As though I don't waste enough time living vicariously through others, now I can watch them buy shoes.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
As though I don't waste enough time living vicariously through others, now I can watch them buy shoes.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Go win some super bling from Miss Lorrie Veasey
Be a cool kid like Ruby, Lorrie, Sheila, Eric and me and give Emma your lunch money!
Go to El Pollo Loco today for free chicken!
Don't send your children to public school.
M: One: I don't know what you're even talking about, second; you said I could and two, wait, one, two, THIRD; dang. I forgot what we were talking about. STOP LAUGHING AT ME.
Monday, April 27, 2009
This is BabyMama's Nana Sophie.
Isn't she adorable? She's 83 years old and a wee little bit senile. Or maybe not. Maybe she's perfectly cognizant and living the kind of old ladyhood that I aspire to. The kind where you say whatever the hell comes to mind.
Hairdresser: So, Ma'am, what will we be doing for you today? (teasingly) How bout a Mohawk?
Nana Sophie: I already have one. In my pubic hair.
Don't you wish she was YOUR Nana now? I mean how can you not when Thanksgiving conversations includes such nuggets as
"Your Uncle Bruce was conceived in the men's room of Kmart."
"Grandpa got crabs when he was in the Army"
I can only hope when I'm that age I'll have the faculties to enjoy the looks on my audiences face.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Before the invention of modern toothpaste, from Roman times up to as recently as the 18th century, there is evidence that people used to whiten their teeth using urine. Sometimes their own, but mostly other people's.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I have noticed an interesting trend. When I talk about sin I get FAR more traffic then when I entreat you to help an adorable little moppet raise money for charity. Have you people no souls?
I thought not.
Let's talk about sin again then.
Hop back into the Way Back Machine to a time in the mid eighties, when cool girls did their hair like this
(that's me on the left)
It was a time, when I lived in the Wild, Wild West and my most dreaded chore was having to Walk the Dinosaur. It was a time when I had yet to experience Losing My Religion.
Each summer, I would load up with my church youth group and travel to the wilds of Camp Lyle McLeod to experience the (trauma) of Girls Camp. There is a song that goes in parts 'Girls camp, is the very worst place in the world! The worst place for every living girl! The best place for losing all your curl'. Actually, I'm pretty sure that's NOT how it goes, but that's how we sang it because Girls Camp was a desolate waste land free of curling irons and Aqua Net where you had to wear a ONE PIECE bathing suit! even though you were like, TOTALLY working on your tan.
But it was a right of passage that simply couldn't be avoided. You went and you liked it, or, if you were like me, you packed your sleeping bags stuff stack with things like plastic wrap, icy hot and rubber snakes so that those around you were exactly, perfectly aware of your standing on being drug off to the middle of nowhere where you were subjected to things like DIRT and BUGS and NO BOYS and WASHING YOUR HAIR IN THE LAKE. It was hell, I tell you.
Now, don't get the impression that I didn't like "camp". I loved camp. I loved the part of camp that was being away from your mother and staying up late and walking to the mess hall and canoeing, all the things I knew from the summer camp that was my reward for not actually killing my sisters during the school year. Girls Camp on the other hand meant having my mother mere feet away, going to bed at dark, cooking our own food and having to walk three miles around the lake to the swimming dock. Not so delightful. Especially the year that Rachel first came to camp.
Rachel was a very, very sheltered child. She'd literally never spent a single night away from home. And because my mother was assistant camp director that year it was decided that I should be "buddied" with Rachel to "show her the ropes". So Rachel was assigned to my cabin, to my bunk bed, to my KP rotation, to my "duties" rotation, to my rec rotation. Basically she was up my ass and seriously cramping my sneaking-off-to-meet-the-boy scouts-from-the-next-camp action. And that was totally unacceptable. Rachel, clearly, needed to be punished.
Rachel, it was learned the first night, was terrified of the dark. I, on the other hand, am a ninja-like nymph of the night. At about 1am, Rachel began to whimper. Tell me a story or something she begged and so I complied.
"Well, you know how we like, totally passed the prison?" I began (we had) "Like, ten years ago, a guy like escaped from the prison and he was supposed to like, meet his ride on the highway and stuff? And their signal was he was going to croak like a frog, only he got lost and wound up down by the lake"
Our lake? She whispered
"Yeah, so anyway, these girls were here for Camp? I think they were from 9th ward? And they snuck out to like go to the boys side? Only, when they were walking along the lake they came across the escaped murder? And he like, TOTALLY freaked and killed them? And then threw their bodies into the lake?"
Then what happened? she moaned
"Well, the counselors heard the girls screaming? And one of them caught the guy, only as he tried to run away he like tripped? And broke his neck. And they say that his spirit still haunts these woods and croaks like a frog looking for his ride."
It does? she was totally buying all of this
"Yeah, and on the anniversary of the girls death, you can see their flash lights shining up from the lake looking for revenge"
At this point, she starts to wail and the counselor comes running to see whats the matter. All Rachel could sniffle out was that she was scared of the frogs, so Tina brought over her stereo but OF COURSE Rachel couldn't listen to "secular" music and the only other music to be found was a recording of the "Little Drummer Boy" back to back on both sides of the tape. Which played ALL DAMN NIGHT.
That, of course, made me even MORE annoyed. So the next night I snuck around until I'd stolen 3 flashlights, then crept into the mess tent and lifted a box of Ziploc bags. Quietly, I slipped into the lake and one by one splashed the flashlights into the lake where the frogs where the loudest.
When all of the adults were asleep and the little drummer boy was on his 8th march through the night, I whispered for Rachel to follow me. Quietly we crept down the path, Rachel trailing, whimpering behind me.
The closer we got to the lake the louder the frogs got until we pressed through the last of the bushes and there, floating just below the surface were the ghost lights.
Naturally Rachel started screaming her head off, took of running and whacked her head onto a low hanging tree branch. Counselors descended on us from all directions, hushing and soothing Rachel as I snuck off into the shrubs and crept back to my bunk. Where I "sleepily" awoke as Rachel was ushered back to bed, moaning about the frogs. The rest of camp, she never left the counselors side and the next year she opted not to return.
I was free to once again sneak off to steal Hershey bars and make out with pimply boys.
The only reason I'm not already in hell is because I'm helping Emma. You should be too!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Every now and then I stop using the Interwebs to surf porn and regale you with stories about my ass long enough to make an actual connection with a real live (allegedly) normal person.
One such (not even allegedly normal) person is my friend Crabgrass and his adorable little girl Emma.
Emma was born with a genetic condition called Angelman's Syndrome. I will admit to being shamefully ignorant as to the specifics of the condition, above that it's causes severe developmental delays in both mental and motor functions. However, I must also tell you that Emma has the most infectious laugh that I have ever, ever heard. It's a sound that's complete joy and you can't help but laugh with her when you hear it.
Emma and her Grandma are currently raising money to attend the Angelman's Walkathon in San Diego on May 16th, which uses it's proceeds to fund research in to the cause, treatment and therapies to benefit those born with Angelman's.
Now for the part where I hit you up for cash and then also bribe you.
For every ten dollars that you donate to Emma's personal pledge page I will enter your name in a raffle to win a genuine Coach purse. It's a brand new brown with gold trim "evening bag size" purse complete with genuine Coach tissue paper. Because details matter, people. The retail price on this prize is over $100. That's how serious I am, chickens! I'm willing to cough up a Benjamin in this economy AND help you (buy) your way into Heaven! (I'll post a picture this afternoon)(of the purse, not Heaven)
You can donate anonymously if you prefer. To enter, after you make your donation leave a comment on this blog entry with your position on the donation list and the amount of your donation and I will enter you into the contest. The walk-a-thon is 5/16 so the contest will remain open until then.
Please feel free to repost this request to your own blog, link to this entry or Tweet a shout out so that your followers can enter too.
Come on, you know you need the good Karma. And the purse!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
If you have a question, a comment, or a complaint and it necessitates that you telephone me, for the love of God, do it your damn self. Do not hand the phone to your girlfriend, wife, mother, random drunken hobo and then, from the back ground ask them to ask me things while they then relay my answers. It is fucking annoying, takes twice as long and inevitably means that something will be lost in the translation since chances are your minion has no idea what the hell we're talking about.
Further more, it's lazy and rude. Men. Oh yes, it's always men. Seriously, what is so hard about picking up a phone, pushing a few numbers and then asking me your damn self? You're NOT THAT IMPORTANT and since you're right fucking there asking the questions you're also clearly NOT THAT BUSY. You're lazy and selfish and you need your ass kicked.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I'm pretty sure M is smoking something she shouldn't be. Or possibly I shouldn't have deprived her of so much oxygen when she was a small child.
On the other hand, that child is damn entertaining.
A brief selection of the What the Fuck she subjected me to yesterday includes;
Regarding "Jacob" from Twilight: Rawr! That there is a sexy man-beast!
In the produce aisle: Wait. I thought CHIVES was a rash?
About Matt on American Idol : Is that thing on his head a whaddagyacallit dot like Indian Girls wear? I thought they were red. Maybe that's why it's not working and he keeps picking crappy songs?
After being told not to eat ALL the ice cream: I already spit in it, so that makes it mine and I might as well just eat it.
Reading the People Magazine cover: Mel Gibson is a MAN?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
If you took all the approximately 60,000 miles of blood vessels out of a human body and laid them end-to-end, they would stretch around the world twice. And you would probably be arrested.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
M: is that guy from Aqua German?
Me: no, I think he's Swedish
M: oh, well he has a really deep voice, so I figured he had to be German.
Monday, April 13, 2009
If you call someone and say "I have to tell you something and you can't tell ANYONE" it better be something like "I ate 14 hershey bars today" NOT something like "Hey, you know X? Well, she's a polygamist and her sister-wife is having a baby in three weeks and they're also all swingers!" becauset THAT kind of news NEEDS to be shared.
Friday, April 10, 2009
My mom was down in February and while she was here she took a bunch of pictures. Because she's about as organized as I am, she just sent me copies in the mail.
Letting alone the fact that most of them involved people missing the tops of their head, with mouthfuls of food or in frame from some generally unflattering angle, there is how she identified the photo's in the inscriptions on the back.
On a photo OF me, TO me, she writes my whole name; first last and middle and THEN includes "age 32 years 10 months". Seriously. Because someday I'm going to be flipping through the album and be all "WHO THE HELL IS THAT WEARING MY EARRINGS?" and then flip it over and be all "oh! Ha, ha! It's just me! Good thing Mum wrote that on there, I was about to cut a bitch!"
Labels: Help Me Baby Jesus
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Last night I returned to hell. And by "hell" I mean "the gym".
As you may know, probably because I talk about it all the time, I hate to sweat, I hate to excersize and I think sweatpants are of the devil. Nonetheless, now that I am down double digits worth of pounds I have developed a horror of looking like Mr. Burns when I get naked. You know how he looks like he's melting? Well sometimes when you haven't eaten use Google Images to search "massive weightloss" and you'll see what happens when people lose a lot of weight.
Basically, many look very disgusting.
And I am vain.
Thusly, I donned a pair of (deargodno) sweatpants, a tee shirt my Gram found somewhere with GUAM! WHERE AMERICA'S DAY BEGINS! emblazoned across the chest and festooned with glittery palm trees and laced on my trusty three stripe Adidas (so old school chic!), clipped back my overly long bangs and went to the Y. You know why they call it the Y? Because you'll spend your whole visit going "OH MY GOD, WHY?"
As is, WHY the hell does the sweatiest person (usually a very large man) always take the machine right next to mine?
WHY does the sound on my personal treadmill tv only ever speak in Spanish?
WHY do my socks keep creeping up giving me a toe-wedgie that necessitates stopping every few minutes to take off my shoe and fix them?
WHY does some idiot always say something clever like "so, do you like working out?" No, extremely greasy looking too tightly pants man, I do not. I do not like sweating like Bernie Madoff at a tax audit, I do not like the thwap thwap thwap of my sweat pants legs against one another and I do not like the way you watch the Twins move rhythmically as I attempt a 4mph climb of a 15% grade.
WHY the hell do I PAY for this torture?
No Gym vs. Gym
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Downside to having my guts rearranged: I puke all the damn time.
Upside: thanks to having no stomach acid, I get to enjoy my food twice and in this economy, every little bit helps, right?
Monday, April 6, 2009
It took me years to find you. Now, we've been together so long I've lost track of the time. Never has been there been a day when we are together that you didn't make be feel beautiful. You held me so tightly, get gently that through the years it's as though we became one. It's like we were meant to be together; fated even.
And yet, today, I must let you go. It's as though you don't know me at all anymore. It's as though we've grown apart. Or perhaps shrunk away from each other.
So, this one last time as I hold you close to me, warm from the sun, your touch so familiar to me as I smooth my hand down your legs and across your ass, before I kiss you goodbye, I want you to know, you've been the best pair of jeans ever.
All of my heart,
Friday, April 3, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
In a phone call just now;
Me: Good Morning (my job)
Lady's Voice - Oh my god! HAHAHAHA. I, just....hahaha GO FUCK YOURSELF!
LV - Seriously! If you'd seen that llama yesterday! You would want a bigger box of condoms too! HAHAHAHA
(phone goes dead) (Damn) (because I want to know about the Llama and the condoms!)
Yes, you have a penis. It's lovely. I'm sure it's the most wonderful penis in the history of penises. Penii? Whatever. The point is, I don't need to hear about it every single damn day. You don't talk about your foot. You didn't give your left ear a name. You never regale us with the exploits of your elbow. Why is Mr. Winkie so special, hm? I've seen it and I'm sure that *I* don't know...!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I clean them up, stick the key in the rolling down rear window so that I can load up some stuff that Baby Mama needed to borrow and of COURSE the motor begins to groan and then STOPS.
The window does open, I load up the crap I need and go to work, where the alarm is blaring because a sensor has disengaged. Can ADT come today to fix it? No, of course not.