I'm Looking Forward To The Netflix

The awesome part about living in the middle of the desert?  Not too many people can find you, unless you want them to.  Which is actually really good for my social misfit-ness.  Because, let's face it.  If I were to live in the big city, I'd lose my mind with all of the noise and people and stuff, and my head would be all, What the fuck are we doing here? PACK YOUR SHIT.  I WANNA GO HOME.  So, aside from the godforsaken heat and occasional boob-sand (for all of you non-desert folk, that's sand that gets kicked up by the mysterious desert winds and manages to lodge itself inside the canyon that is your cleavage), my home pretty much kicks ass.
But there is one, horribly awful piece of awful-ness that isn't as tolerable as boob-sand and sun rays of death ... Shitty internet service. I've been living on my cell-phone's data plan for-fucking-ever, and I just couldn't take it anymore.  Because there would be times when I'd be in the middle of typing a report for work, or writing a blog post, or surfing the internet for random cool shit like what ninjas do on vacation, and the whole goddamn signal would shut down and I'd lose everything, and I'd be all, whhhyyyyy?!?!?!?!  And the cellphone data plan gods would be all, because fuck you, that's why.  Or, there would be times when all the shit would work perfectly, and then ... I'd.fucking.run.out.of.data.  And then I'd be all, nobody get on the internet for the next six days because we don't have any more data, and THEY WILL NOT GET OVERAGE CHARGES OUT OF ME.  
And then I broke.  Because as much as I'd like to think that I would love to live in Tombstone times, truth is that unless The Oriental had internet and refrigerated air, I'd be all, yo Doc, we gotta bounce.  So I bought myself some wifi.  And IT. IS. AWESOME.
When the internet installer guy came out to the house he was all, ok so where do you want your satellite?  And I was all, where ever the hell you want to put it.  And he was all, k, whatever.  And I was all, yeah just make sure that motherfucker is wifi-ed up.
And then a little while later, it was all done, and the guy was like, k check your computer or your phone to see if it connects.  And then I entered the code, and then I saw the wifi fan show up, and then I saw the fan start to light up, and I was all, SWEET MOTHER OF WIFI SIGNALS, IT LIVES.  And then I kind of wanted to cry.  And as I held back a sniffle, I softly whispered, I love you, Internets.
And now that I have wifi, I'm really looking forward to getting the Netflix.  I've heard excellent things about it.

You Will Never Win

Best friends keep you sane.  And by keep you sane, I really mean, KEEP YOU FROM LOSING YOUR SHIT.  
Because. They. Understand.
They understand when you tell them about how people insist on trying to talk to you from across the house and you can't hear a goddamn word, and so you yell, "WHAT?!" 13 fucking times until you realize THAT YOU WILL NEVER WIN, and get up from where you're sitting to go find out that the lamp in one of the bedrooms needs a new light bulb.
And then your best friend is all, don't feel bad dude, let me tell you about how every time I try to sit down and get work done at home, I put in my headphones, and people walk around and argue with each other and then whisper-yell, "sssshhhhh!! she's trying to work!!!"
Your best friend understands when you tell the story of when you and your cousin took your Grandma to go run errands and you realized that the elderly can fucking out-talk Oprah.  BECAUSE THEY SAY WHATEVER THE SHIT IS ON THEIR MIND.
And then your best friend will be all, I know. I still get step-by-step directions on how to cook food.  Literally. Step. By. Step. Because keeping my family alive for 15 years has convinced no one.
The BFF understands when you talk about how you don't have the vision of how shit should turn out, and somehow manage to fuck up the easiest parts of life.
And then the best friend is all, ok. chill the fuck out. you. are. not. alone.  And then they go into the story of when they went out of town, somehow managed to end up lost, in the dark, in the shadiest part of the city, and got pulled over by the same cop. Twice. Within an hour. For forgetting to turn on the headlights.
And then when you leave, you just feel better.  Better about yourself.  Better about your friends. Better about life.  Because everybody deals with shit.  And everybody has people that drive them crazy but couldn't live without.  And everybody's afraid that they're fucking shit up all the time.  And everybody has a story that ends with "THIS IS BULLSHIT".  But it's the bullshit that keeps things interesting and gives you stories to tell.  So go on, people ... live your life.  Survive the bullshit.  Tell the tale.  And when you feel like you're gonna lose your shit, call your BFF.  They'll help.  They always do.

Mint Chocolate Chip. Always.

Ok.  So I haven't written a post in a while.  I know this.  And I have no valid excuse other than to say that I've been on vacation, and my spirit has apparently shunned all forms of responsibility including, but not limited to:  checking email, returning texts, watching the news, cooking valid meals, and plucking my eyebrows.  But this morning, I finally did check my email because I was like, oh shit, work's probably gonna start again soon. I should probably check to make sure that it hasn't already started and that I haven't started off a new term with spectacular flakiness.  
But, luckily, I haven't missed the opening day, but it is just around the corner.  And my  responsibility-shunning spirit, that had been so full of joy and had finally recovered from last year's sleep deprivation, wept a little and called the calendar a dream-killing douche-canoe.  And then, the sadness and responsibility crept into my body like Emily Rose's demons, and I had the choice to stay my course, and get ready to go back to work, or leave and become a rodeo clown.  But I didn't think that being a rodeo clown would pay all of my bills, and if you have to supply your own barrel, I'd be screwed anyway, so I accepted defeat, slowly slumped to the ground and whispered, I choose to stay. 
On the upside, though, this summer I found out that my local Baskin-Robbins has a drive-thru.  I'm pretty stoked about that.

It's Like A Tattoo, Except Not Really

Yesterday was a big day.  I got my very first pedicure.  Ever.  Of my whole life.  I'm 31 years old, by the way.  I had made it a goal for this summer to get a pedicure on account of the fact that I was pretty much the only person in my age-group, and possibly the planet, who had never been pedicured before. (I should probably explain here, that I had never gotten a pedicure until yesterday because I was completely terrified of it, and was sure that my feet would be all cut up and hurt, and then I'd be all, my nails are beautiful, but you can't tell on account of all the bandages and blood).  And so my aunt was all don't worry, I'll make an appointment for you with my pedicure lady, and she did, and so it happened.  

It was pretty awesome when it was all said and done, but I think I was seriously missing some pedicure etiquette or something like that, because it was kind of an awkward experience, and the lady was looking at me like I was completely stupid until I told her that I had never gotten a pedicure before, and she was all ohhhhhh, ok, no worries then, have a seat.

And I stood there.  Like an idiot.  Because I had no idea how to get in the chair.  It's not like a normal chair, yo.  There's a plate on the arm rest, and a bowl for your feet to cook in, and I kept looking all around the chair for some sort of step, or footplate, or some sort of sign that said, "GET IN THE CHAIR LIKE THIS, DUMBASS".  But there wasn't one, so I had to look and the lady, and she was all, wow. you really haven't done this before. ok, get in the chair like this.  She didn't call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.

After I got myself situated in the chair of clusterfuckness, I was told about the massage feature, and the lady said, ok, look, you can adjust it with these buttons here, however you want it.  some people like the massage chair, some people don't.  it's up to you, but let's try.  And she turned it on, and the back and the sides of the chair started to expand and contract and started to suck me into the material, and it was like a total sensory overload, and I FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT.  And the lady was super calm and was all, ok. we'll just turn the chair off for this one.  And I was like, holy shit, that was a close call, thank you for not suffocating me with this chair of hideousness. 

And then I was supposed to put my feet in the bowl to get boiled, which is apparently normal, but I was hesitant because I don't really think that feet should ever get boiled.  And I was all, uh, is this safe? because I really need my feet for, you know, walking and general movement kind of purposes.  And the lady was like, yes, it's safe. we're gonna soak your feet, not cook them.  Again, she was too nice to call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.

Anyway, when I finally did get my feet soaked and massaged by water jets of awesomeness, it was fucking glorious, and I was all, sweet baby Jesus, WHY have I never done this before?!  And just as I was starting to relax, the lady opened up a box full of mysteries, and pulled out more metal instruments than the fucking dentist.  And my brain was all, shit. that's how they do this. they trick you with the water jets, and then pull out the instruments of torture, and you're screwed because you can't move because the chair is closed around you, and your feet are in a bowl of slipperiness that'll break your face as you fall while trying to escape.  And as I faced the inevitable, I looked at the chair of entrapment like, well played, asshole.  well played.

But as it turned out, the tools were for beautifying, not torturing, and that shit didn't hurt a bit.  The lady did ask why my nails were so short, and I explained that I had cut them myself the day before because I didn't know if that was part of the pedicure process.  And she smiled, and said, yes. yes it is.  I can take care of that for you next time.  And again, she was too nice to call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.

So, a file and a sugar scrub later, shit was finally normal again, and I picked the polish, and it was done.  And it was awesome.  My younger cousin was right -- once you get one pedicure, you're gonna be hooked.  I kind of equate it to a tattoo, that way.  Except my tattoo was painful, and there are no water jets of awesomeness at that place.

These are my toes.  They didn't get boiled. 

You're A Real Motherfucker, Candy Crush

I stopped playing Candy Crush a few months ago.  Actually ... a LOT of months ago.  And I kind of forgot why, so I opened up the app today to play a round, and it took me all of 3 minutes to remember that the game is an asshole that wants to steal my joy.  And possibly murder puppies and Santa Claus.

Here's how the shit went down ....

Here we go! ... Some candy crushin' bout to start in here.
Ohhhh.  That's the level that I left on.
Fuuuuuccckkkk.  Yeah, I remember this level now.
Sonofabitch, with the stripes.  Dammitt!! I forgot that I needed a million of the stupid stripes!
Aaaarrrggghhh!!!!!   I ran out of moves!
Shit.  Try again.
Shit.  Try again.
Shit.  Try again.
Shit.  Try again.
Ok, it's gonna happen this time.  It's gotta happen.
Fuck.
What the shit, Candy Crush?  Why are you making stripes impossible?
Fuck you, bombs!  I don't need bombs!  I. NEED. STRIPES.
Holy shit!  I only need one more!!!!
One more, bitch!  Ha!  Who's the dumbass now, Candy Crush?!
The fuck?  No.  Why is it over?  I only needed one more.  I didn't get it yet.  This shouldn't be over yet.
What the hell just happened?
I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
Oh, here it is.  
Zero moves left.  One stripe to go.
Shit.  Try again.
      (Time to next life:  16:37)
You're a real motherfucker, Candy Crush.

Cyndi Lauper, Captain Hook, and John McClane

Confession:  I am HORRIBLE at remembering people's names.  Basically, unless I literally hear your name every day, or I've known you my whole life, it's gonna take a few minutes for your name to come to mind.  BUT ... I can remember a face forever.  And so, what eventually happens is that I can remember what people look like, or who they remind me of, or something unique that they did, but not their name, and so when I need to tell another person about them, I usually end up saying shit like ...

Dammit.  I forgot to get that printout from Cyndi Lauper.

Or the guy from the Christmas party that got drunk and busted out moves nobody ever even knew he had ...  Hey, have you heard from Michael Jackson lately?

Sonofabitch, I have to go to the main offices, and my report was late.  Voldemort is gonna totally avada kedavra my ass.

Shit.  I locked myself out of the office.  Can you call John McClane to come let me in?

But the awkward part is that nobody else usually knows who I'm referring to because they're all better at remembering people than I am.  So when I ask about where the hell Captain Hook left the toner for the copy machine, I usually get horrified looks from people, and they say, "You mean Steve??  Uh, he went to go unlock the supply room with the master key".  And I'm all, "wtf? what happened to John McClane?"  And they're like, "Um, ok, John McClane is, in fact, Carlos, and he only has the master key for the outlying buildings."  And I'm all, "ohhhhh, ok, got it.  but, John McClane always unlocks my door for me when I forget the key, and I'm not in the outlying buildings."  And they're like, "Because Carlos always goes to get the key for you from Steve."  And I'm like, "who?"  And they're all, "Captain Hook.  John McClane always goes to get the key for you from Captain Hook."  And I'm like, "Ohhhhh, ok, perfect.  I get it now.  You gotta use the right names, otherwise nobody'll know who the hell you're talking about."

Tip Your Hats, Y'all

Happy Memorial Day, folks.  No jokes or smart-ass comments from me today.  Just sincere respect and gratitude for the men and women who serve(d) this awesome country of ours.  Because only here would I get to live the life that I love, with the people that I love, and be a part of this blog with you, and enjoy the seemingly stupid, simple pleasures that we often take for granted.  So thank a soldier today.  And if you don't happen to see one, then just send a silent thanks up into the universe, take a quiet minute, and watch it radiate through the atmosphere.  

I've Seen The Star Wars

Once upon a time, in a small, small town, there lived a 30+ year-old woman who'd never, ever seen Star Wars.  And that woman was me.  And when people found out that I'd never, ever seen Star Wars, they flipped their shit.  And that's how I ended up spending a whole day of my weekend watching Episodes IV, V and VI.  And I saw some shit in the Star Wars.  Some weird-ass shit.

I became acquainted with Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker, who are goddamn twins, yo.  And I met Han Solo, who is like Indiana Jones but with even more hotness.  Although I do really like Indiana Jones with his hat.  On second thought, they probably should've given Han Solo a hat.  Or a whip.  Or both.  It would've all been good.  Because Harrison Ford is always the shit.  I feel like maybe the creators of Star Wars already knew that going in, so they were like Let's give him a giant furry side-kick with no tangible vocabulary, because if anybody can pull off an unbreakable friendship with a Wookiee, it's fucking Harrison Ford.

And Obi Wan Kenobi dies.  So does Yoda.  And I was all, Luke, you're running out of mentors, man.  What are you gonna do?  Why didn't you stay in the fucking swamp until you finished your training.  LEARNING STUFF IS A GOOD THING. Now, they're not gonna be there for the fight at the end.  Darth Vader is gonna kick your ass.  And the Emperor is creepy as fuck.  DON'T GO TO THE DARKSIDE, YO.  THERE IS NOTHING FOR YOU THERE.

And when I started the first movie (which is not, in fact, Episode I, but the first movie in chronological order in which the movies are made -- it's all confusing, I feel like there should be cliff notes, or an appendix with maps and charts and other helpful material), I already knew that Darth Vader was Luke Skywalker's father, because you hear the shit all the time ... Luuukkkeee, I AM YOUR FATHER.  But I did wonder if Luke Skywalker was aware that his father was a stately, elegant, African-American man with a voice like thunder.  And when they took off the helmet in the last movie, I was like, What the fuck, Star Wars? THAT MAN IS NOT JAMES EARL JONES.

But on the upside, I did learn that the Death Star isn't actually a star, just a giant death machine.  And in the last movie, I wondered how The Empire was constructing a new one on account of the no gravity in space.  I assume that the movies leave you with questions like this to keep you wondering, because that's how they get you to use your mind so you're better able to channel The Force.  

The Sky's An Asshole

This Morning


The Sky:  Hey, I'm awake

Me:  So?

The Sky:  Get up

Me:  No

The Sky:  But I'm AWAKE

Me:  Go away

The Sky:  But it's a beautiful day

Me:  It's Saturday, asshole

The Sky:  But there's so much awesome stuff out here, like the grass, and the trees ...

Me:  Fuck you

The Sky:  ... and the clouds ...

Me:  Seriously, stop

The Sky:  ... and the land ...

Me:  I will kill you

The Sky:  ... and the birds are singing ...

Me:  I'll kill them, too

The Sky:  ... beautiful little chirpy songs ...

Me:  Don't think I won't

The Sky:  ... and smell that fresh country air ...

Me:  For real, you will die

The Sky:  ... and look at that! here comes the sun shining right into your window! a wonderful ray of sunshine right across your face! there's no way you can still be asleep now! this is gonna be a fantastic day!

Me:  You motherfucker

I Do This For You

Remember when you had all your shit together and you totally remembered to wish your peeps a happy holiday?  Yeah, I don't.  Sorry about that.  I completely missed the Easterness with y'all because my attention span and memory completely suck.  And, well, let's face it.  At this point, if you don't expect me to forget shit fairly often, then I don't really know what to tell you.  Except that this was coming, yo.  You should always expect me to fuck up every now and again.  Because fucking shit up is really one of the things I do best.  If it wasn't, there wouldn't be anything to talk about here.  So really, I forget things and screw up because I love you guys.  And I want you to have fun reading the stuff on here.  And I want you to have someone you can relate to, and be all, ugh, dude I know I forgot to get that report in on time, but that's nothing, because this one chick I know FUCKING FORGOT EASTER.
I do this for you, you guys.

Damn You, Jed Clampett

The problem with having an attention span as shitty as mine is that, unless your end of the conversation is riddled with interesting facts and humorous anecdotes, before I know it you're balls-deep in some kind of monologue about whatever, and in my head I'm playing the opening credits for The Beverly Hillbillies.

People:  yeah, so you know, the thing with the stuff about the person
In My Head:  Coooommmme, listen to me story 'bout a man named Jed ...
Me:  uh huh

People:  I know, right? Because of the thing with the stuff about the person
In My Head:  ... poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed ...
Me:  uh huh, I know

People:  Shit, I'm telling you ... the thing with the stuff about the person
In My Head:  ... then one day, he was shootin' at some fooooood ... and up through the ground come a bubblin' crude ...
Me:  Shit, yeah, you're telling me 

People:  I know, it's a damn shame about the thing with the stuff about the person
In My Head:  ... oil, that is. black gold. Texas tea. ...
Me:  Yeah, it's a damn shame


But then, eventually, my head gets me into trouble .........


People:  So, you know, anyway, the thing with the stuff ???
In My Head:  ................ swimmin' pools. movie stars. .............. THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES!!
Me: uh huh

People:  (silence)
In My Head:  wtf? they stopped talking. why'd they stop talking?
Me:  (silence)

People:  so?
In My Head:  seriously.  w.t.f.?!  oh, shit. did they ask me a question? crap. they're still looking at me. they definitely asked me a question. shit. they're still staring at me. they're waiting for an answer, dumb ass.  think of something.  anything.  damn you, Jed Clampett! I should've been paying attention! shut-up. it's not Jed Clampett's fault that you weren't paying attention.  and it's not Jed Clampett's fault that his theme song was so damn catchy.  and now you've just wasted even more time talking to yourself about the awesomeness of the Clampetts.  shit! they're still looking at you! say something! anything! SAY SOME WORDS.
Me:  oh, yeah, you know, I'd have to check on that, I'm not sure

People: you're not sure if you like pie?
In My Head:  shit.
Me:  oh, "pie"!    Hahahahaha!  Of course I like pie!  Who doesn't like pie, right?  I was just... I was thinking... I thought you were talking about the other kind of "pi" ... like the one from math.  But, yeah, I mean, pie is totally great.  You know, put some ice cream on that shit, it's all good.

And THAT, my friends, is what it's like in my head ...

Let It Go, Yo. Let It Go.

So I finally watched Frozen.  I had to.  Because of all the hype.  And everybody was talking about it all the time, and there were all these jokes about it on Pinterest, and adults everywhere were like, "o.m.g. have you seen it yet? it's soooo good!"  And I was all, no I haven't seen it. I don't know what everyone's talking about.  I don't know what the jokes mean.   I want to understand.
And now I do.  Olaf.
And there was other crap, too.  Like the snow.  And the ice. And the cold.  Because all of the shit is frozen.  There is no subtlety in the title, people.  All of the shit. Is. Frozen.  And the only thing I could think when the queen is beginning to discover that her powers are growing, and you know there's trouble on the horizon, was "WINTER IS COMING".  (Spoiler alert:  Ned Stark isn't in this one.  And as far as I know, the Lannisters are still wreaking havoc in King's Landing.)
But for me, it was all about Olaf.  That guy is hilarious.  They need to make a movie just about Olaf.  Because he earned it, yo.  That snowman is a fucking star.

It's Like Watching Wilson Float Away

You've never known self-restraint until you've been to a Pampered Chef party.  Because all of their shit is awesome.  ALL OF THEIR SHIT IS AWESOME.  
When it starts and they do demonstrations, at first you're a total non-believer, like, pshhh whatever, I know how to cook with the same tools that I've been using for decades because that's the kind my mom and my grandma used to use and they work just fine; I don't need any of your newfangled culinary sorcery.  But after awhile (and you don't even really feel it start to happen), you become mesmerized and find yourself whispering to the person next to you:
Did you fucking see that?  They just baked a cake in 10 minutes.  In the microwave.  In the goddamn microwave.
And then they pass around the catalogs that are filled with so much cool shit that you never even knew you needed:  
A mango slicer?!  Omg, I could totally use one of those even though I'm allergic to mangoes.  I know exactly which drawer I would keep it in too!
Holy shit!!! It's a whole collection!  A mango slicer, an apple wedger (and corer included!), and another one specifically designed for pineapple!  This is perfect for my OCD!  It's like they know me.
Oh wow! A brownie pan? It automatically makes the brownies into squares, yo.  You don't have to cut them and get the crumbs all over!  Holy shit, I bet you could use it to make cornbread and mini-cakes, too.  It's a total multi-tasker.
So it continues, on and on, through the whole catalog, until you have a list of shit you want to buy that's longer than your fucking bucket list.  And then, the challenge begins.  Because you obviously can't buy all of the awesomeness that you want to because surviving life makes you use your money for stupid shit like paying bills, not buying stuff that will help guide you into culinary greatness.  It's like life doesn't even want you to achieve the goals you never even knew you had.
So the choice-making starts.  And it's like Sophie's Choice.  Or deciding who to vote off the island.  Or putting all of the stuff you want to buy into the glass bowl for The Reaping.
And eventually you leave the party glad for the gems you were able to get, but saddened and somehow broken by what you had to walk away from.  And you tell yourself, It's ok, you didn't really need those two extra pie crust shields.  And the canister that automatically sifts the confectioner's sugar onto the pastries of deliciousness would've been too much.  Where would you have put it anyway?  ... and then as you get into your car you realize where you would've put it, and you put your head in your hands and sigh, In the fucking cabinet by the stove, that's where.

I Didn't Get Stabbed

So I'm just gonna start off this post by saying that if you're easily offended by cleavage and bras for some reason, then you should probably stop reading right now.  Because the shit's about to get real here.  But all of my fellow large-breasted homegirls out there will completely understand when I say that my cleavage is like a goddamn cavern.  Sometimes, I find all kinds of shit in there.  Crumbs, bits of paper when I clean out the shredder, confetti, and on a windy day, the occasional leaf.  And today at work I found a paper clip that had somehow fallen into the depths.  This was a new one for me, I've never found paperclips in my cleavage before, and I gotta tell you, even I am a little bit stumped as to how it got there.  I don't remember a shower of office supplies, and if someone was flinging them across the office, I think I would remember paperclips flying at me like ninja stars.  But hey, who knows, right?
All I know is that halfway through the day, I felt the piercing and pinching start, and I figured that my underwire had escaped its fabricy confines and was being an asshole and trying to murder me by stabbing me in the chest.  Which has happened before.  I have the scars to prove it.  Because that's the real cleavage life.  It's the secret that Victoria never talks about.  So I had to excuse myself and go to the restroom.  Because you just can't wrestle your underwire in public, people.  It's frowned upon.  But as it turns out, my underwire had not staged a mutiny and was still holding the fort, so to speak.  It was a paperclip, yo.  In my cleavage.  Because weird shit is the fucking story of my life.  

There Was Blood. A Lot Of Blood.

Earlier today:

Me:  hey, do you think I need stitches?

Mom:  are you kidding me right now? what the fuck did you do?

Me:  sliced my finger

Mom:  with what?

Me:  razor blade

Mom:  shit. what the hell were you doing?

Me:  shaving my legs

Mom:  so how the hell did you manage to slice your finger?

Me:  well, I was trying to take care of the blade and dry it real good

Mom:  the fuck?

Me:  you know, so that it'll last longer

Mom:  you know those are disposable blades?

Me:  um, yeah, but you know, waste not want not

Mom:  so for a two-dollar razor you made yourself bleed?

Me:  well, when you put it that way it makes me sound ridiculous

Mom:  uh huh

Me:  so?

Mom:  what?

Me:  do you think I need stitches?

Mom:  um. no. that doesn't need stitches. that is a glorified paper cut.

Me:  what the hell are you talking about?! do you know how much that shit bled? a lot, dude. I had to hold my hand above my head and everything.

Mom:  uh huh

Me:  and then I flushed out the wound and the bitch still bled, and then I disinfected it, and it bled even more

Mom:  uh huh

Me:  seriously, dude

Mom:  uh huh. so what you need there is a band-aid. and some neosporin

Me:  dude, we've been through this. I'm allergic.

Mom:  oh yeah that's right

Me:  so?

Mom:  what?

Me:  what do you think I should do?

Mom:  um, nothing dude, it's really not that bad


Later in the day

Me:  shit

Mom:  what?

Me:  I was putting on the seatbelt and the wound popped open again

Mom:  wound?

Me:  yes, wound

Mom:  that's not a wound.  it's more like a minor cut

Me:  it hurts, it's bleeding. it's a wound

Mom:  uh huh


Later that evening:

Me:  dammit!

Mom:  what the hell are you doing to yourself?

Me:  it's not my fault!

Mom:  what?

Me:  I sneezed. and the force of my sneeze popped it open again

Mom:  the fuck?

Me:  my sneezes are violent, dude

Mom:  I don't even know what to say to you right now

Me:  i'm bleeding, yo

Mom:  let me see ... dude, there is one drop of blood coming out of that paper cut

Me:  wound

Mom:  ... (silence) ...

Me:  there is a drop of blood seeping out of my wound

Mom:  and I couldn't bref

It's Spring Break, Charlie Brown

When I was a kid, and in my teens, and in college, I always assumed that Spring Break was for us kids.  Negative.  Spring break is for the grown-ups.  I understand that, now.  Because Linus explained it to me, and at the end he said, "So you see, Charlie Brown ... Spring Break was not created for the children.  It was made for the adults that are responsible for educating the children.  And it was made in the middle of the Spring semester to keep them from losing their shit."
And so, as some college kid takes off to a beach somewhere to go surfing with Jaws, I will be honoring the true spirit and meaning of Spring Break with NyQuil shooters and a quiet nod to the Spring Break Gods.

I Bet The Cereal Dudes Have One Hell Of A Poker Game

Ok. So I'm officially over 30 now, right? And sometimes I kind of feel like I should eat responsible cereals like other adults do.  You know, the stuff like the Shredded Wheat that makes me feel like I could actually die because I don't really put a lot of milk in my cereal (because the way I feel about milk could really be a whole other blog post), and the dryness could cause me to choke to death on a single, solitary piece of shredded wheat that got caught in my esophagus.  And then my effort to stay healthy would ironically result in my untimely, wheaty death.  And then I think of Grape Nuts as an option, but in 3 decades I've never really understood what the actual Grape Nuts are.  Are they grapes?  Are they nuts?  If not, why the name?  It just seems shady and misleading to me. Because grapes and nuts are both delicious, so it would stand to reason that a cereal named after them both would be doubly delicious.  But it's not.  And I can't even decide what the things that come out of the box really are.  I've always just seen them as tiny beads of tooth-cracking unpleasantness.
No. No. No. There will be no colorless cereals being poured into my bowl.  Instead, I will eat Fruit Loops until Toucan Sam sends me an email telling me that new owners have adopted the Fruit Loops factory and will start replacing each loop with soy and tofu. And then I'll be like, holy shit, Sam! Thanks for the warning, man! Let's go see if the Lucky Charms guy and Count Chocula will let us into their poker game. We could probably buy in with all these extra shredded wheat squares we've got laying around.

I Regret Nothing

A while back, I wrote a post where I mentioned Mondays, and called them assholes.  Repeatedly.  And then I kind of started to feel bad about it, like I was regretting being too harsh, because Monday is just a day, right?  I mean, just because it's Monday doesn't automatically make it an asshole, right? Wrong.
Let me tell you a story ...
Today's Monday.  And it's an asshole.  
I left my house this morning and got stuck behind The Jolly Green Giant's tractor of enormousness for like 4 miles.  And then I got to work and realized that I forgot my favorite granola bar for my snack, and it made me sad.  Because I look forward to my snack time at work, because snacks equal happiness.  And then as I was walking from one building to another, I locked myself out of the office because I forgot the key. On the desk. Inside the office. So, while I was waiting to get un-locked out, I thought no big deal, I can just eat my granola bar while I wait because my stomach is about to murder me on account of the hunger. And then I remembered that I forgot my granola bar and it made me sad all over again.  And then while I was taking my stuff out of my truck at another work site, I dropped my flash drive onto the pavement, and part of it cracked.  And then some of the files wouldn't open.  And I thought it was because I had dropped it, but it turns out that my flash drive is actually a bit of a slut when it comes to computers, and has landed herself an electronic STD.  And now I'll probably have to go deal with the Geek Squad to get it fixed, and they're gonna be all, dude, you're flash drive is a whore.  And I'm gonna be like, dude, I know. And she's probably not gonna change because it's her lifestyle, yo, so just fix it. And then I got all the way home and realized that I forgot to stop for gas on my way home from work, so the drive to the gas station tomorrow morning should be interesting. And by interesting, I mean that Fred Flintstone may need to make an appearance.
So, all in all, I stand by my statement that Mondays are assholes.
I. Regret. Nothing.

Alligators From Satan

So, this morning, as I was surfing through the current events and news stories that pop up when I open the internet, I came across the usual suspects.  You know, there are always stories about global warming, and the environment, and civil unrest in foreign countries, and current economic climates.  The important stuff.  And there, interspersed between shit that actually matters, was a story title about Justin Bieber's 20th birthday, and some sort of "journey through his life story".  Because Justin Bieber's questionable navigation through his mere 20 years of life is completely comparable to the political climates that shape our universe, yo.  And then the story title that followed that was about rare albino alligators that are creepy as fuck.  I feel like that story was the news's way of saying, sorry, people, we know. but we had to put the Bieber shit in the mix because he gets butt hurt if we don't mention him every once in a while, but here's a story for you about alligators from Satan to restore your faith in us.

2K, Bitch. 2K

Holy shitsnacks, people!  We're at 2000 hits on this blog!!!
Y'all are the bomb.  Like, for real.  Keep on reading, and clicking on my page (theawkwardauthority.blogspot.com), and tell your friends to search the link also, and if they have Facebook, tell them to search for the Facebook page and like it, too, so that we can keep growing.  Like a cult.  Except, not scary. And one where people can feel whatever the hell they feel like feeling, because we're all chill here.  And normal. Well, ok, maybe not normal normal, but normal like a cult of awesomeness and friendship and obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
2K, you guys.  Seriously.  This is a goddamn milestone.  Picture me standing outside your window right now, holding up a boombox like John Cusack.  Except the boombox is playing the theme song from The Golden Girls.
Thank you for being a friend, yo.

One With The Sea

A conversation between me and my mom:

Me:  I denied that friend request from Facebook

Mom:  how come?

Me:  because I feel like it's a trap

Mom:  what?

Me:  yeah, a trap to spy on shit that I say and post

Mom:  uh huh

Me:  and then they'll see how much I cuss and all of the awesome inappropriate crap that I post

Mom:  uh huh

Me:  and then they'll tell the mother and she'll try to save me with Jesus

Mom:  save you with Jesus?

Me:  yeah, and then I'll have to tell them that that ship didn't even get to sail; it got taken down by a fucking kraken

Mom:  taken down by a kraken ...

Me:  yeah, like forever ago

Mom:  uh huh

Me:  and then they'll be all, what's a kraken? and I'll be like, uh, hello. the kraken. the monster. from the depths of the sea.  and they'll be all, you got taken down by a sea monster?  and I'll be like, no, not me. my ship.  and then they'll be all, your ship?  and I'll be like, yeah, my ship of morality and fortitude, yo. and then they'll be all, well that's why we want to save you.  and then I'll have to be like, you are too late, fair do-gooders. I've become one with the sea.

Mom:  one with the sea ... 

Me:  one with the sea

I know. I KNOW.

I know.  I've been a shitty-ass blogger the last couple of weeks.  Sorry, yo.  Life happened and shit.  But to make it up to you, I'm sharing the funniest thing I've seen all week.  Seriously.  I laughed way too hard.  Like, I had an Ursula moment with crazy laughter.  All that was missing was the tentacles and cauldron.

I have no idea who made this.  It's not mine.  I found it on Pinterest.  I have to say that because of copyright and stuff.  But whoever made it a freaking genius.  And hilarious.  And my hero.

Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day you crazy lovelies.   Just let it happen ...

You Can't Punch People In The Throat

I feel like I need to talk about what happened to me the other night.  It was kind of an awakening.  Maybe.  I don't know.  It might not qualify as an awakening.  More like an "aha!" moment.  But then it sounds like Oprah, and we ALL know I am really not as fucking eloquent as Oprah.  So maybe not an "aha!" moment either.  I don't know.  I'll just tell you and then you can decide what the hell it counts as.

**NOTE:  Dude, spell check totally recognizes and accepts "Oprah".  It's like what happened when I wrote the post that mentioned Sigourney Weaver.  I don't blame it.  I wouldn't want to provide alternative suggestions for those names, either.  Then I'd be the program that got its red-squiggly-line ass kicked by Alien and Oprah.  That doesn't look good on anybody's resume.

Anyway, so the other night.  The sun's already set, total darkness outside.  Dinner eaten.  Work clothes changed.  Normal, right?  Uh, so not normal.  Because that's when it happened.  As I was walking to my bedroom, ready to call it a night, hit the hay, get some shut-eye, I glanced at the clock and then stared at it in horror.  6:30pm.  SIX-FUCKING-THIRTY.  I didn't even realize that shit!  All I was thinking about at the time was how tired I was from dealing with the endless array of fucktards that seemed to surround my day, and how punching them in the throat would probably only make things worse the next day because shit like that is apparently "frowned upon" by upper management, and how I should probably stop laughing when people talk to me about anger management because people who manage their anger probably don't think about punching other people in the throat. 

And then I saw the clock.  And silently turned around to rejoin the land of the living, not quite sure how to process what had just happened.  And then later that night, much much later, I finally formed a thought about it, and whispered to myself, holy shit, self. you really need to pull your fucking life together. you CANNOT fall asleep at six-fucking-thirty. ever.  because normal people don't do that.  and because making people deal with a poorly-rested you the next day will be way more effective than a punch to the throat. 

Yo Waldorf, Put Popsicles On The Menu Please

Ok, you guys.  Can we all just agree that Woody Harrelson is fucking awesome as shit?
I've been watching True Detective on HBO, because HBO apparently knows a thing or two about how to make television series that are so beyond greatness that you would actually let yourself get killed by Tony Soprano just so you could say that you met the man.  Maybe we should all agree that HBO is fucking awesome as shit, too?  I don't know.  It's something to think about.

Anyway, one day while I was watching an episode, it really hit me how much I freaking love Woody Harrelson.   He's so fucking versatile.  Game Change, North Country ... serious as all hell.  The Hunger Games ... totally conflicted.  And then there's Pepper Lewis.  If y'all don't know who Pepper is, you need to stop reading this post right now, get your ass on Netflix, and rent The Cowboy Way.  Trust me.  You'll be better for it.  Because it's awesome.  And Woody Harrelson is the fucking Big Chief.  Let me put it this way ... If I ever get to New York City, my ass is going to dinner with Pepper.  And we'll be eating popsicles.  If the Waldorf has any.  I asked them in the title of this post to put popsicles on the menu.  And I said "please".  Because the Waldorf is classy as shit.  And you can't just ask them for stuff and forget your manners.  Because if you did, they'd probably be all, this is the Waldorf, yo. Remember where you are, bitch.  So I'm guessing if you actually make the effort to smile and say "please", they'd have a change of heart and be all, you got it, motherfucker. two popsicles coming right up.

Alcohol Magic

I feel like the very first person in the history of the world to invent alcohol fit for drinking was a dude somewhere in a shitty little beginning-of-time town who was like, "yo. you need to drink this. because it's magic."  And the people looked at him like he had lost his fucking mind, because how could a drink be magic, and he should just go back to his little corner of weirdness and stay of out everybody's way.  And then he was all, "fine. don't believe. more for me."  And then people slowly started to notice all the bullshit and stupidness around them and how the crazy dude never seemed to mind or be affected.  So then the representative of the people went to the dude, and was all, "hey, crazy dude, we want to try some of the magic. I will disperse it to the people."  And the dude smiled a lazy magic smile, and said, "make it so, number 1."  And so the magic was spread.  Because the dude knew what was up.  Amen.

Because Self-Esteem Is Important, Yo

Ok. So check it out.  I'm a shitty-ass driver, right.  I mean, like, if there's something for me to run into, I probably will.  Just saying.  I once turned the wrong way onto a one-way street, because I didn't see the "one-way" sign, because I was concentrating on the value deal posted on the Carl's Jr marquee across the street.  I was in college, and I was fucking excited about the buy-one-get-one-free Famous Star special.  Priorities, yo. 
Note: It totally turned out ok, though, you guys.  I bailed into a nearby parking lot before the herd of on-coming traffic could trample me because my years of Mario-Kart experience totally trained me for that moment.

I also backed into the corner of a building once.  Literally.  The building had a notable scar to prove it.  And the bumper of my then-bad-ass truck had the tiniest dent.  It took it like a champ.  I don't really remember why that one happened, though.  I can assume it was also because my ADD was being an asshole, but I can't really say for sure. Maybe I hit that shit harder than I thought.  Anyway, I digress ...

So, a couple of days ago, I watched a woman try to back a Ford Focus into a giant parking space 5 times before she finally gave up and drove away.  And even though my driving record is far from perfect, because my ADD apparently doesn't recognize heavy machinery as something that I should be whole-heartedly attentive to, I can honestly say that as of this day, I've never once had to give up trying to park a Ford Focus in an acre-sized parking lot.  Confidence builders, people.  Grab 'em when you can.

I Forgot How To Human

Today was "back to work" day from the holidays, and apparently something over the vacation killed my fucking brain cells, because I started the morning all, where the hell am I?  and where the hell am I going?  and what the hell am I supposed to do when I get there?  It was rough, yo.  And it started when the alarm clock rang, because my alarm clock is an asshole.  Then I realized WHY it was ringing, and the fact that it was, as I am now affectionately referring to it, "get-your-fucking-ass-up-because-you-have-to-go-to-work-because-you-can't-be-on-vacation-forever-because-you-need-fucking-health-insurance-and-fucking-money-because-you-can't-buy-shit-with-jars-of-sunshine-and-skittles-because-that's-how-society-fails" Monday.  And Monday's are assholes.  Just like alarm clocks.  It's like they naturally go together.  Because they're assholes. 

So when I got to work, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and stared blankly at my steering wheel because I'd apparently forgotten how to human, and had managed to drive and park by muscle memory alone.  Because my muscles want to see me fucking succeed.  Not like my alarm clock.  That bitch wants to kill me.  With sleep deprivation.  Because it's an asshole that wants to sing me the song of its people at the fucking ass-crack of dawn.  And as it sings, I whisper, I don't care about your song.  You. Will. Die.

And then the emails started.  And the phone calls.  And I was all, the fuck, dude?  And just when I thought I was going to have to hide in the bathroom because I couldn't figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing, my brain finally showed up like a fucking douchebag arriving 2 hours late for their own party.  And I was like, nice timing, bitch.  And  my brain was all, how'd you like that drive this morning?

It's 2014, Bitch

Well, I think it's safe to say that 2013 pretty much sucked ass for me and mine, so I'm hoping that 2014 comes in like the fucking Hulk and smashes shit into awesomeness.  I used to make lots of New Year's resolutions every year that most people would consider standard and "important".  You know, shit like reach my ultimate financial goals, lose the extra weight, be healthy, be motivated, kick ass, be a better person, etc etc etc.  But, you know what, you guys?  I think that shit's really overrated.  I've kind of learned that it doesn't matter what you set out to do, life just fucking happens.  And you've gotta either deal with it the best way you know how to at that exact moment, pray to whoever you pray to that you find a way to make peace with whatever happened and move on, or just make the decision to let your spirit die. 
So for this year, my New Year's resolution is simply this:  don't let my motherfucking spirit die.  And while it may not seem productive or proactive or whatever to some people, it means a lot to me.  Which is what I think resolutions are meant to be, anyway.  Important to you.  So for this year, people, do what's important to you.  Do what means something to you.  I'm gonna try to just get through each day with my motherfucking spirit in tact.  And maybe buy a cactus to try and keep alive too.  I don't know.  It feels like a lot of pressure.  I'm still up in the air about that one.