Like a Lava Lamp of Shoes

As though I don't waste enough time living vicariously through others, now I can watch them buy shoes.

http://www.zappos.com/map/#

Public service announcements

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.

Where Ouiser Learned It

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.

Example:

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."

or

"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.

Less than Minty

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.

Have you given Emma money yet?

There might be a purse in it for you, you know!

Rum Pa Pum Pum

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!

In Which We Do Good - with a picture of the PRIZE

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!

Mmmm Sin

Let's hop into the way back machine as we delve into yet another reason why I am going to hell.

Back in the day, my parents used to take my sisters and I to church every Sunday, where we would wear our fancy dresses and sing pious songs about how we are sunbeams and things of that like. Every Sunday, they taught us a wee little lesson so that we could grow up to be good little boys and girls.

One Sunday when I was about, oh, perhaps seven, the lesson was on "sin". The Sunday School teacher, who was young and pretty and probably the mother of about 19 children had brought in a naked hard plastic baby doll and a can of chocolate fudge frosting. The lesson was that each child would tell a sin that they had committed (I tattled! I stole gum! I feel asleep in school!) and then with their finger dab a bit of frosting on the wee baby to symbolize the black mark on their soul. One by one the wee little darlings confessed to sins of great magnitude (I ate my sisters candy! I hid my brothers GI Joe!) until the sticky baby and it's bucket of sin came to the last row, my row. I confessed to who-knows-what, probably being bossy or maybe talking in class, and then I set the vat of chocolate evil beneath my seat and took the evil-incarnate baby to the teacher were it was "baptized" and all of it's sins washed away.

Then I convinced my fellow back row degenerates that we should eat all that tasty chocolate sin. Which we did. When it was gone, I hid the frosting can in the parka hood of the kid in the row in front of us and acted like nothing had happened. Because it's only a black mark on your immortal soul if you get caught, tattle or confess. And I never will! Oh, wait. Shit.

(pretty accurate respresentation of my sin level)

Ouiser, Once again

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.

Proof M needs a helmet

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 Wisdom

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.

Well YOU sound like a blonde

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.

Ouiser Says

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.

In mother-speak it's 394 months.

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!"

Y me?

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


Oh, right.

Ralphie

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?

Dear Levi

My Darling,

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,

Thystle

Man's Favorite Holiday

Today is National Cleavage Day.

You're welcome.

Best Phone Call Ever!

In a phone call just now;

Me: Good Morning (my job)

Lady's Voice - Oh my god! HAHAHAHA. I, just....hahaha GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Me: um...hello?

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!)

Ouiser Says

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...!

I am the April Fool

This morning, when I woke up, I thought to myself, "Damn, that was some beautiful sleep". Seriously. It was epic how well I slept.

Which probably should have been my first indication that my day was about to go completely sideways.

Next thing I know, I hear my husband hollering from the front door for me to come and get the dogs. Because he found another dog. And he wants me to bring her in the house. Of course, this dog that he found wasn't something wee and cute like a chihuahua, oh, NO of course not. She's HUGE and cute. A little baby girl rottweiler. Of course my boys went completely crazy with the joy of a DOG! ANOTHER DOG! As though they'd never seen anything so wonderful. So here I am, in my nightgown, trying to control about 250lbs of dog while my husband coaxes said little girl into the house so that once he gets in he could announce that So Sorry! Time to go to Work! and leaves me to manage 4 dogs, including one who is pretty sure she's entered one of the lower levels of hell.

I use treats to con the boys into the bedroom and then lead the little girl out to the back yard. I shut the door and go to take my shower and when I go back to check on the little dear, I find that she's eaten the arm off the back yard couch. Now, lest you think I'm even MORE of a redneck than implied by posting pictures of my ass on the Internet, I'll tell you that I have a covered patio with a fan, hammock, table, etc. It's like an outdoor living room. Well, WAS. Now, it's more like an outdoor furniture explosion site.

Which pretty much sealed my opinion that the little treasure needs to go back to her OWN home and with a quickness.

But, these things happen, so I just went about getting ready only to discover dozens and dozens of red dots all around my eyes. Like burst blood vessels. And also, a charming start of a black eye. What the hell, man?

I persevere though, with lots of purple eye shadow and go out to the car. To discover that the garbage man, who was a full 24hrs late, used the bin as a battering ram and broke huge branch off my tree. And left trash ALL over the street.

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.

Oh, but I know the tricks that wicked Juice plays and so I bang it in the right spot and BREAK A DAMN NAIL.

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.

In fact, were it not for this little punkin spending the day with me today, I would go home and go back to bed, but how grumpy can you be when faced with a sleeping baby?

Now, if someone would call about that wretched...I mean precious dog, I'd call the day a total win. Facial disfigurement and all.