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.

HOLY HELL

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?
Fuh-GETTA-bout-it.
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.
Shit.
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…

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.
Congrats.
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!

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.

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 AllRecipes.com 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.


IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.
BY COLIN NISSAN
- - - --->
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!

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?!?
Yikes.
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!

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:

IF…
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.

THEN…
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.

Fantastic.

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.

SWOON

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

LOL!

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.

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?