Friday, July 31, 2009

Ouiser Says

Is it too damn much to ask for a hair volumizer that doesn't make my hair crunchy or sticky or weird smelling or greasy looking?

I mean COME ON. NASA announced today that one of the astronauts has worn the same underpants for a month thanks to a technological advancement that makes them repel odors and no one can manage to find a way to make my poor, flat hair look just a wee bit less sad?

Seriously. Unacceptable.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Think on it Thursday: Why the British don't fix their teeth

Sigurd the Mighty, a Norse Earl of Orkney in the late 9th century, died after he beheaded an enemy in battle and tied the head to his horse's saddle. One the ride home, his leg was grazed by one of the head's protruding teeth, and he died of a blood infection.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

They Grow Up SO Fast

M is at my parents house for the summer. And while I would normally be jealous, it's just as hot there as it is here, so HA HA.

Now that she's a little older in addition to the regular summer activities of camp and camping and walking to the community pool, she's spent a lot of time with my sisters. Going to the aquarium or kayaking on Lake Union or just hanging out with the grown ups.

Yesterday, KL & L took her to the Experience Music Project to see the Muppet exhibit. M was OVER THE MOON excited and called me about six times in the preceding days. Hell, she called me twice from the museum itself. Just to tell me she was there.

Then, I get this picture by text from my sister

You can't really see her, but that's M in the green hat. Flirting with a boy. Which of course my sister thought was hilarious. Because M? Has got no game. And also? Is a little clueless, because right after this picture was taken she got hit on by a girl but didn't realize it.

Monday, July 27, 2009

What the?

You know how when you get a new medication they give you a big old list of things that will go wrong and somewhere on the list is always "AND MAY RESULT IN DEATH"? Well, Ambien has warnings like "may result in amnesia". No shit. Among reported side effects are "sleep eating" (not awesome) "sleep driving" (kind of awesome) "sleep sex" (awesome for the spouse) and so on. Basically, if you were doing it, or even thinking very hard about it when you fall asleep, you run the risk of doing it while you sleep.

And not remembering it.

I've been taking the controlled release version of Ambien for a while now and I've not had any thing too weird happen. Except that time when I woke up and the entire contents of two book shelves were piled in leaning 6ft towers on the coffee table and then oddly topped with tennis balls. But that was more awesome than weird and I'm still a little pissed I didn't take a picture of it.

This morning when I woke up I noticed a laundry basket full of clean clothes sitting on the desk in my bedroom and I thought "FUCKING SCORE! I can sleep and still do laundry! High Five Ambien!" but then I checked my text messages and saw one from my husband "used the last laundry soap. Can u buy more? thx"

So, clearly, I'm giving sleep blow jobs.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Snack Time

I've got nothing to post about today. AND I've got the munchies. Here's what I'm thinking of making when I get home

Buffalo Chicken Dip

8 oz Cream Cheese, softened
1/2c. Bleu cheese or Ranch dressing
1/2c. Franks Red Hot buffalo sauce
1 1/2c. shredded cheese
2 cooked and cubed/shredded chicken breasts (about 2 cups)

1. Stir cream cheese until smooth
2. Mix in dressing and buffalo sauce
3. stir in chicken and cheese
4. microwave on high 5 minutes, stirring occasionally until evenly heated and smooth
5. serve warm with crackers or celery sticks

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Warped Minds

(by text)

Me: Whatcha doing?

CG: Guess =P

Me: Using Tapioca pudding as a masturbatory aid while watching midget she-male porn and listening to Yanni?

CG: No. But that sounds like fun.

Think on it Thursday: Two by Two

19th century biologist Sir John Lubbock experimented on ants by getting them drunk. He discovered that sober ants would carry their drunken ant comrades back to their nest, if they were from the same colony - but they would throw drunk strangers into the ditch.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Hu Ha

Am I the oldest girl in the world who purposely picks a line not staffed by a teenage boy when I'm buying something embarrassing like Monistat or Super Jumbo Tampons or mustache bleach?

Monday, July 20, 2009


Hello chickens.

I am returned from the land of Lost Wages, having only donated $20 to the slot machine cause. Mostly because I didn't do a single Vegas-like thing all weekend. No drinking, no flashing people, no yelling "MAMA NEEDS A NEW PAIR OF SHOES" and then stomach bumping a random strangers at the craps table.

Instead, I sat in a bowling alley that was kept at 50* and read a book about zombies. Fun, right?

I only argued with my husband six times, which is probably a record considering the number of hours that we spent together. The only time I even said the f-word was when he started to drive off while I was half way out the car door and then lost my shoe. The swearing occurred as I pointed out that, just perhaps, it was considered polite to wait until the passenger was fully in the car before driving. Call me old fashioned.

Apologies were made in the guise of a Coach purse, which almost makes up for his being an ass, but not quite.

The prime rib went a good deal further down that road, but honestly is it that hard to just BE NICE?

Unrelated to my whining about being married to someone who needs a lesson in manners, I want to know how the hell you skinny girls manage to go on road trips? Because my ass was KILLING me by the time I was done. A new sensation that results, I believe, from a lack of padding around my tailbone region. I seriously considered stopping at WalGreens and buying a hemorrhoid donut, because, damn. OW.

Speaking of DAMN, OW. I am pleased to report that despite the fact my gums are about the same color as a fire engine...the old school red ones, not the international distress green teeth do in fact look whiter. Apparently, Rembrandt was telling the truth. Still not entirely sure that the pain is worth it though.

Sexy right?

Related to teeth, how cute is Gigibella?

If you look very closely you can see that she has managed to grow three teeth. Two on the bottom and one on the top. Such a clever girl! Even though she feels the needs to howl every time I pick her up. Though I suspect that has more to do with the fact that the last several times I've seen her, her mommy has then left and the poor dear was forced to deal with being loved and snuggled and subjected to puppy kisses

than the fact that she no longer loves me. Because let's be honest, what's not to love about ME?

The little sugarblossom had to deal with my dogs all weekend, since they came for a sleep over.

Jack made himself right at home, because he's got good manners like that.

Speaking of home (what? my thought train has derailed. Deal with it.) Here's a picture of the hair coloring job I did on myself.

I think it looks much different than it did before

But apparently not, because other than the mechanic and the sales guy here at work, no one seems to have noticed. Maybe if I taped a sign onto my boobs that said "Look Up" with an arrow pointing toward my head ?

Lastly and totally unrelated to ALL of the above, if those of you that pray would be so kind as to include D's three year old daughter Violet into you prayers it would be greatly appreciated. Vi has recently begun to have seizures and is currently hospitalized. All good vibes, thoughts and prayers certainly are needed.

Friday, July 17, 2009


I LOVE me some tasty food. Even though I can only eat a cup of it at a time, but WHATEVER.

Because I can only eat wee little doll sized amounts of food, I try to make sure that what I'm eating is not just tasty, but also meets my nutritional needs. HA! I just said that! I'm seriously cracking myself up over here, because I? HATE healthy foods. Healthy foods taste like crap. That's why they're healthy, they're bereft of the things that makes food yummy. Things like fat. Mmmmm fat. Meat covered in cheese and a side of melted butter and washed down with an ice cream shake. That's what I'm talking about.

In an effort to find foods that are both good and not going to make me whip out the plastic grocery sack from my purse and um...return my lunch, let's call it...I've started to pay better attention to the labels. And that? BORING.

You know what's not boring? Being shocked. That's why I love those Eat This, Not That books. HOLY CATS, people. You wouldn't believe the hidden calories in things! It's astounding. No WONDER we're all straining our buttons. Except certain sisters of mine, who will remain nameless but who wears a size 8. But the rest of us? Oy.

However, I'm far too lazy to spend an afternoon reading about things I love and why they're going to kill me. So instead, I susbscribed to their email news letter so that I can be horrified in daily bite sized doses.

Seriously, if you've never checked out this information you totally should. While eating a Krispy Kreme and drinking a Frappacino. Obviously.

Thursday, July 16, 2009


Look at me, reviewing shit again.

Yesterday dawned bright and early and after much Facebook wall discussion I braved the WalGreens and bought hair dye and dyed my hair MUCH darker. Which all the boys at work noticed and my husband didn't.

Then, after work, I took myself out for a pedicure, because nothing does a body good quite the same way as a hot stone foot massage and BRIGHT pink toenails.

For the hell out it I stopped at Old Navy were I found an adorable pair of rockabilly chic skinny leg dark wash capri's on sale for $15. These to replace the pair I had on that made me look like TweedleDum.

On the way home, killing time as I waited for my husband to leave home for his class, I stopped at Target, where I amused myself reading the backs of novels and trying on clothes meant for teenagers. As luck would have it I actually managed to remember BEFORE I left the store that we were out of a few things like deodorant and shaving cream and other odds and ends that you never think about until you're out of them and one leg is shaved and you're all MOTHER FUCKER and then you have to use your ridiculously expensive hair conditioner on the other leg.

As I contemplated toothpaste brands, mint levels and claims of whitening I spied these bad boys

Now, I've tried just about every brand of at-home whitening out there. I've tried Crest White Strips, both dissolving and regular (waste of time) Colgate whitening gel (tastes gross) and on and on. The problem with all of them is that you have to use them twice a day for like two weeks.

And I? Do not have that kind of attention span. Two hours though, I can do. Because TLC had back-to-back episodes of "I didn't know I was pregnant" or as CK's adorable friend Brenda calls it "I Pooped a Baby".

The first thing you do is mold the little mouth trays. Which was easy enough. Then, you fill them with the gel, also, easy. Then you stick them in your mouth and wait 20 minutes. Take them out, wait ten and repeat three more times until you've gone 2 hours.

The gel wasn't too icky tasting, and the trays were comfortable enough and the time limit was even reasonable. But my results? Eh. I wouldn't say my teeth were "noticeably whiter" when I was done. And this morning? OH MY LORD. My teeth are KILLING me. My gums are KILLING me. My tongue feels like I scorched it. I tried to drink a glass of ice water and it was TORTURE. Now, while I was doing the process, I didn't have any tenderness. It seems to have developed overnight. The instructions do say that some people develop short term sensitivity and that it goes away, so I'm not too worried, but DAMN. OW.

Price: $19

Worth: $8

Verdict: Skip it unless you have a coupon.

PS. Thank you everyone for your comments and advice yesterday. Even those of you that suggested things of questionable moral and legal nature. Loves you all!

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Dear Abby

I don't usually do posts like this, because really, who wants to read a bunch of whining all the time? But there's only so much whining I can do to the people I see IRL before they're all "WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP?" and then I'm all "GREAT, NOW I HAVE TO HATE YOU TOO!".

That's how we talk around here, in all capital letters.

So today I'm going to whine to you and if you don't want to read it then just come back later, okay?

I am so very, very tired of fighting with my husband. Seriously. There are only so many times that I can bite my tongue before it falls off and then how would I blow the gum bubbles that annoy my mother so much?

Through the years of being married me & J have never been one of those joined at the hip couples. Mostly because while I am willing to do things that I don't enjoy just because he enjoys them, he isn't willing to do the same and so most of my hobbies, trips, etc are done with friends while he stays home and acts like he's some kind of martyr for "allowing" me to do things.

When it comes to things around the house, it's all me, all the time. He claims that his "job" is to "protect us" and that counts as an equal amount of housework and since it's either do it myself or be buried in trash and dirty laundry while weeds grow up to cover the house, I do it myself. Well, not the yard work, that I hire out, because it's fucking HOT here and all the plants in my yard want to kill me.

Because I also work full time away from home, that means from about the time I get home until I go to bed, I'm doing something. Running errands, cooking, cleaning, whatever. Even when I'm watching TV at night chances are the dishwasher is running and I'm folding laundry. It's not fair, but it's better than arguing about it.

Recently though he's started to bitch that I never want to spend any time with him. If I'm in the bathroom cleaning toilets, it's because I'm avoiding him. If I'm cleaning out my closet, it's because I don't like him any more. If I run to the grocery to buy toilet paper, I'm abandoning him. I'm seriously at my wits end here. If I don't do these things, they don't get done, but if I DO do them, then I'm a bad wife? WTF? And if I ask HIM to do them? Well, lordy be, he makes $4 hour more than I do, so that means it's MY job because he's the "bread winner"? WTF again, I ask?

THEN on Sunday when we went to lunch with BabyMama and Smooth (and my wee little Gigibella) he tells them that I need "drugs to be able to stand being near (him)". First of all, yes, I do. Secondly, what if I didn't WANT the whole world to know that I am dependant on pharmaceutical intervention to keep from screaming? Of course, I retorted (and I swear to you that I did actually say this) that "if (he) wasn't such as asshole then I wouldn't need to, would I?" and BabyMama, God love her, replied that she was on the same thing I was and he shut up.

We're headed to Vegas for the weekend so that he can go to a bowling tournament and I absolutely DO NOT want to go. It's wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't I be excited? I LOVE Vegas. It's going to be 115* here and a bit less up there. And of course, only 70* inside the casino...LOL. But I feel so anxious at the thought of going that I'm doubling up on my meds to keep functioning.

I'm just at a loss here, Peeps. Any advice would be appreciated.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Monday Meditation

But sometimes? That line you crossed? It's the finish line. It's been sitting there, waiting for you to work up the nerve to slide your toe across it. Then you get to that other side you find that the grass really is greener and then you sit there kicking yourself thinking of all the years you spent trying to navigate through weeds and broken bottles and quick sand.

Being scared isn't a reason to be immobile.

There will never be a perfect moment.

There is only now.

Friday, July 10, 2009


As a general rule, when I find something amazing, that works as described and isn't very expensive, I keep that shit to myself. Because I don't want y'all to be thinner AND prettier than me.

However, today I am feeling generous. Or I might just be whacked out on Xanax, but either way, I'm feeling like sharing and except for that one time where I spent a ton of money on crap that turned out to be totally useless and is now filling up the cabinet under my bathroom sink, except the Bumpit, which was kind of awesome and now my kid has totally stolen it because she's like that, that's not a situation that happens very often. You can probably blame my mother for that because she used to make me share EVERYTHING with my sisters and now she's not the boss of me and I don't have to share so I totally don't except, like now, when I do.

Or will, if I can ever remember what the fuck it was I was going to tell y'all about. Oh, right. I remember now.


So, being a ginger kid, I'm pretty pale all the time. Even though I live in the desert. Actually, ESPECIALLY because I live in the desert. It's too damn hot to go outside, thusly I spend all summer curled up on the couch watching Bravo and pretending it's winter instead of lying about sunning myself into a deliciously bronzed state of skin cancer.

However, next weekend I'm going to Vegas (again. This time with my husband though, so it's not like it's going to be any fun) and am planning on joining some friends for a kind of fancy dinner that I plan (hahahah) on wearing a skirt to. If I can find a skirt that fits. Given that Vegas is the same temperature as Phoenix (which is fucking hot) (lots of parenthetical remarks today. I blame public education for this) I have no intention of wearing nylons. But then again, I don't want to scare the shit out of the astronauts when the sun reflects off my ghost white legs.

So, I thought, why not give self tanner a try. But then I remembered that the LAST time I tried that I looked like a wood grained Oompa Loompa and while that's a look that Karl Lagerfeld can rock, I just haven't got the leathery face for it. So THEN I thought about going to one of those spray tan places, but allegedly the product they use makes you smell like Frito's and also it's like $50 and quite frankly, I'm far stingier than I am vain which means that's not going to happen.

Just when I was about to give up I spotted this stuff.

It's only $7 at WalMart and also it CLAIMS that it "reduces the appearance of cellulite" while giving you "a natural glow" over the course of a week. Smooth tan thighs? I'm SO IN. I tossed it in my basket and happily went home to try it.

The directions? Fairly specific. They want you to use it after a shower and after a shave and you have to rub it in using circles and then wait until it dries before you get dressed. So you don't stain your clothes, I guess.

The first day I felt a little tingle, but didn't see results. The second day, my ankle looked kind of dirty. The third day I forgot to apply it and the fourth day I applied it, but didn't bother to shave my legs.

By the fifth day though? I actually had a little color! Not noticeable "HELLO, Lindsey "Fake n' Bake" Lohan" color, but just enough of a tint that I no longer glowed in the dark. By the eighth day the color of my legs matched the color of my farmers tan arms so that I was uniformly not pale and also not tan. The color isn't oraganey at all, it's kind of a pale nut brown. Very flattering and not at all fakey looking.

Also? My thighs? Somewhat less lumpy looking. NO SHIT. I'm as shocked as you are. I have no intention of running about in short shorts or anything, but they look decidedly better. To me at least. No one else see them, so it's possible that my head meds are giving me delusions of sexiness, but who cares?

I'm TAN, bitches.

Thursday, July 9, 2009


One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I'm LOVING all the shopping I get to do as I shrink. And the answer?

NO. No, I am not.

It's not that I don't love shopping and it's not even that I don't love the fact that I can now buy pants in the Juniors department instead of the dark and spidery corner known as "Women's". It's not like I don't enjoy that the selection available to me now involves more than giant pastel tee shirts with screen printed kittens who sport clever sayings like "I don't DO mornings". It's not even like I don't enjoy that my ass no longer has it's own zip code.

It's more that OH MY GOD do you realize that you have to replace EVERYTHING you own when you lose this much weight? I have so far replaced jeans, of course, shirts a little less (baggy is a look, right?), shorts, obviously, but now I've had to start replacing things you wouldn't think of. Things like underwear.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm the kind of girl who's super picky about my drawers. I have..correction HAD...two or maybe three brands and styles of panties that I know will cover and stay put and not ride up or slide down, won't pinch or bind or give crazy panty lines or anything heinous like that. But OF COURSE those brands and that style? Do not come in the size I need. Which means I now have a drawer full of panties that creep up and down and twist side to side as their tent like proportions flap in the breeze until they are completely bunched up under my ass so that it looks like I've got a roll of paper towels under my butt cheeks. Of course, in addition to being unattractive it's also uncomfortable so I'd spend half the day digging at my ass like I've contracted Parishiltonitis about my lady bits.

Tres Secksi.

After weeks of this exercise in nonsense and armed with a Victoria's Secret coupon I decided to bite the bullet and buy new panties. Only you know what? The idea of trying on panties before you buy them is just....weird. Panties are meant to come three to a bag, all hermetically sealed and emblazoned with a logo featuring fruit and prepubescent girls with no hips and winning smiles. Frugality being both one of my virtues and also one of my vices, I couldn't pass up getting panties that usually retail for $18 at 5-for-$25. Also I figured "what the hell?" I might get laid more frequently if I wasn't wearing Bea Aurthur's Signature Line of Panties.

Standing before giant vats of panties, I began to sort through the bin labeled L/XL figuring that I might be able to find a few pairs that were not too grandma and not too hooker. As I pulled out one lime green thong after high cut see through lace after hipster Pink boy shorts after another I came to the sinking realization that VS thinks I need to spend my days looking like a transvestite stripper underneath my sensible ($1atgoodwillthankyouverymuch) Levi's and Old Navy perfect tee's. Seriously, there wasn't a single pair of panties in that pile that had more than 6 square inches of fabric. And my ass? FAR TOO LARGE for that kind of nonsense.

So I handed my coupon to the hipster in the neon jeans beside me and headed to Target.

Now, if you've never been fat you may not realize that when you ARE fat, you get like three options for panties. You can have the kind that go up to your navel, the kind that reach all the way up to your armpits or "boy shorts" which are neither boyish nor shorts like. However, if you're NOT fat?

Sweet Baby Jesus, the choices.

High cut, low cut, briefs, bikini, boy shorts, hipsters, ultra low hipster, hipster thongs, high cut thongs, string bikini's, string thongs, seamless, wicking, anti-bacterial (side note: GROSS), second skin, cotton, poly cotton, silk, lace, cotton and lace, lace and silk, "satin", embroidered, screen printed, embroidered with screen print in seamless cotton silk, baby seal skin, micro fiber....seriously who the hell needs that many fucking choices? I just want panties that cover my ass, don't give me camel toe, don't creep, don't slide, and don't give me swamp ass. I don't want neon pink sparkles that spell out "SASSY" and I don't care if they have a pocket for my...whatever the hell one puts in a pocket the size of a quarter...bus fare? Gum? Wet-naps? I don't need them to be "innovative" and I don't care if they're endorsed by Bruce Willis's big headed daughter.

And the sizing? Seriously? Corresponds to NOTHING. Why can't women's undies be like men's? No more random size "7" that really equals pants size "12" but only if that designer decided that a size 12 has hips 38-40 inches instead of the other designers who think your hips will be 40-44 or 32-90 or whatever the fuck they think women want to hear. Why can't they be size 36? As in, your hips are 36" plus or minus two inches, thank you come again? Especially, when after reading the packaging you determine that you wear size X because you fit into parameters Y&Z only to get home and discover either you have shrunk three inches around or they think you want your panties to be "blousey" because that is SUCH an attractive look?

Which is why, if I get into an accident the ER doctor is going to push me out into the hall with a note that says "DO NOT TREAT. DISOBEYED HER GRAM AND ISN'T WEARING ANY PANTIES AT ALL" where I will be mocked by all and sundry as I lay dying, commando, thanks to mass retailers refusal to provide me with some damn underwear that is made of cotton, is pleasantly fitted without being tight, doesn't climb up my ass and isn't covered with cartoon characters.

So consider yourself warned; if you DON'T eat that cheeseburger, large onion rings and milk shake for lunch you're going to die. You're welcome.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Repost: Hotness

(because it's too fucking hot to write something new and clever here is something old and clever. Or at least long.)

It's 107* here right this minute (which, incidentally is 6:33pm).

For those of you not familiar with Fahrenheit temperature measurements, that's roughly ten degrees hotter than the face of the sun.

Currently, I am sweating and that's really all I have the energy for. I have coated my entire body in a paste of sun screen and Anti Monkey Butt Powder and am lying on a bag of ice chips in a bathtub full of ice water while drinking an Icee.

Earlier, I think I saw Moses parting the sea of children in an attempt to cut in the Ice Cream man line. He bought a cherry snow cone. I didn't see Jesus however, which is odd, since this is North Mexico and all residents are required to be named either Jesus or Juan. Unless you are a girl, then you may be called Juanita, which translates to "That Juan Girl".

Mexicans are the opposites of Eskimos. While Eskimos are well known for having three hundred and eleven words for snow, Mexican's (a very succinct group) have one word for heat and that is Caliente. Caliente can be literally translated to "Someone Turn on the Gosh Danged A/C this minute!!"

Here in the Southwest, we have many ways to deal with the heat. One of them is to take off as many pieces of clothing as possible and lie in front of a fan. This is best done in ones own home. I know this because apparently Wal-Mart has some silly rule that says you can't stand in the fan aisle in nothing but what your mama gave you. You think that they would have POSTED that somewhere! How was I to know?

Another tip is to go find some place cool to sit. Again, apparently you are not supposed to do this in public places like fountains, golf course lakes and the walk in beer cooler at Quick Trip. Really. I didn't know that either until my Quick Trip boyfriend Kevin (I see him every morning. The way he combs his three hairs makes me moist…or that could just be swamp ass*, but either way) told me that it was "NOT okay to lie on the cases of Bud Light" and "No one believes that (you) are a temperature control specialist with a specialization in beer coolers" and "Freezoni machines are NOT toys". I'm thinking of breaking up with him, he's just too judgmental. And he wears too much bling. I hate boys that are shinier than me.


The best tip I have for you today is "underpants are just extra pants". This is key. See, if you are wearing pants and drawers, you have two layers of fabric covering your ass. This makes for extra hotness. This can be avoided by a) wearing no panties or b) wearing no pants. Clearly, the only option is B) wearing no pants. You wouldn't want to be wearing no panties, just in case you're in an accident. And it's just too Paris Hilton for nice girls, if you know what I mean.

(true story, this is not my ass)

If you MUST swath your nether regions in some sort of outwear (rookies!) you should opt for something like a terry cloth sarong. This look can easily be accomplished by even the most novice of fashionista! Simply take a large rectangle of terry cloth, wrap around your waist and tie two corners together at the waist. Voila! Terry cloth sarongs can be found in the bath aisle (I have no idea why they have skirts in with the wash rags, but whatever) of your favorite retailer. They come in a variety of sizes from "guest" ( guest is a euphemism for whore) to "sheet" as in "Sheet, this sure is a HUGE sarong!" and almost any color. I just got one yesterday that has Dale Earnhart Jr's signature on it! I didn't know he was in to fashion design. I bet it's because he's so much prettier then that Kasey Kahne girl, she is NOT HOT at all, but she is a good driver. Although, what's so hard about left turns, I have no idea.

Any who, it's time to go make Popsicle salad and Ice Cream Sandwiches for dinner, so I've got to motor.Stay cool, Peeps, stay FROSTY.

What? It's totally got lettuce on it! That makes it GOOD FOR YOU. Judgers.

*Swamp ass is the hot, damp feeling you get in your nether regions when it's really, really hot. Most likely to occur during/after a ride in a non-air conditioned vehicle or after sitting on anything made of vinyl, plastic, leather, metal, wood, Naugahyde, leatherette, suede, stone or wool. To simulate the experience, pour about a 1/4 cup of warm water down you butt crack.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

What's yours is mine

(observing that M has drug in the largest suitcase that we own in preparation for her summer away)

Me, magnanimously : "You can borrow my green plaid shirt if you want to."

M, wickedly: "Thanks, I already packed it."

Monday, July 6, 2009

Ouiser Says

If the out going phone message says that a business is closed for the day and will not return until the following business day, leaving NINE increasingly rude messages demanding a call back during the time that the business is closed means that you are an asshole with listening comprehension issues.

It also means that I will delete every single message with out listening to them.

Because I have the power.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Not So Funny Afterall

In addition to anxiety, arthritis, bruxism, sleep apnea and medically induced bulimia, I also frequently suffer from insomnia. I solve this problem by downing Lunesta like Tic Tacs. Mostly, it works.

The problem is while able to fall asleep I frequently find myself WIDE AWAKE in the middle of the night my dreaming having been interrupted by some wildly random thought.

Last night, round three I sat bolt upright in bed and started giggling to myself. I had just had the most brilliant, the most hilarious, absolutely the sentence to end all sentences idea for a tweet. As I lay there snickering to myself, clamoring around on my nightstand looking for my Blackberry, I was so completely proud of myself for fashioning such a clever thought that when I couldn't find my BB I repeated this wee bit of comedy to myself over and over again to ensure I wouldn't forget it.

As is wont to happen, when I woke up this morning, I had completely forgotten it.

But as I opened the front door to go to work I was smacked in the face with the oppressive humidity and it came instantly back to me. Only, instead of being funny it turns out my early morning bout of hilarity is really just... well... a little fucked up.

Now that I've built this completely up, I find that I am unable to find the sort of segway that doesn't just lay it out there. However, you all know that I'm a teensy bit mental anyway and so here, for your reading pleasure is my idea of funny at 3 am.

"If Miss Piggy goes to the gym, does she sweat bacon grease?"

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

WTF Wednesday; Gangsta, Yo.