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.

Two Words, People: Garth. Brooks.

Who watched Garth Brooks on tv last night? This girl.  I had forgotten how much I just really love Garth Brooks because he retired. I mean, I had forgotten because he retired. I don't love him because he retired. When he retired I was actually like, dude? ... but the thunder?? ... who's gonna roll it???  (The thunder, people. Who's gonna roll the THUNDER. I know how y'all think, I know where your mind just went.)
But last night I watched Garth Brooks, and at first I was like, Garth!!! You're back, dude!!
And then he weaved old school music into his show and THAT SHIT WAS ART, PEOPLE, and I was like, oh crap, I forgot how awesome you are.
And then he played short pieces of his songs in between and I pumped my fist in the air and was all, AND THEY CALL THE THING RODEOOOOOOO!!!!
And then I was like, dammit you just played George Strait, I freaking love you.
And then he sang with Trisha Yearwood and it was all flashback to the duets from back in the day.
And then he slowed shit down and I was all, if tomorrrrooooowwww nevvvvvveeerrrr cooommmmmeeesss. 
And then he sang Shameless, and I was rocking out, and yelling the last line with him all, I'M SHAMELESSSSSSSSS!!!
And then he said, "alright! Thanks for coming out!" And I cut my solo short because I did a double take to the tv screen all, wtf, Garth???  I think you forgot one very important piece to this puzzle.
And then he sang The Piano Man, which is one of the greatest songs of all time, and I love it because Billy Joel is the freaking bomb, and I sang, sing us a song you're the piano man!! but it wasn't exactly what I was waiting for, because hello? this is a Garth Brooks show .........
And then he strummed his guitar all slow and started
.......... Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots, and ruined your black tie affair .....
And I sang at the top of my lungs, in my living room, and relived the bad-ass-ness that was the music of my formidable years.  And it was awesome.  Garth Brooks, yo.  Garth Brooks.

Don't Worry, I Won't Be On The News

Today was Black Friday, and my aunt found a killer deal on a new refrigerator. So she, my mom, my younger cousin, and I went to the store in my truck to go pick it up.  And when we saw it for the first time, my cousin was like, wow ... you could fit a body in there.  And I was like, totally.  And the guys that lifted onto the bed of the truck were all, uh here you go, but all we can do is lift it on here, we can't tie it down for you, or maneuver it for you, or provide you with any other help that we know will be useful "because of the store policy", so you're pretty much screwed.  Ok, so maybe they didn't actually speak the last part, but you could tell that they were totally thinking it.  But my cousin was like, ugh whatever, we'll figure it ourselves, because we're women, yo, and she totally just jumped onto the back of the truck because she's nimble like that.

Let me tell you, driving that appliance home, while it was standing (and slightly leaning) precariously on the bed of a truck, holding on to dear life by bungee cords, was no picnic.  I practically had a mini-coronary every time we hit a bump (or fucking railroad tracks), and silently said a prayer to the baby Jesus that I wouldn't be on the news at night because the refrigerator had tipped over the side of the truck and fallen onto a poor traveling troubadour like how the shit went down in The Wizard Of Oz.  So I drove the 20 miles from the store to my aunt's house at 35mph.  And we got there the next day.  Not really.  It took less than an hour.  But it felt like it took a day.  And when we got home, my aunt was all, do you need a drink?  or a change of pants?  And I was all, uh yeah, probably both.

And then some more of the family showed up to help unload the fridge because there's a bunch of us, and we're everywhere, dude.  And after moving the truck back and forth half a dozen times, and lining up next to it, they slid and lifted that bitch off the truck and onto the porch.  Because we drink arsenic water, and have Hulk-like tendencies.  (You'd have to have read my previous posts to get that one ;) -- see how cool it is that I've written a few posts now, and y'all are reading them, and now I can go back and REFERENCE shit in my own blog? That's freaking awesome, yo.)

But the doorway to the house was too narrow, so we had to take the doors off.   Of the refrigerator, not the house.  Because we couldn't take the doors off of the house.  We checked.  And my older cousin slapped her forehead, and was all, dude!! why don't we just take off the handles?  And we were like, oh shit! that'd be way easier!  And then they took off the handles, but it still wasn't enough, so we had to go back to taking off the entire doors.  Of the refrigerator, not the house.  And then, finally, the doors came off, and we got the refrigerator inside and into the kitchen, and everybody was like, hell yeah! good work team! high five!

But then the doors (of the refrigerator, not the house) needed to go back on, and apparently putting them back on proved a little more difficult than taking them off.  Because when they were back on, they were slightly uneven because one was an inch higher than the other, and since all of us have OCD, we were like, noooooooo!!!!!!  whyyyyyy!!!!!  And then my older cousin and my mom and my aunt stood on chairs to see the top of the refrigerator, and the guys were holding the doors steady, and there was some banging and cursing and mumbling, and then my older cousin was all, THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE!!!!!!!!, and then we heard a thump, and the higher door dropped an inch, and the doors were even, and balance was restored to the universe.

And then one of the guys compared the dropping door to a testicle, and I laughed way more than I probably should have, because apparently I'm a lady, but it was freaking hilarious.  And it would be way weirder for me NOT to laugh at testicle-related humor, because, well, you know, I'm me.

I took a picture of the refrigerator after it was set up and plugged in because it just looked so beautiful.  And it drew me in, like the lights of the spaceship in Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.  And I followed the lights because they promised feasts and deliciousness.  It was awesome.



This is the most beautiful refrigerator I've ever seen.  Because the lights freaking glow, dude.

Um, This Is Pretty Much Just An ADD Ramble

So I opened up the computer this morning so that I could work on a post for today, but I got totally distracted and wrapped up in the news stories that showed up on my home page instead, and now I can't even remember what the hell I was going to post about in the first place.  But ... I DO know that a scary-ass water creature (that looks like Satan's welcome mat) was found in Florida, a giant-ass ice circle (that was apparently -- and disappointingly -- NOT made by aliens) was found in North Dakota, AND Family Guy killed off Brian.  What the hell, world?  He was totally the fucking heart of the show.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, yo.  May your pants be stretchy.

Bacon Mayonnaise, Dude

Apparently, The Travel Channel is having a mini-marathon of the Food Paradise shows today, and I was doing ok until they got to the sandwich episode, and somewhere after the po' boy, and the steak sandwich with bacon mayonnaise, I think I may have lost consciousness for a second (on account of the hunger), because the next thing I knew I was crawling my way to the kitchen desperately looking for something equally delicious to eat, and just when I thought I wasn't going to make it, I called out "Wilson!" as I reached out my arm, and collapsed on the floor.

Ok, that may have been an exaggeration.  But, still.  I don't know who's more sadistic.  The people at The Travel Channel for making such a deliciously taunting show.  Or me for watching it.  But, c'mon, you guys... BACON MAYONNAISE?  That shit is straight out of the Book of Deliciousness.

Suit Up, Ref

Ok, so I was watching football yesterday and it occurred to me that when the Ref comes on the field to recite the official NFL Rule Book, it really reminds me of when Barney quotes the Bro-Code.  And then I imagined Doogie Howser telling the Ref to suit up, and I laughed so hard I almost couldn't breathe.  By myself.  In front of the TV.  And then I stopped for a second and wondered if  laughing hysterically in a room with no one else in it, at a joke that no one else knew about, was one of those moments that totally affirms my weirdness.

Yes. The answer is, yes.

Except Nobody's Tried To Kill JR

So did I tell y'all about the time I came rolling up to my house and there was a vehicle from the state in my driveway?  No shit.  It had the official state seal on the door and everything.  And I was like what the fuck?  And I walked inside, expecting to see men with black suits and dark glasses talking into their wrists, (and I was mentally preparing myself because I was secretly like oh shit ... please tell me this where I meet Tommy Lee Jones.  Because let's face it people, he's old, but he was pretty fucking hot back in the day.) but it was just a couple of normal looking people sitting at the kitchen table with my mom.  And I gotta say, I was more than a little disappointed.  Because meeting Tommy Lee Jones would have been fucking awesome.

Turns out, Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones was telling my mom that the surrounding ground water in our area has arsenic in it.  I know what you're thinking... Are you fucking kidding me?! Arsenic?! How are you still alive?!  And here's the answer:  Because it's like ALL of the superhero stories where the toxin doesn't kill you but enters your blood stream and transforms you all cool like, and then you end up becoming the fucking Hulk.  Which is awesome.

At least, that's what I would've said if Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones hadn't mentioned that the levels of toxic-ness weren't concerningly high (by the way, spell check just said that "concerningly" isn't a real word. and to spell check I say, fuck you, it most concerningly is).  APPARENTLY, adding a little chlorine to the mix would solve the problem right up, and my hopes of becoming The Hulk went down the drain when Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones ordered a chlorine-pump-filter-thing.

A few days later, I came rolling up to my house, and Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones's sidekick was halfway under the kitchen sink installing the chlorine-pump-filter-thing, and I was pissed because he had to "temporarily" shut off the water to the house, and I had to freaking pee because I had been holding it for like the last five hours.  So I ran next door to my grandma's house. (And because I know you're going to ask,  because everybody does .... yes. I live next door to my grandma.  And my aunt.  And my uncle.  And my cousin.  And less than 5 minutes away is another one of my aunts, another uncle, and another cousin.  Because it's like fucking Dallas, yo.  And we're the fucking Ewings.)

Shortly after Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones's sidekick installed the chlorine-pump-filter-thing, Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones realized that there was actually TOO MUCH chlorine in the water, and said to take the shit out.  So Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones's sidekick had to come back and uninstall the chlorine-pump-filter-thing.  So now we're back to arsenic.  Which is fine by me.  I've apparently been drinking the shit for more than 20 years, it tastes a hell of a lot better than the chlorine water, and my hopes of one day becoming The Hulk are restored.  That is, until Not-Tommy-Lee-Jones comes back in a few weeks to kill the dream again.

Gandalf's A Fucking Sales Wizard

I love the bookstore for so many reasons.  They have awesome books.  They sell coffee.  Like Tom Hanks said, "cheap books and legal addictive stimulants".  It's always a win-win for me.

And, at the bookstore people leave you the hell alone. 
Once, I went to a big beauty department store (one that I had not been to since it opened a few years ago, and I really just went to look around and see what kind of awesome shit I could find there). And there was a sales lady there who followed me around the whole store asking me if I needed anything.  And at first I was like, no thanks I'm just looking around.  And then she asked again, and I was all, really, I'm good, but thanks.  And then she asked me again, with specific emphasis on the fact that she could "color match" me, and it took me a minute to figure out that she was talking about matching actual make-up to me, and not referring to some sort of weird beauty cult thing that I figured would cost a thousand bucks to make it to some sort of underground level where you'd be showered with nail polish and color swatches.  And just as I was about to explain this to the sales lady, I noticed that her face was like 5 shades lighter than her neck, and I was like, uh no thanks, and quickly walked away.  Because at that moment, a beauty cult didn't seem so unlikely after all.
But the employees at the bookstore know that they don't have to follow you around the whole store sending you subliminal messages to join their order.  Because they're cool enough to know that if you're having trouble finding something, you'll be smart enough to ask.  And then they'll be like, ok sure, let me look that up for you.  And then they'll find whatever you're looking for, and you'll say cool thanks, and then that's shit's over.

And the bookstore is quiet.

And then there's THIS.

Because where else, other than the fucking awesomeness that is a bookstore, could you find books about Middle-earth and America's Founding Fathers sitting on a table, side-by-side.  On sale.  Admittedly, I'm not very well-versed in either, but for a buck less, Middle-earth seems like the better deal to me.  Because Gandalf knows how to make a fucking sale.


Because Monday Fucking Sucks

Today at work I had to look at my calendar 8 fucking times before I committed today's date to memory because I kept typing in the wrong date on shit, and my co-worker was like, could you just put the fucking calendar in front of you already?!  And then I looked at the next week, and I was like seriously, yo? Next week is fucking Thanksgiving?  And then she was like no shit, dude.  We've got exactly 4 more days to get shit done because everybody's packing up and leaving this joint for a week.  And I was like seriously, yo?  And she was like, for real, yo.  So then we made a plan to get 2 weeks worth of work done in 4 days.  And then we cried.  And by cry, I mean had mini panic attacks and contemplated the benefits of moving to Timbuktu.

Or for short ... MORON

Have you ever known somebody whose head was just stuck so far up their own asshole that when they talk it sounds muffled?  Yeah. It's been one of those days.  I'm no doctor, but I think it should be called Are-You-Fucking-Kidding-Me-Right-Now Syndrome.

It's Like What Happens When The Gremlins Get Wet

I was supposed to measure out enough pasta for 3 people.  I lost my concentration when I was pouring the noodles into the boiling water, so now we'll be eating this for the next 5 days, because when those things hit the water, they expand and explode like the goddamn gremlins.  At least it's good, though.  I wish I could remember what it was that distracted me.  And why boiling water and hot steam apparently weren't enough to keep me focused.  ADD, you guys.

Awww SIF

I don't really know what PS actually stands for.  All I know is that when I have to use it, it's usually because of a shit! I forgot! kind of moment.  So my PS's will now be SIF's.  Unless I forget.  Which is completely possible.  Because if I remembered shit in the first place, I wouldn't even need SIF's.

Sort Your M&Ms, People

Here's the problem.  Fruit is delicious.  But M&Ms and cookies are even MORE delicious.  They're filled with chocolate and sugar, and the M&Ms are all different colors, and the cookies are filled with all sorts of other wonderful deliciousness.  Fruit is kind of a one-hit-wonder.  You eat it, and it's good, but it's the same all the way through, and then you're done.  And for someone with an attention span as horrible as mine, it's kind of a problem because my taste buds get bored.  Cookies are filled with so many different kinds of ingredients, and M&Ms are very OCD friendly.  Because, yes, I do sort them into color piles before I eat them.  So, to all of the doctors that say we need to up the intake of figure-friendly fruits, I say ... um, sure, ok.  but as soon as they make grapes as tasty and sortable as M&Ms, and apples shaped like Oreo's, my success rate will probably be a little higher.

PS:  my mom just asked me how many people probably sort their M&Ms into color piles.  um, I'm guessing a lot, because that's the only way to eat them

It Wasn't An Oompa Loompa

The Halloween Rundown:

I got to work this morning, and the secretary at one of my work sites was in my office:

XX:  you have to help me!
Me:  oh crap, what happened?
XX:  I NEED a costume! Everybody else in the office is dressed up!
Me:  I thought you had one, what happened to that?
XX:  Well, I was in my negative last night, and so I didn't finish putting it together

(She uses the phrase "in my  negative" to talk about her state of mind when she just has a hard time and can't deal with stuff ... and I LOVE it ... from now on, I will be "in my negative")

Me:  ok, what's the plan?
XX:  Well, I put my hair up with a wire hanger, see?

(She did, in fact, have two braids sticking out from the top of her head in a backward sort of direction, and I thought it looked so cool, I asked her how to do it, so that I could wear my hair like that sometime, too.  XX:  oh cool! you're gonna do it for Halloween, too?  Me:  um, yeah, Halloween, that's definitely what I was thinking of).

Me:  very cool
XX:  And now, I'm gonna be a cockroach
Me:  what?
XX:  yes, I'm gonna make a cockroach costume out of brown butcher paper, see?

(She did, in fact, have the biggest piece of brown butcher paper I've ever seen).

Me:  uh huh
XX:  and I need you to help cut it to fit around me, and then staple it to me
Me:  you want me to staple the paper TO you?  I think that's illegal
XX:  then staple it AROUND me
Me:  ok, got it, stapling around ...
XX:  make sure you get the shape right
Me:  got it
XX:  and make sure it's secure so it won't fall off
Me:  got it
XX:  and remember to draw the lines on it going in the right direction
Me:  cockroach butt lines .... got it
XX:  good, how's it look?

And then, my friends, a few staples, and marker traces later (the good kind of marker, the one that smells like paint thinner and makes the moment a little better), the makeshift paper cockroach costume began to take shape, and her hanger braids looked like antennae, and one of the maintenance guys made her cockroach wings -- like those giant, terrifying flying cockroaches -- out of spare maintenance stuff he scrounged up.  And it was Beautiful.  And terrifying.  And I LOVED it.

I wish I could post a picture for you, but I was too wrapped up in living in the cockroach moment that I forgot to take one.  But, trust me, the picture that you have in your head right now, is pretty much dead-on-balls accurate.

XX:  I love it.  Now where the hell is my Orkin Man?!

----

Later in the day, I was headed to another work site, and I saw a cool oompa loompa lurking at a crosswalk.  And then as I got closer, I realized that it wasn't an oompa loompa.  It was, in fact, a dude with a very hard-working spray tan.

----

And for tonight ... they've left me in charge of the assorted candy bowl.  There may or may not be any Milky Way's left in the mix for the children.

Uh, Rabbit? Dude?

I've always wanted to get a caricature done of myself, because I think caricatures are awesome.  But, I figure it could go one of two ways ... either I end up with giant awesome features like the lady from Modern Family, or I end up looking like The Mad Hatter.  I don't know.  It's a toss up.  And by toss up, I mean that I'll probably end up in a picture with The Cheshire Cat.  And the rabbit that's so obsessed with his watch.  I can never remember that dude's name.  And maybe in the picture, the three of us could be drinking so that I could think that I looked like the lady from Modern Family, and the rabbit wouldn't notice that I only call him "dude" because I can't remember what the hell his name actually is, and the cat could just be a drunk creepy cat.  Everybody wins.

That's Why Everybody Likes Forrest Gump

I waved to a stranger like an idiot today because from far away I thought it was my co-worker.  It wasn't my co-worker.  And it was too late to fake a hair toss.  And the wave was full of too much gusto to be covered up by a fake hair toss anyway.  Because when I wave to my friends, I wave to them like Forrest Gump waves to Lieutenant Dan.  Because it makes people feel special, yo.

I Broke The Damn Peanuts

This is how normal people open the peanut box.  Because they read directions.  And pay attention.

This is how I open the peanut box.  Because I have the attention span of a mosquito.

 

 

And Now I'm Gonna Have To Sterilize My Foot

I accidentally stepped on a beetle.  A giant fucking beetle.  On my porch.  In my socks.  It blew the fuck up and covered my sock in gross fucking beetle juice.  I might have to throw away my sock now.  And I'm going to have to sterilize my foot.  Because I can't deal with gross beetle germs living on my heel.  And I don't know if beetles carry rabies or that mouse disease (I can't remember what that one's called because after the millionth potential plague the news talked about, the part of my brain that can process symptoms and rationality huddled in the corner and started singing "Come Together" - The Beatles' version, which is now completely ironic).  And I don't know if the germs can be transferred through sock and skin without some sort of bite.  I hope not, because if the contamination works anything like Spiderman, I'll be hanging out with Michael Keaton sooner than I'd have thought, and without the fucking Batmobile.  Shit.

This is the beetle that I stepped on.  It's on the cement that's painted beige.  That's not skin.

Holy Shit I Started A Blog

Hang on to your asses, people.  I started a blog.

I've received a lot of encouragement about starting a blog for a while now, so one day it really hit me and I was like, huh. no shit? they think I should start a blog?  And then I had to think about it for a long time after that, because writing a blog should really be something that you do for you, right? And then once I decided that what I usually wrote for my own benefit and solace could give someone else a laugh, or maybe say, hey dude, I know what you're going through, you're not alone, I was like, ok let's do this. So here it is.

I really don't know who I'm more nervous for, me or the people that might read this.  Actually, no.  As I type this, I realize that's wrong.  I'm definitely more nervous for y'all.  Because I already know that my awkwardness knows no boundaries.  So, just a heads up ... If you're easily offended, I'll try to remember to post something crafty or Hallmark-ish from time to time, but weird shit is really more my style.  Not by choice, but just because I'm weird.  And OCD.  And unofficially ADD.  And probably a hypochondriac.  And probably also a little bit unofficially clinically depressed, too.  And so, my friends, because of this Long Island Iced Tea of personality traits, the new people reading this will be like "what the hell?", and the few of you who know me in real life will be all, "(sigh) yeah. that's her. that's definitely her."
So to you, my wonderful readers (and hopefully one day there are many of you), as we begin this journey of impropriety, humor, profanity, and general awesomeness, I wish you ...
Good luck and Godspeed.