

And this:

And while not every dog looks exactly like him, they all have his body type or his nose or his eyes, or SOMETHING that is spot-on for Milo.

But the best part? Was this sentence found on Wikipedia:

The name lurcher is derived from the Romani language word "lur," which means "thief."

…which totally explains why Milo steals my bras and shoes and shirts and hides them between the couch cushions.

And all this time I thought he just needed therapy...

So there you have it. Milo is a Lurcher. A sneaky gypsy thief bastard who was bred for chasing and eating rabbits.

Strangely enough, the website said nothing about “bra hunting”

Huh.

The Reason You Don't Get a Post Today...

The wedding dress I bought?
Yeah, I've decided not to go with it.


I now have 31 days to find a wedding dress.

*commence frantic internet browsing and emergency trip to David's Bridal in 3...2...1...

Ess to the Tee to the Arr-Eee-Ess-Ess

I need a cocktail and a sandy beach like a Lindsey Lohan needs leggings with built-in kneepads.

What?

As a go-with-the-flow type of person, it generally takes a lot to stress me out.
But once I’m stressed out? I completely lose my shit.

We all know this
Well, those who know me or read my blog regularly know this.

And this week – this FUCKING week of mechanical failure and dying relatives and family obligations – is putting me over the top.

As I mentioned before, my car died over the weekend. It’s now in the shop getting a complete diagnosis and whatever is wrong with it is GUARENTEED to cost me an arm and a leg because my car is essentially a hole in the ground in which I throw thousands upon thousands of dollars on an annual basis.

Dear Red Rocket
Thanks for going an entire year an a half before breaking down again. It was just enough time for me to think that maybe – just maybe – you were going to cut the shit and start running like a reliable vehicle instead of being a fuck-all hunk of junk like you usually are. It must have been fun dashing my hopes and dreams like that, you POS.

Never in my life have I been so tempted to vandalize my own car.

And Brian’s grandmother dying is sad and unfortunate and of course I’ll be attending the funeral because that’s just what you do when somebody dies, but then I get this email from my manager:

[your request for time off] is approved. I checked with [HR person] regarding bereavement. Since you are not officially married, and the [company] policy states 1 day off for grandmother-in-law, this will be unpaid. Payroll has already been submitted for this Thurs, so you will see a reduction in your pay for this day on your next paycheck.

This email?
Is making me want to hurt people. And I don’t even care that once again I’m breaking the cardinal rule of not talking about work on your very public blog, because I. Have. Had. It. with this place.
Go ahead and fire me.
Your mom…

And let’s not even discuss about the wedding that is in exactly 32 days (that's 4 WEEKENDS, PEOPLE) and how I haven’t put the food list together or made an appointment to get my dress tailored or…
Whatever.
I can’t even get in to it.
Suffice to say, I’ve got a crap-ton of stuff to do.
And there are other familial obligations that have cropped up that I’m not really at liberty to discuss, but they’re big.
And time-zapping.
And I’m going to have to be the "pillar of strength" for the next few weeks when all I want to do is have a glass of wine (or five) and crawl into bed.

Look.
I know it could be worse. I know that there are MUCH WORSE THINGS than a broken-down car and a busy week and a wedding to plan. And don't get me wrong, I am so grateful to have a car and a job and a man who wants to marry me.

But if I could just fast-forward to October 11 when the wedding is over and my family is more settled and I'm happily on my way to Bermuda, that would be just great.

Does anybody have a time machine they could lend me?
I'll trade you one tomato-red Subaru Impreza for it.

(and if you play your cards right, I might just throw in one riding-boot-eating dog for free)

Bonus Sunday Post: Laments and a Shout-out

First, a shout-out. My friend and previous coworker Elise has a blog that I think deserves a little acknowledgment. Go check out Flukes and Flames. She's a cool lady, and I think you'll agree.

Next, I want to start off by saying that the weekend started out so good. The air was cool. I taught a few horseback riding lessons. We went to a wedding and I looked smokin' in my new dress and black strappy sandals.

And then...

The car did me dirty. It was 11:15 and I was slightly buzzed and headachey and anticipating a good night's sleep, and the valet dude came running up saying that my car wouldn't start.

He was right.

The car is still there.

And after calling our roommate Crystal to pick us up, we finally got home and what was greeting me when I walked into the bedroom?

My riding boot.
Chewed
(I hate Milo so much)

Today?
After our friend Chris fiddled with the car for 3 hours, he thinks he knows what the problem is, but the car is going to need to get towed, because he can't get the bad part out to put a new one in.
And then we got a call that Brian's grandmother passed away. They weren't terribly close, and she was very old, but still, it was kind of a shock.

It just....I dunno. Sucks.
Life kind of got us down today.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better, despite having to get the car towed.
Send positive vibes my way...

Morning Vom

Did everybody eat breakfast this morning?

Good.
Because you’re about to throw it back up again.

Feast your eyes on this:
(I PROMISE that, as vulgar as this appears, it is totally safe for work).























“WHAT,” you might ask, “IS THAT!?!?!??!”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the stomach of our newest cat Tiger aka. Pumpkin aka. Gordo aka. Jabba the Hut (amongst other descriptors).

You see, this cat is lovely, for the most part. She’s sweet and affectionate and social and everything you could ever want in a cat.

The problem is ….

How do I put this delicately…

She has stomach testicles.

Apparently, at one point, this feline had a 22’’ waist. While she is notably slimmer than she used to be, everything that was once around her middle has kind of slumped down to the lowest parts of her belly, which now drags on the ground when she walks. Add to that a slightly neurotic need to clean herself, and you’re left with a corpulent cat belly that is flabby, 100% hairless and noticeably irritated.

SEXY.

So when you stand the aforementioned kitty on her hind legs and, say, make her dance to the latest Miley Cyrus song, her stomach swings and sways about in two pouches of equally distributed mass (I believe they are in line with her mammary glands) that appear, for lack of a better term, like balls.

This cat?
Could do a truffle shuffle that would put Chunk to shame (if only her stomach didn’t so closely resemble a scrotum).

And as much as we’ve made fun of her for her testicle-stomach, she seems in no hurry to lose the weight.

Every time you sit at the table to eat, she’s there waiting for a hand-out.
Our roommate Crystal texted us one evening as she sat down to dine alone with this image, cleverly captioned “I can haz Tostitos?”



Apparently, she could. (Aunt Crystal is a sucker)

Caption: Nom nom nom

Unfortunately, this cat appears to need some serious one-on-one attention. Being that we have 3 other animals in our house (well, 4 if you count a neglected beta fish), we just don’t seem to be able to give her the attention that she deserves.

As a result, my sister has graciously agreed to take the cat on the condition that her fur doesn’t too badly aggravate her allergies.

So to my dear sister Emily, may I say congratulations on your acquisition of Ball-sac-tummy Cat!
May she and her scrotum belly find eternal happiness in your humble abode.
(But be warned: poke at your own risk).

Revenge of the '80s

An open letter to the fashion industry:

You guys…

I’ll be the first to admit, the 80s were a crazy time. Granted, I was born in ’82 and therefore experienced these years at an arm’s length at best, but there’s no doubt that the ‘80s had a certain charm; a jois de vive where everything that was flashy and ridiculous and 100% nonsensical was encouraged, from shoulder pads to flock of seagulls hairdos to sparkly glove (singular).
Legwarmers? Sure.
Headbands with giant floppy bows? Great.
Pleated stonewashed jeans matched with white high-top sneakers, a sparkly-blue blazer with rolled-up sleeves, and a skinny tie? You’re golden.

But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.
Just as we abandoned cigarette holders and disco balls and bras (for a brief period in the 1960s), the ‘80s were meant to go the way of the dinosaurs, ending in a fiery explosion of flannel shirts and converse sneakers and dark-brown lipstick.
And AIDS, which I believe was the popular disease at the time.

And yet…

Relics of the ‘80s, zombified and sluttified for an arguably more “liberal” 21st century, are rising from the grave in a most disturbing way.

I was at the mall last night, which in itself is a bit of an oddity as I avoid both blatant commercialism and large crowds like the plague. But Brian needed a suit and mamma needed a new pair of shoes, so we stormed the mall on a mission to find the aforementioned garments. And as we passed the stores and passed them again on our trek between Macys and Norstroms, I couldn’t help noticing how…well…god-awful ugly the things in the windows were.

There was this:

And this:

And a whole lotta this:

And by the time I had finished my trip around the mall, I couldn’t help but notice that the 80s - despite burying them in the backyard in the middle of the night underneath the azalea bushes - were back from the dead.

Kind of like this:

But a while lot whoreyer and marketed to girls in their early teans.

This is not acceptable.
There is a REASON that the ‘80s were considered a decade of ridiculous fads to be made fun of forever as that time that “we all kind of lost our marbles,” wherein we reminisce and shake our heads with regret because we were so foolish back then.

People of the fashion industry: I IMPLORE YOU

Do not bring back the ‘80s.
Do not enter that creepy shop that you never noticed before and find a dusty book of spells in a forgotten corner and purchase said book with the intention of bringing the ‘80s back from the dead. Because as much as you miss the ‘80s? There is a REASON that it died and to bring it back in some unnatural form where it kinda resembles it’s old self but is inherently evil will undoubtedly be the end of our society as we know it.

You will regret it.
We all will.

Sincerely,
A concerned individual who WILL NOT SUCCUMB to the lure of the skinny jean.

Decisions, Decisions

I’m at in impasse.
Well, more like a crossroad.

A T-intersection?
Round-about?
Deaf-Child-At-Play zone?

I dunno.
Something related to a life change, but described as novel traffic patterns (without so much deaf children).

I can’t say too much, again, because I’m not quite sure who exactly reads my blog. In my head, I have a mass following of thousands, but that’s only because narcissism is more fun than facing a reality in which I have no friends. For all intents and purposes, let’s just say I’m stuck choosing between safe-and-boring vs. risky-and-exciting.

It’s an age-old conundrum, but does knowing this make my particular problem any easier to muddle through?
Not one iota (what is an iota anyway?).

Thing is, I want to do stuff. I want to go places. I want freedom and happiness and a hot-tub filled with green jello (hey, as long as we’re dreaming, let’s shoot for the moon).
But I also want to be able to not have to live in a tent in the backyard because we can’t afford to pay the mortgage.

Nothing against the backyard, but that ground-bee nest would have a serious negative impact on our quality of life, and I’m not sure we could afford the drums of Benadryl that we would require on a weekly basis.

Why is it that we’re always forced to choose between happiness and stability? Why can’t they come conveniently packaged together, like that peanut butter and jelly concoction that comes in the same jar?

Where’s my 2 for 1 sale, bitches?!?!?

Don’t get me wrong – I love love LOVE life changes. I love the temporary chaos that comes when you uproot your life, the feeling of starting fresh with a clean slate and having hopes and dreams that have yet to be crushed under the black sole of Reality (she wears a size 26 stiletto). But what I DON’T love is the fear that you took the wrong path.
Even worse?
Finding out that yes, you ass-clown, you took the wrong path.

It’s happened to me before, and I can tell you, it’s an epic bummer.

So here’s me, standing at my T-intersection or round-about or whatever, with traffic backing up behind me, horns blaring, while I nervously look left and right and wonder which way I should go.

Eventually, I’ll have to hit the gas peddle. I just hope that when I do, I’ll turn in the better direction.

And hopefully not run over the deaf child.
You want to talk about an epic bummer?
Try explaining THAT to the parents.

Faces, Shmaces

When I walked into Red Carpet Cakes last week, after shaking the hand of the owner, the very next words out of her mouth were, “wow, you look like…somebody.”

As vague as that statement is, I have to say that yeah, I get that a lot. I don’t know what it is about me, but every time I meet somebody new, they inevitably have a friend/cousin/ex-girlfriend who looks exactly like me.

Am I that generically faced? I try not to think about it.

And the celebrity look-alike game?
Fuhgetta ‘bout it.

I’ve been told that I look like every celebrity under the sun.

First off, there's me:

Who did I look like, according to Jen from Red Carpet Cakes?
Anna Paquin.

Okay, I can kind of see it. There’s definitely a vague similarity between us

But I’ve been told that I look like celebrities that I know FOR A FACT that look nothing like me.

Mariah Carey?

Uhh, just because we both have long curly hair does NOT mean I could be her stunt double (although my rockin’ ass would do her proud).


Claire Danes?


Well, there was that time in 7th grade when I dyed my hair bright orange (aah, to re-live the angsty moods of Angela in My So-Called Life. And Jordan Catalano? He needed to be in my pants, like, yesterday).
But once again, similar hair does not an identical twin make.

Anne Hathaway?

Wow, I totally see it. We both have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.
It’s like looking into a mirror.

Cameron Diaz?

Uhhh, no. No way, no how.

Salma Hayek?

Umm, have you seen the color of my skin (or lack thereof)?

And on that note, Beyonce?
BEYONCE?!? Are you friggin kidding me?!?

I…I can’t.
While I applaud this person’s ability to “not see color” (in the words of Stephen Colbert), I think it’s safe to say that I would never be mistaken for a Nubian princess.
Again, it’s that damn curly hair…


And then there’s my sister.
If you’ve met both me and my sister, you probably belong to one of two crowds:
The ones who think we look like twins and have come up to me in the street before ever knowing me to ask if I have a sister named Emily, and the ones who are kind of “Meh, I guess.”

Sorry, Em. That's the best picture of you have I have on my work computer.

Personally, I don’t see it at all. But once in a while, when there’s a picture lying around and I’m looking at it upside down, or it’s blurry or I’m not paying attention, I think it’s me…and it’s not. It’s her. So I guess I sometimes see the resemblance, but only when I’m not looking for it (like when you try to look at a star dead-on and it disappears in that little black hole in the center of your vision).

Human brains are trained to see and recognize faces. That whole virgin-Mary-in-the-toast thing is testament to our brains’ abilities to pick out faces in the most random smattering of shades. I think it’s amazing that we can recognize so many faces that are, essentially, the same (what with the orifices and whatnot).

But the person who confused me with Beyonce?
THAT person probably needs an MRI.

Who do you look like?