Thanks A Lot For The Reminder, Emily Rose

I'm a total procrastinator.  Not by choice, though.  Just more because my attention span is shit.  Take today, for example.  I've been trying to balance my checkbook for about 5 hours, and I still haven't done it.  Why, you ask? Because I was surfing Facebook for about 20 minutes and then I decided I was hungry so I went to the refrigerator to look for something to eat, but the tree moving outside distracted me so I went to the door to study the wind speed, and then my stomach growled so I went back to the fridge, took out left overs from last night, ate a couple of bites, and then realized that the football games were starting so I turned on the tv, but while searching through the channels for the football game, I came across Ghostbusters which was already like half over, and I mean, you cannot NOT stop and watch Ghostbusters, so I watched it up until Sigourney Weaver goes all possessed (interesting side note -- did you know that spell check totally recognizes and accepts "Sigourney"?, that shit barely recognizes MY name, and my name is like the most basic name ever), and then I was like shit! my checkbook! because apparently demonic possession reminds me about my checkbook, and I looked at the tv like thanks a lot for the reminder, Emily Rose, so I went to my purse to get my checkbook out, but then I noticed my phone on the counter and the messages that I hadn't answered so I was like shit, I should probably answer those, and then after I answered the messages I was like dude, I could really go for a soda right now, so I went to go get one, opened it, but didn't take a drink because right at that moment I remembered that I was going to check the score of the football game, so I went back to the tv to change the channel because Ghostbusters was still playing and I had totally forgotten about it, and by that time Ghostbusters II was playing, and the guy that works in the museum with the hilarious accent was on, and I freaking love that guy "plees, tell me, why are you came?"  hahahahaha!! see? hilarious!  And so then... shit. hold on. I forgot where I was.  Let me go back and re-read what I was writing.... ok, right, changing the channel, so I changed the channel back to the football game, and then I remembered about my checkbook so I was headed to my purse again, but I saw my laptop on the table and realized that I should write a post today, so I sat down, and now here we are.  For real, dude.  This is my life.  Every. Day.

I Was Born In The 80's, Yo

Yesterday I went to the store because I needed to buy cassette tapes for work.  Yes, old fashioned cassette tapes.  To record the weekly meetings.  Because I am about as tech-savvy as the fucking Aflac duck, and because I know how to work cassette tape recorders.  I don't know how to work digital recorders.  And even if I could figure out how to work that shit, I wouldn't have the slightest clue how to make a copy of the data.  Sometimes people at work look at me like I've apparently walked out of an episode of Little House On The Prairie, and I'm all, "I WAS BORN IN THE 80's, YO.   CASSETTE TAPES WERE THE HEIGHT OF FUCKING RELIABILITY.  please don't judge me."
And then they look at me with pity in their eyes, and try to explain to me how easy digital recording is ... dude, it's totally simple, you just record the session on this drive, and then transfer it, download it, move it, copy it, shake it, bake it, roll it, drink it .... blah, blah, blah ...
I could go on, but I would just be typing nonsense because after awhile it just all starts to sound like random words to me and while they're explaining the simple complexity and apparent genius of the newest technology, my eyes glaze over, and in my head I try to think of words that rhyme with "orange".
Anyway, there ARE some amusing benefits to going old-school with the technology.  For example, cassette tapes are really fucking hard to find, probably because of the rest of the people out there like me who know dependability when they see it, so when I do find them I buy as many as there are on the shelf.  And then I get to the cashier, and they're usually looking at me like why the fuck does this bitch need 15 cassette tapes?, and as I casually grab my receipt for the cash transaction, I whisper, "they can't track a cassette tape", nod at the ceiling, and walk away.

Happy Holidays ?

So today's Christmas, yo.  Here's the rundown:

We have Christmas breakfast in my family's house, first thing in the morning, come as you are.  And so it's pretty badass because you don't have to get all dressed up, and curl your hair, and put on make up, and put on fancy clothes, and garnish yourself like you live in The Capitol of The Hunger Games and be all "OMG it's CHRISTMAS!!  MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR!".   You just have to show up at my Grandma's house, ready to eat, presents in tow.  Enthusiasm is voluntary.

And then we all sit down to eat, and there's a million of us because we're like The Ewings, and then my Grandma says a prayer for us, thanking God for letting us all survive each other's shit long enough to make it from one Christmas breakfast to another.  It's pretty cool, actually.  She cries every time.  I mean, it's not cool that she cries.  But it's cool that, for the most part, all of us are there each year, maybe minus one or two who are on trial for shooting JR.  ... ... ... I'M KIDDING, PEOPLE.  There are no trials in Dallas.

Opening gifts this year was a little different though, because my Grandma gave each of her grandkids pieces of her own jewelry that she'd had restored, and each one had a separate story for each of us, and then me and my cousins looked at each other with tears in our eyes like "omg. why?!  WHY DOES SHE WANT TO MURDER OUR HEARTS?! WHAT THE HELL DID WE EVER DO TO THAT FREAKING LADY?". And nobody else could really say anything, yo, because it was a special moment, but y'all know me (I'm the one that didn't recognize the person standing at the front door ready to celebrate Christmas with us, so I just turned to the room and said "hey, there's a black man at the door"), so I was all, Dammit Gramma. Way to make a bunch of bitches cry.  To which she silently leaned over to look at me and winked.  Gotta love that lady, I realize now where some of my snarkiness comes from.

My cousin's 4-year-old son got a badass remote control monster truck as part of his gifts, but he wasn't playing with it right, so I had to confiscate it.  I tried to lead by example, of course.  Because monster trucks shouldn't be driven in straight lines back and forth on the cement.  That shit needs to go off-road.  And my phone was ringing and buzzing the whole time, but again, I led by example, (because I'm responsible, yo) and didn't answer it, because you're not supposed to text and drive.  And then I crashed the truck into the flower bed and took out a few solar lamps so I had to give it back.  I'm looking forward to his birthday.

Then it was time for poker.  And I lost my ass.  I have no humorous comments about that, because I came home 10 bucks poorer.  And my Grandma had them.  Damn that old lady.

N to the Y to the QUI. L. Shit.

I feel like NyQuil is the secret weapon to surviving life.  Feel a cold coming on? NyQuil.  Throat a little scratchy? NyQuil.  A little fever? NyQuil.  Some achiness? NyQuil.  Can't sleep? NyQuil.  Need to check out for a few hours because you just can't handle shit at that exact moment? NyQuil.   See?  It works all the way around.  Last night I took some because I was feeling pretty shitty and flu-ish, and it made me remember the time in college when me and some of my friends were all sick at the same time, so we each brought a bottle and enjoyed some nice NyQuil shooters before passing out.  It was like a cookie exchange. Except no one ate cookies because we were all buzzing on NyQuil and flu symptoms.  Good times, yo. Good times.

I also feel like I should enter a disclaimer on this post too, saying something like "I do NOT, in fact, condone the use of NyQuil for uses other than those directly listed on the provided directions", because some people are gonna be all, OMG, she's actually condoning the use of NyQuil as a way to get through life!  And I'm all, chill the fuck out people. It's fucking NyQuil. And this is a blog. Learn to take a joke, yo.

Heads Up, Y'all

Just a heads up, people.  Hallmark is in the middle of its annual alcoholism recruitment drive.  Remember:  their holiday movies are fiction, yo.  Your life is great.  You are AWESOME.  You have the happiness inside you right now.  So don't take the bait.  Just grab some popcorn instead of a bottle, and enjoy these movies the same way you would enjoy Steel Magnolias.  Or The Exorcist.



Disclaimer:  I do not now, nor have I ever endorsed the NOT watching of the Hallmark Channel.  That shit is great.  Slightly sadistic, but really quality television.  I mean, I just compared it to cinematic classics, yo.

What. The. Fuck.

Dude.  I graduated college like freaking forever ago.  And that shit got paid off because the shell broke and Ariel got her voice back, and Ursula got stabbed by a boat in a water tornado, and the billing department grudgingly returned my soul.  Now, it costs 12 dollars to order a transcript.  $12.25 to be exact.  The fuck?

I Should Come With A Warning Label

My BFF (that's "Best Friend Forever" for those of you who've been living on Neptune since the late 2000's) just told me that she reads my blog and a verse from The Bible every day.  I laughed at first, because she was all, you should feel totally special, dude.  But as I was walking through the house later, I stopped in my tracks because I was like, huh. I bet she reads the Bible to counteract the shit she reads here. And possibly to counteract my entire half of the friendship.  And that, people, is why my BFF is the yin to my yang, or the Yang to my Meredith.  The good decisions to the fucked-up bullshit I often manage to get myself into.  BFF's, y'all.  Find one.

Because Penguins Can't Fly, Asshole

You know which cliffhangers are the biggest assholes?  The ones that leave room for interpretation.  The ones that make you think of so many questions that there could not possibly be enough answers for.  The ones that make you lose your shit.

Case in point:  I feel like the last sentence of Catching Fire is the equivalent of a stranger handing you a briefcase, murmuring "the penguin flies at midnight", and walking away.  Because then you're left standing there like, what the fuck??  What do you mean? What the hell is in this briefcase?  What am I supposed to do about it?  What penguin?  And how can it fly?  It's a flightless bird, douchebag.  And midnight, today?  Or midnight, tomorrow?  And how the hell does a penguin know how to tell time, anyway.  And what does it have to do with me?  Where is it flying from?  Where is it flying to?  Why is it travelling? What kind of sick shit is this?  BECAUSE PENGUINS CAN'T FLY, ASSHOLE.

See?  Makes you lose your shit.

P.S.  To be fair, I guess, LOST had some of the most fucked up cliffhangers of all time, eventually clarified them all, and I STILL didn't have a fucking clue what was going on most of the time.

This Happened

Yesterday evening:

Mom: What the hell?

Me: What?

Mom:  Why are the sink and the counter covered in water?

Me:  Because I was bleeding profusely

Mom:  What?  What happened?

Me:  I don't know. I cut my elbow somehow. I didn't feel it. It's all mysterious. Like the giant purple bruise on my hip.  Mystery.

Mom:  And now you're bleeding profusely?

Me:  Yes

Mom:  Let me see ............ Dude, that's nothing.

Me:  It was dripping down my arm, yo

Mom:  Yeah but I wouldn't call it bleeding profusely. An arterial rupture... I would consider THAT bleeding profusely

Me:  I don't have time for your hospital knowledge right now.  I'm bleeding here.

Mom:  So you covered the bathroom sink in water for that?

Me:  I was FLUSHING OUT THE WOUND

Mom:  Right. Because of the bleeding profusely.

Me:  Right

Mom:  What the hell's all over your shirt? Is that blood?

Me:  No. Nail polish.

Mom:  What?

Me:  From earlier

Mom:  All over your shirt?

Me:  It was red. I have ADD. Spillage was inevitable.

Mom:  Uh huh.

Me:  Because of Christmas

Mom:  Spillage was inevitable because of Christmas?

Me:  No. Red nail polish. Because of Christmas.

Mom:  Ok. Are you still bleeding profusely?

Me:  Yes

Mom:  Dude, you need to stop bending your arm

Me:  What?

Mom:  Stop bending your arm. It makes it bleed more

Me:  But I can't see it, so I have to bend my arm around like this, see?

Mom:  You don't need to see it. You need to make it stop bleeding. Ugh, raise your arm above your heart, dude. This is all basic first aid, you know

Me:  Fine. Unbending.

Mom:  The hell??

Me:  What?

Mom:  Why the hell is the mirror covered in water splashes? How did you manage to get water all the way up there?

Me:  I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO DIRECT THE WATER. BECAUSE I WAS FLUSHING OUT THE WOUND. BECAUSE I WAS BLEEDING PROFUSELY.

Mom:  Do you want me to get you a band aid?

Me:  I'm allergic

Mom:  To band-aids?

Me:  No, to the adhesive

Mom:  Ok I have some fabric ones instead

Me:  I'm allergic

Mom:  But they're fabric

Me:  I'm allergic to the adhesive, dude

Mom:  Oh right.  How bout a surgi-strip? Or a piece of gauze and tape?

Me:  I'M ALLERGIC TO THE ADHESIVE

Mom:  What the hell are you gonna do if you're in the hospital and they have to tape you up?

Me:  They can't. And you have to tell them that I have contact allergies to Neosporin and Bacitracin, too.

Mom:  The fuck?

Me:  I know

Mom:  Why wouldn't you tell them?

Me:  Because I could be unconscious

Mom:  What?

Me:  From the blood loss

Mom:  Oh, right. Because of the bleeding profusely. I forgot.

Me:  Hey, it stopped bleeding.

Mom:  Good

Me:  Just gotta disinfect it.  Shit.  Now it's bleeding again.

Mom:  You want a band-aid?

Me:  Fine. Mock my medical emergency. I don't even care. Dammit, my shoulder hurts.

Mom:  What?

Me:  From bending my arm around.  It hurts

Mom:  Oh my God. You could never live alone.

Me:  Whatever

Mom:  I'm just saying. You're too much of a hypochondriac

Me:  I'm gonna go lay down. I think I dislocated my shoulder.

Mom:  (Silence)

Me:  Seriously, though. How can you tell if it's slipped out of the socket? Because I think it feels a little clicky.

Mom:  Do you want a band-aid?

You Guys?

You guys?  Guess what.  We've made it to damn near 1,000 hits on this little blog.  Yay for us!  Because actually, the hits happen because y'all read my rambling shenanigans, and then you tell your peeps about it, and they read it too.  So this is because of you, dude.  And this is me standing up, slow-clapping, and singing Wind Beneath My Wings right to you.  Because y'all are totally the wind.  And awesome.  You're awesome wind. 

And to mark the occasion, I've created a Facebook page for this blog (which you probably already know, because this link is on it), so continue your awesomeness, please, and tell your homeslices to like the page too  :)

Tomorrow's Monday And I Kind Of Want To Cry

I had to take my alarm clock out of solitary today.  Since I've had the last few days off of work because of the holiday, my clock has been in a dark and lonely place.  Because I feel like sequestering it during vacation is adequate and appropriate punishment for the sadness it brings me on regular days.  Well, actually, it's either sequester it, or murder it with a machete.  And I figure sequester-ment is cheaper because I don't have to buy a new alarm clock every time.