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.